Jessa James - Control

My lungs burn as I reach them. I clatter up the first few before I realize how loud I’m being. Glancing into the forest of boxes, I slow my pace, hoping that I haven’t already given myself away.

Every slow step is gut-wrenching. I creep up the stairs on silent feet, taking off running the second I hit the landing. One of the offices is right in front of me, the door left carelessly ajar, and I scramble inside. I close the door behind me, but the door only swings three-quarters of the way shut.

I glance around, trying to get my bearings. There is a large plate glass window right behind me, part of the wall of the office. I don’t care, though. At least this way, I’m not as horribly exposed as I was on the stairs. I look around the office, which is filled with dozens of stacks of small boxes. I spy a desk back behind all the boxes.

Bingo. I can hide there .

Crouching low to avoid being seen, I make my way between the stacks, finding the desk in the far right corner. It’s made of musty old wood, leaning terribly under the weight of the boxes stacked on top of it. It looks as though it may collapse at any moment, but that doesn’t matter to me.

I gladly get on my knees and scramble underneath it, grateful for the cover it provides. I get a charley horse on my thigh as soon as I stop moving, my body protesting all the sudden activity of the last hour.

I massage my leg as best I can, sitting and straining my ears for the sounds of the cops. I try to breathe as regularly as I know how while my mind whirls desperately.

Is it possible that they will just give up, figuring that maybe they had the wrong warehouse? Can I please, please get one single break in this day of horrors?

When I hear the faint clatter of boot steps on the stairs, I swallow. I should’ve known that I’m not that lucky. I squeeze my eyes shut for a second, fighting back the tears that prick my eyes.

There is no time for tears, not right now. I slap a hand over my mouth, terrified that if I make a sound, they will know just where to find me.

Thunk, thunk, thunk…

I listen to the sound of heavy boots leaving the metal stairs, prowling in my direction. Shivers begin to wrack my body as the sounds grow closer and closer.

“In here, Hunt,” one of them says, just outside the office. “Look at how the dust has been disturbed, here and here.”

“Could’ve been whoever tagged downstairs.”

“You ever knew a tagger who explored any area without leaving a mark?” The cop chuckles.

There is the long, sad sighing creak of the office door being opened.

“You ought to come out right now!” the cop calls to me. “We’re not going to hurt you unless we have to.”

No, you’re just going to sell me on to some crazy person. A person who believes that they can and should own people.

I clamp my mouth shut, trying to squelch the bitter tears that threaten to overwhelm me. Huddling under the desk, I pray to God, even though I don’t believe in him.

Please. Please, if you’re listening… save me. Please!

I jump as the cops overturn one of the stacks of boxes.

“Come on!” the same voice calls. “Don’t make me hunt for you! Just get out here!”

“She’s not in there,” the other cop says, his tone bored.

“Yes, she is.” The voice grows closer and closer. “And she had better come out if she knows what’s good for her.”

I can’t move. I can’t breathe. I can’t think.

All I hear are the footsteps, circling, ready to jump on the slightest sign of life.

“Let’s check some of the other rooms up here, man.” The cop sounds impatient. “We don’t have all day to deliver the girl. I have shit to do.”

There is a long pause. I sit there, terrified, while the cop tries to make a decision. Then a dissatisfied male sigh.

“Yeah, okay.”

The footsteps start to recede. I am so relieved that I almost let out a whoosh of breath. I shift a little to my left, and the desk creaks loudly.

The footsteps pause. There is a muttered curse.

“I fucking told you she was in here,” the cop says. “I fucking told you!”

Their footsteps fly my way. I close my eyes, shivering convulsively, unable to watch the cop search for me. He grabs my arms, dragging me out from under the desk. My eyes pop open as he hauls me upright.

“You fucking stupid bitch,” he hisses, triumphant. “You are going to regret ever running from us. We are going to make sure that you are sold to a buyer who makes you beg for your death.”

I see the other cop approaching, a syringe at the ready. I open my mouth to reply, although what am I supposed to say? Instead, I just start blubbering, making incoherent sounds.

“Get her right here, in the arm,” the first cop says, holding my arm out.

The officer jabs me in the arm, a quick pinprick of pain. Everything starts to blur, the whole world around me losing shape.

“Should’ve dosed her right off,” one of them murmurs.

And then everything goes black.

2

I wake slowly, realizing that I am lying face down, resting on something hard. I push myself up on shaky arms, looking around the space I find myself in. I’m on the floor of the room, my body heat being seeped away by the cool cement. I try to focus.

I’m in a small bedroom of sorts, with a cot, a scratchy gray wool blanket, and a bucket. Everything is dreary and gray, the same color as the cinder block walls. There is no window in the whole space, which can’t be more the eight feet by eight.

It’s a jail cell, I realize. I’m in a jail, and no one knows or cares that I am here.

That thought swirls around in my head, but I can’t hold onto it. I can’t hold onto anything for too long, which is okay with me right now.

The world is still fuzzy, which I blame on the drugs the cops gave me. Whatever I was injected with, has left a bitter tang in my mouth, and makes even my bones feel weak. I sit up, noticing that my pale pink dress is gone, replaced with a starchy grey shift dress, the material prickling my bare skin.

My bra is gone too, which means that someone saw me all but naked when they changed my clothes. I check for my panties, and I’m relieved to find that I’m still wearing the same slip of white satin as before.

At least there is that.

I get to my feet, my whole body aching from running for my life yesterday. My bare feet protest the most. I can feel fresh blisters that have sprouted all along where my toes were in contact with my shoes and the pads of my feet.

I limp over to the cell-like door, pressing my hands against the flat metal. There is a slot halfway down the door, just six inches by three. I bend down to look through it, my body protesting. On the other side, as far as I can see, there is just a stretch of bare wall.

“Hello?” I call out. “Hello? Anyone?”

Silence is the only answer, and it is deafening. I turn around, facing my tiny cell. My brain is still mushy, which keeps me from pondering the worst parts of my situation.

The look on Tony’s face just before the cops hauled me away. Guilt, anxiety, maybe just a little bit of smugness.

My father, who apparently, sold me to an unknown buyer. I can’t even unpack those feelings without feeling enraged, so it’s better to just leave them be.

The future shrouded in mystery.

Where will I be going?

Who will I meet there?

Will I even survive very long?

College is seeming like a faraway dream right now.

Instead, I spend the next few hours learning every inch of my cell. I trace the seams of the cinder blocks. I pull the cot away from the wall, finding a spot in the corner where somebody chipped out a pocket in the floor with some kind of tool. I fold and refold the blanket, searching it for hidden mysteries.