Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 80139 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80139 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Maybe if I had given them my name on the first day, my brothers would have paid whatever these men wanted and we all would have gone home sooner.
Or maybe the ransom would have made us more valuable.
Maybe it would have painted targets on everyone I love.
Maybe it would have told the kidnappers exactly which family had money, exactly which people to exploit.
Maybe I was brave.
Maybe I was stupid.
Most days, I don’t have a freaking clue.
They plan to send us back together. That’s what Denisa told me before she stopped talking to me.
“They want ransom for everyone,” she said in French, sitting across from me with her knees pulled to her chest. “Then they move us all at once so there’s less chance they get caught.”
She barely looks at me now. They all resent me because I’m holding out. The French girl who won’t give any name.
“Just tell them,” Ioana begs me one afternoon in broken English, tears streaking through the dirt on her cheeks. “Please. Please tell. We go home.”
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
“I can’t.”
“You selfish,” Andreea spits.
Maybe she learned that word just for me.
Now Denisa only translates for me when Ştefan tells her to.
Ştefan.
He isn’t the leader. There are older men. Rougher men. Men who speak and expect others to move. But Ştefan speaks enough broken English to talk to me in my fake broken English.
So I let him think he matters.
I let him bring me extra water.
I let him sit too close.
I let his hand linger on my arm without jerking away.
And eventually, I let him take more.
It’s not sex. Not really. It’s survival. My body becomes something I can use to guarantee another few hours of life. Protection. One less beating.
I don’t enjoy it.
But I act like I do. I smile afterward as I lie still beside him on a stained mattress in a room that smells like mildew and cigarette smoke while he strokes my hair as if we’re lovers.
I hate it. I can’t imagine how some people get Stockholm Syndrome and fall for their captors.
That will never be me.
But Ştefan thinks otherwise. I make sure of it.
He sees love in my eyes. He hears soft words and moans from my mouth and throat. And he feels me touch him with tenderness and caring.
Yesterday he brought me an apple. It was bruised on one side, but I didn’t care. It was more precious than a freaking diamond. I nearly cried at the sight of it. I was so hungry. I still am.
I took it, aware of the other girls watching. I’d share it if I could, but what good would one bite do each of us?
“Thank you,” I said to him.
He smiled. “You like me.”
I bit into the apple before answering. It was soft and mealy, but it tasted like Champagne. I swallowed. “You are kind to me,” I said.
“You stay close,” he said. “No problem.”
No problem.
Right.
The other girls really hate me now.
They know Ştefan takes me to another room, and they know I come back looking less hungry than when I left.
I’m alone with them. They all huddle together on one side of the small room while I sleep beside the opposite wall wrapped in a thin blanket that smells like BO. It’s probably mine. I haven’t showered in…who the hell knows?
My mind never stops except when I succumb to sleep. Across the room, I hear the others breathing, snoring softly, until—
I jerk upward just a moment before—
A blast throws me sideways.
For a second I don’t hear anything more…but then the noise slams back into the room so hard I scream.
Shouting.
Glass breaking.
Wood cracking.
Men yelling.
Girls crying.
Another explosion? I don’t know. I know only that the air is suddenly full of smoke and dust, and the building that has held us for weeks seems to be under attack.
Poliţişti!
The men yell. I know that word. Police.
The door bursts open, and light floods the room. Men in black. Helmets. Guns.
For half a second, hope is so bright it hurts.
Then the men holding us start shooting.
The girls scream. One of the police officers yells something. A gunshot cracks so close my ears ring. Then another.
I hit the floor.
Someone steps on my hand. I yank it back, swallowing a cry. A beam of light swings across my face. A man shouts in Romanian. A body slams into the wall.
“Down!” someone yells in English.
Or maybe I imagine the English.
I don’t know.
Ioana runs.
I see her because she moves into the open, her dark hair flying, her arms up as if surrendering and escaping are the same thing.
“Ioana!” Denisa screams.
Ioana turns toward the sound.
A shot cracks.
Her body jerks.
For a second, she keeps standing.
For a second I think she’s okay.
Until red blooms across her chest, and she falls.
No.
No.
No.
She hits the floor hard, one arm bent beneath her, eyes open.
The girls were angry with me. They whispered about me. They blamed me. They hated me, maybe.