This one is brighter, and it’s not long before I come to another railing overlooking the open entryway. There I see the early morning sun coming through the windows. The large front door is in sight! My heart is pounding in my chest so loud I can almost hear it.
I move slowly toward the staircase but freeze when I see a large man dressed
in a suit walking to the door and standing by it like a sentry. After several eternity-like seconds, he touches his ear almost as if someone is speaking to him and moves off down an adjacent hallway until I can no longer see him. I quickly hurry down the stairs. Throwing open the door, I bolt outside and down the cement steps, ignoring my feet protesting the cold and rough terrain.
I make it down the driveway and come to a decorative gate. I attempt to push
it open, only to find it locked. Fuck. I am forced to crouch down in order to crawl under. I wince as I scrap my palms against the icy broken concrete. My dress’s flimsy material barely covers my knees and I can feel it beginning to tear.
Once on the other side, I attempt to stand only to snag my dress on one of the gate’s unwelcoming spikes. Panicking, I tug myself loose, ripping a hole in the
back of my dress.
Shaking and sweating, but not wanting to risk being caught, I continue to run down the busy sidewalk.
I don’t get too far when I freeze in my tracks. A black car has pulled up in
front of me and several large men in black suits get out. I turn to run the opposite direction, only to run directly into more men.
One of the men picks me up and carries me over his shoulder. I kick, scream,
and fight as they drag me back to the house. The street is busy, and pedestrians pass by, but no one attempts to stop them.
They take me through the back door and into what I now know is the holding
room for any drunk or abusive clients. They are careful not to hit my face as they beat me with wooden canes, and laugh at my expense as I curl into a tight ball, protecting myself.
I am then forced into my now familiar closet, with only a pillow and blanket.
I can barely move or breathe.
I’m stuck. Trapped.
Beaten.
But not raped. Yet.
The following morning, I am dragged out of my closet and taken to see the
overseer, a balding middle-aged man who runs the house.
“You behave, or I have you beaten again,” he says, spitting and jabbing a fat finger in my face. “Until Sir comes for you, you work for me now.”
Since every man who enters the house is called “Sir,” this doesn’t tell me anything.
The only thing I can do is keep breathing — no matter how painful it is.
After my escape attempt yesterday, I’ve come to realize that I need to learn
as much as possible about my surroundings before I attempt another escape.
Lying alone on the floor of this tiny, stuffy, closet with only a pillow, blanket, and my thoughts for company, I try to piece together what is happening to me and why. The rest of the day I sink into despair and silently cry myself to sleep unable to control my emotions. But I quickly realize that this isn’t going to help me escape.
The next day no one will tell me why I am being held captive. And I have asked, repeatedly. The other inhabitants of the house barely speak to me, unless to issue an order in broken English, although they jabber away behind my back.
And by their tone and gestures, I know they aren’t saying how much they love
having me here. So why am I?
All the women, from the maids who cook and clean to the girls who service
the gentlemen, all seem to be here of their own free will. They smile, laugh, and eagerly greet the men who visit. None of them are locked in at night to prevent their escape.
As the days pass, I’m able to piece together several things, one being my location. After hearing one of the gentlemen talking to another I’ve figured out that I am now in Hong Kong. How I got here from Paris I still have no fucking clue. I don’t dare ask any of the men who visit for help. They barely acknowledge my existence, except to try and cop a feel or order a drink.
Nothing makes sense .
At first, I thought that I was being held captive for ransom. My late father’s company, MacKay International, is a multi-million dollar corporation and one of the largest textile importers in the country. Clearly, this isn’t the case otherwise I would be free.
My throat tightens and my chest painfully seizes whenever I think of my family. They must be going crazy wondering where I am and what has happened
to me. I imagine my stepfather, James, and cousin, Peter, are frantically scouring the globe looking for me. And my poor mother, who’s already lost so much, is
probably sick with worry and pretending nothing is wrong.
I need to get home to them. Now, all I have to do is figure out how!
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