squeezed tight, and I clawed at my throat with broken nails
and anxious fingers. “No!”
Another
set of hands from an unknown person wrapped around my nakedness and
half-dragged, half-carried me to the chair. Together, they threw me on the
squeaky, blood-stained leather and Jagged Scar went behind, jerking the rope,
making me lie down or choke.
Skin
stuck to the leather, making sucking sounds along with my panicked breathing.
The
person who’d helped throw me on the chair appeared above.
My
heart squeezed with indignation. A woman—young, cruel, with a glossy curtain of
black hair framing her face. Her lips lined with early smoker creases, black
eyes as vacant as the men. A surgical mask hung from one ear, and rubber gloves
sheathed her fingers.
Rage
consumed me. She was a woman involved with trafficking women—a traitor to her
own sex. “How can you, bitch? How can you be a part of this?”
Jagged
Scar reached from behind, tapping my cheek in warning. The woman didn’t answer,
but averted her eyes. Not from embarrassment, but to secure the leather straps
around my forearms. Once secure, she spread my legs into the stirrups and
secured my ankles, buckling them so tight the leather bit into my skin like
fangs.
Mortification
painted my cheeks at being so exposed, so defenceless. I hadn’t even fought.
Through
the walls, a scream ripped fast and high, but shut off as quickly as it came.
My eyes popped wide. Oh, my God, what was happening?
My
breath rasped in the small space, rushed and ragged. The woman secured the mask
around her mouth and tore open a sterile packet.
My
eyes wanted to close, to avoid knowing what was in the plastic, but I couldn’t
look away. I stared with sick fascination as she attached the needle to a pen
like contraption, adding a vial of black liquid.
What
was that thing?
Jagged
Scar grabbed another bottle and doused the underside of my wrist, pushing
Brax’s bracelet further up my arm. My heart squeezed in painful loss. Brax. The
bracelet was the only thing I had of him. They’d allowed me to keep it. Misplaced
thankfulness overwhelmed, at least these bastards hadn’t stolen that, too.
Using
a white piece of cotton, Jagged Scar dried my wrist, before nodding at the
woman.
She
bent over my arm, placing a carbon transfer she plucked from the table,
sticking it to damp flesh. She smoothed it against my skin, making sure the
image adhered before ripping it off, leaving a purplish outline of a barcode.
Discarding
the transfer, she picked up the pen with the black vial and pressed a button.
Whirring mechanical noise vibrated.
Shit,
they were going to tattoo me! I’d never been inked before, never fell in love
with an image enough to want it permanently on my skin, and I definitely didn’t
want a barcode.
“Stop!”
Jagged
Scar pressed his face close as the sharp nick of the tattoo gun tore into my
flesh. Teeny, tiny teeth nipped and sawed.
“Accept
that you are no longer a woman. You are merchandise. And merchandise must have
a barcode for sale.”
I
wanted to spit at him, but refrained. As degrading as it was to be treated like
stock, I bit my lip and bore through it. I would get it lasered off as soon as I
escaped.
The
burn grew fiery hot as seconds turned into minutes.
I
was no longer Tess. I was dollar signs.
Finally,
the tattoo pen cut off with a snarl. I gasped as the woman smeared some sort of
gel over it and wrapped my wrist in plastic.
The
black lines looked obscene against my red, swollen skin. My first tattoo and it
demoted me from dog to shelf produce. A disposable thing. An item. No more. No
less.
My
fight deflated, leaving under an avalanche of unhappiness. Every part hurt: my
heart, body, and soul. I was sucked deep into the pit where snakes and monsters
lived, wallowing in self-pity.
The
woman pulled off her gloves and snapped a fresh pair on. She moved to the end
of the table, positioning herself between my legs. She turned from
and anxious fingers. “No!”
Another
set of hands from an unknown person wrapped around my nakedness and
half-dragged, half-carried me to the chair. Together, they threw me on the
squeaky, blood-stained leather and Jagged Scar went behind, jerking the rope,
making me lie down or choke.
Skin
stuck to the leather, making sucking sounds along with my panicked breathing.
The
person who’d helped throw me on the chair appeared above.
My
heart squeezed with indignation. A woman—young, cruel, with a glossy curtain of
black hair framing her face. Her lips lined with early smoker creases, black
eyes as vacant as the men. A surgical mask hung from one ear, and rubber gloves
sheathed her fingers.
Rage
consumed me. She was a woman involved with trafficking women—a traitor to her
own sex. “How can you, bitch? How can you be a part of this?”
Jagged
Scar reached from behind, tapping my cheek in warning. The woman didn’t answer,
but averted her eyes. Not from embarrassment, but to secure the leather straps
around my forearms. Once secure, she spread my legs into the stirrups and
secured my ankles, buckling them so tight the leather bit into my skin like
fangs.
Mortification
painted my cheeks at being so exposed, so defenceless. I hadn’t even fought.
Through
the walls, a scream ripped fast and high, but shut off as quickly as it came.
My eyes popped wide. Oh, my God, what was happening?
My
breath rasped in the small space, rushed and ragged. The woman secured the mask
around her mouth and tore open a sterile packet.
My
eyes wanted to close, to avoid knowing what was in the plastic, but I couldn’t
look away. I stared with sick fascination as she attached the needle to a pen
like contraption, adding a vial of black liquid.
What
was that thing?
Jagged
Scar grabbed another bottle and doused the underside of my wrist, pushing
Brax’s bracelet further up my arm. My heart squeezed in painful loss. Brax. The
bracelet was the only thing I had of him. They’d allowed me to keep it. Misplaced
thankfulness overwhelmed, at least these bastards hadn’t stolen that, too.
Using
a white piece of cotton, Jagged Scar dried my wrist, before nodding at the
woman.
She
bent over my arm, placing a carbon transfer she plucked from the table,
sticking it to damp flesh. She smoothed it against my skin, making sure the
image adhered before ripping it off, leaving a purplish outline of a barcode.
Discarding
the transfer, she picked up the pen with the black vial and pressed a button.
Whirring mechanical noise vibrated.
Shit,
they were going to tattoo me! I’d never been inked before, never fell in love
with an image enough to want it permanently on my skin, and I definitely didn’t
want a barcode.
“Stop!”
Jagged
Scar pressed his face close as the sharp nick of the tattoo gun tore into my
flesh. Teeny, tiny teeth nipped and sawed.
“Accept
that you are no longer a woman. You are merchandise. And merchandise must have
a barcode for sale.”
I
wanted to spit at him, but refrained. As degrading as it was to be treated like
stock, I bit my lip and bore through it. I would get it lasered off as soon as I
escaped.
The
burn grew fiery hot as seconds turned into minutes.
I
was no longer Tess. I was dollar signs.
Finally,
the tattoo pen cut off with a snarl. I gasped as the woman smeared some sort of
gel over it and wrapped my wrist in plastic.
The
black lines looked obscene against my red, swollen skin. My first tattoo and it
demoted me from dog to shelf produce. A disposable thing. An item. No more. No
less.
My
fight deflated, leaving under an avalanche of unhappiness. Every part hurt: my
heart, body, and soul. I was sucked deep into the pit where snakes and monsters
lived, wallowing in self-pity.
The
woman pulled off her gloves and snapped a fresh pair on. She moved to the end
of the table, positioning herself between my legs. She turned from
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