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I know this role. I’ve acted in this movie before, I know the scene by heart.
He will sample me, rules and regulations will be dished out and my first torture will start from thinking I can talk back. The best director to make a star out of me for this role, Signor E, has taught me that speaking back comes with a punishment that will without fail command the demanded action from me.
I stay down. If he so much as snaps his fingers I’ll be on both knees, in front of him, showing him his money’s worth. I will pleasure him with the best hand jobs and blow jobs from yearsof practice. I will show him I know how to swallow and lick clean because in all honesty, after being left hungry for days, swallowing Signor E was something to feed the worms in my stomach. I will show him I am a good slave and he doesn’t need to start by punching me to get me to do the work. I will show him, but cannot if he has yet to give the order.
We pass a road bump, and I feel a new wave of fear stir in my stomach. If he is not doing things the usual way, does it mean his punishments will be worse?
I can feel his eyes on me even though I can’t see them. The car drives us through streets I have no business registering.
Should I try the handle of the car? Will it be open? Will someone save me? Will I be shot dead if I attempt an escape? And let’s assume I get out of the car, how far can I go before I pass out again and my body is left by the roadside vulnerable for anyone to find and use again?
“Wind down,” he orders the driver.
The car is cool, but not cold.
I hesitate for a quick second as the driver winds down and I feel the rush of cool night wind against my skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake, for the first time in what feels like an eternity.
When I was sold to Signor E, I was wrapped in a stretcher to get me into his private jet and the same to get me into his mansion,down to my cage-like quarters. I could move about to the bathroom with the chain around my waist but that was it. I had nothing but silvery metals and walls surrounding me. Nothing to keep my mind occupied except the loop of torture I was exposed to whenever he came to play.
But today, I have received two gifts.
First was the gift of self-worth. I’ve been auctioned off by the same group repeatedly. I have been sold twice but this is the first time I’ve heard an object go for this amount. It gives me a sense of pride.
My buyer makes me feel like a person.
The other gift he has given me in this short while is the gift of nature. He has given me the wind, cool against my skin. I part my lips, and take some down my throat, breathing through my mouth.
And just now it hits me that I’ve also been given the gift of sight. No blindfolds. I can take in as much as I want but I don’t want to. What good will it do, if I’m be tucked away in a cage again, void of natural light and stifling with brutality?
“Drink this,” he passes a bottle of water to me and I receive it with trembling hands without questioning.
I’ve passed out countless times. It’s a miracle I’ve made it this far. But every time I pass out, I always wake up to myself and nocare. My body is used to the routine. I’ve been waiting for a day that it will give up and let me go.
I’ll keep waiting.
I apply force with frail hands to open the water but it’s already been opened for me. I sit up, but not fully. Just enough to drink.
Why is he showing me kindness? What will he do to me? Will he kill me? Is that why he wants me to see everything? What if he’s an organ harvester? That will explain why he can throw away so much money on a worthless object. But why buy me? I feel rotten inside. I’m not sure I’m good for much or if my organs can even helpmelive.
I let myself drink the thoughts away. I wince as the first hit of the sweetened liquid wets my parched throat and hits my stomach. It starts to hurt, roiling with a sharp pain at the intrusion of water, but I keep drinking, carried away by the sugar in it. I empty the bottle and start to dip my tongue in to lick the inside that my tongue can get to.
I test the borders of my new prison to see if a smack or a punch will come sooner rather than later. I sit up slowly, wincing from the pain in my body whenever I change position. I turn my head to the open window, waiting.
Waiting for the first strike to remind me of my place. Waiting for the first order to tell me how miserable my life will be from here on. Waiting for him to brief me on how I will be used till everylast penny he bought me with is squeezed out. Waiting for him to start asking for something. But nothing comes.
The car drives through a bustling street bright with lights from stores, street lamps, and normal people walking on the sidewalks. Normal people with normal lives. I haven’t seen that in years. They appear alien to me.
Another gift.
It’s not meant to go this way. I’m the one to give or have something taken from me.
“The cook wants to know if you’ve got any allergies,” he startles me and I fold back to my previous position, wrapping my arms around my knees. “I’m Claudio, by the way.”
Food.
They’re making me food.
From the side of my eyes, I can see his fingers move gingerly across the screen of a phone.
