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Time runs out.
He drags me out of the bathroom as soon as I open the door. He is a tall man and walks twice as fast as I do. His dirty fingers dig into my upper arm on purpose, pinching the skin with his chewed-up nails.
I am taken to the dressing room, scrubbed clean, shoved into a lacy piece of fabric that still feels humiliating no matter how many times I put it on, and my hair is braided.
The customers like when my hair is braided. It makes me look younger.
Though I am old enough to be on a college campus somewhere, it does not matter. I am still able to appeal tothataudience.
Tonight is a special occasion. Another one of the parties. They come in droves in their nice clothes, donning their masks to hide their identities, and spend hours sipping champagne. Any request they make is indulged.
Anything they want.
Many visit the Mill and browse the selection.
A diverse stock is kept that appeals to all tastes. Male. Female. All sizes, ages, colors.
It is a profitable business that I imagine brings in millions for their organization. Though I do not know for sure. As a product for sale, I can only speculate.
Hereturns. His cold eyes rake over me.
He is one of the ugliest people I have ever seen. Inside and out.
I once pitied him for the jagged scar on his face. Then I learned how evil he can be and realized it must have been deserved.
Satisfied with my look, he grunts and grabs my wrist.
He is known as the Handler for a reason. He handles all the products. Often samples them himself much like he did me while I pleaded for help.
Rumor is, he works for the Owner. None of us know who that is, who the man—or men—is who owns us at the Mill.
I have concluded it is the members of the Neptune Society. We are their toys.
The party has started. As I am dragged by the Handler, my feet kicking at the ground to resist, the sounds travel down to our floor.
The Mill is underground. That I do know. Dark and drafty like a basement, it is also dimly lit on purpose. For the purpose of discretion but for atmospheric intentions as well.
I am shoved inside my cage. The Handler twists the lock into place with an amused glint in his eyes and then walks off, swinging his keyring on his chewed fingers.
I plop down on my perch and wait to be bought.
There is no clock. Talking is not allowed. Nothing is allowed except to sit on our perch, pose, and wait.
So that is what we do.
A long hall of human products locked in cages, up for sale.
Most of us have learned not to make eye contact with each other. It is easier that way.
Many develop a faraway expression, as though they are daydreaming. They are miles and miles away from their living hell.
I have done this myself. I have imagined I am home in Russia, bundled up, playing in the snow like I did as a small girl.
Life was not always easy, and we were poor, but I was neversold.
Before I was forced into the Mill, I was hopeful I would find a pleasant life in America. Volchok had promised me we would stick together for many years. Kozlov was our ally, and had struck a lucrative agreement to work with Volchok.
I believed I would have freedom and would be able to earn a good education.
