Prologue

The earliest memory I have is of me, young and innocent, standing on a golden beach and staring off at the waves. I was mesmerized by the way they rose and fell, watching with wide-eyed wonder as the harmony of the world engulfed my attention. The memory is short, and many of its details are fuzzy, but it’s the only one I have that doesn’t hurt to think about. Everything before and after that day has been taken from me. I don’t know how long I’ve been stuck in this dog crate, but I know it’s likely been months.

See, the only other thing I can remember is much more recent. I was in a dingy public restroom, wearing old, smelly clothes and washing my hair in the sink. My body ached and my head was reeling, but I had a twinge of excitement in my chest that kept me pushing on day by day. I don’t recall what the excitement was about. I don’t even remember what my reflection looked like in the mirror. I remember the glass was cracked. I was studying the shape of the splinter when the door behind me swung open. It was the ladies’ room, and yet four big, burly men stepped inside like they owned the place. I felt small in my skin. I lunged to hide in a stall, but my attackers were quicker than me. They grabbed me, groped me, and threw me to the ground. I can remember so clearly how hard my heart was pounding at that moment. How much it hurt to take each breath. My body betrayed me when a needle was plunged into my neck. The contents of that syringe rendered me unconscious within seconds.

That was the last time I remember seeing the sun. The last time I ever wore clothes. The last time I got to be a real, living, breathing human being, and not cattle stacked up for the slaughter.

When I woke up, I had been stripped naked and completely shaved from the crown of my head to the tops of my toes. I had rope burns on my wrists and ankles as if I had been putting up a fight in my sleep. My jaw ached from wearing a large ball gag for what felt like hours, if not days. It remained between my teeth as several men pinned me to a cold metal table and spread my legs wide open. A woman with an icy glare and a white lab coat fooled around with my holes. She sneered under her breath every time I’d squirm. Each little jerk or jolt of my limbs awarded me with a crisp slap to my face. After my exam was over, my nose was bleeding.

“She’s still a virgin,” the doctor said emotionlessly. She discarded her latex gloves and motioned for the guards to pull me to my feet.

A guard pressed his slimy, hungry lips to my ear and blew a puff of hot air into my cranium. “Does that mean we can’t play with her, doc?”

The doctor scowled. “Take her to the rest of the overstock. She’s young enough that she’ll still be fresh by the time they dig her out of the pile.”

At the time, I didn’t know what any of that meant. Overstock? Pile? Was I livestock or was I a product? And why was the doctor so careful not to touch my pussy, but when she examined my asshole, she shoved her whole fist inside of me like I was some kind of puppet? My body still shudders at the memory. I can almost feel the way her fingers flexed inside of my flesh, trying to force the cavern to stretch to her will.

Though I still don’t know what I am, I know what “overstock” means. It wasn’t long after my examination before I was being tossed around once more. My hands were wrapped in heavy leather mittens that kept me from using my fingers, my mouth was locked into a gaping ring gag, and a harness was attached to my face to hold a tight leather blindfold into place. Ravenous hands molested me as I was fitted for a dog crate. It was cramped, as it had been made for a dachshund and not a little girl. Even now, the cold metal grates still press into my bare skin, leaving behind deep grooves in my withered flesh.

Three tubes were inserted into me. They’re still there. One is down my throat, which is attached to a funnel for easy feeding. Then there is one inside of my urethra and another in my asshole, which were given the same exit point; a plastic bag for all of my waste. I’ve never been able to see the faces of those who feed me and clean up my shit. They’re silent when they come.

I think I’m in a shipping container, trapped alongside what could easily be twenty other people. I can hear them moaning throughout all hours of the day. They rattle their cages when they tremble and wail in their sleep. There’s one woman settled close to me who despises the force feeding. Her screams get on my every nerve, but I can hardly blame her. She sounds old. She won’t live much longer. Death is our only escape, I think.

I hate it, knowing that freedom is so close. I can hear all sorts of men outside, carrying about their business as they load these containers onto trains and big, hulking ships. They either don’t know we’re in here, or they’ve turned a blind eye. Or maybe this is the way things are supposed to be. I don’t know ... I have no memories of life outside of my imprisonment. Maybe I’m a hardened criminal paying out my sentencing. Or maybe I’m just unlucky. Really unlucky.

I hold on tight to the breath trapped in my lungs. Whenever my chest is inflated like this, I can nearly count all of my ribs as they press against my arms. I’ve lost a lot of weight, but my hair has grown back. What color is it? What color are my eyes? Do I even have eyes anymore? At what point does a person stop being a person? Am I even human? Am I dead? Is this Hell? Do I even believe in Hell?

The woman is crying again. We can all hear the guards’ footsteps outside. I wish she’d shut up already. When the container’s heavy metal doors creak open, a guard will probably shake her cage to get her to shut up. But that just makes her cry louder. Then the others will cry, too.

It isn’t feeding time. My body has grown used to the ritual; I always get hungry just a few minutes or so before the guards show up. That means the sun is away, and I won’t get to feel its warmth on my skin when they open the doors. That’s the only thing I have left in my life to look forward to.

The doors snap open, and the woman shrieks. A guard scolds her, pounding his fist against her crate. She screams louder. I wish she was dead.

“How many?” A voice asks. There’s a calmness in his tone. It sends a shiver up my spine.

“Thirty-two. We’re nearly at capacity,” another answers. I recognize his voice. He often mutters under his breath when one of the waste bags spills. He’s the only voice I know.

The first man makes a disappointed noise.

“Containers Three, Four, Seven, and Nine are all at full,” a third man said. “One and Two are just a few bodies shy of being slammed like this one.”

“We have twelve coming in this weekend and eighteen more a week after that,” the second man adds. “We’ve never had so many at once. We’ve got to recycle.”

“That’s precisely why I’m here,” the first man says. He must be touching someone because I hear a different woman whine. The man chuckles and shushes her gently.

“Why start here, in the middle of the line?” The third man asks.

“There’s pre-marked meat in here somewhere, I’ve been told,” the first man answers. “A young doe for that orchid bullshit.” The man pauses to draw in a breath. “You probably have some rich, healthy wombs in here that we can put to good use. And I see some good bucks with healthy cocks we can fatten up for meat. Whoever remains, dump them. I want this container empty.”

“Understood,” the two others say.

A figure stops in front of my cell. I can smell his detergent. I shudder as the scent grows stronger. He sticks his latex-covered fingers inside of my crate and drags them along the length of my cheek. I swallow a frightened whimper and keep my head low.

“Pick out the youngest of the women and the largest of the men,” the first man says. He’s the one standing outside my crate, studying the way my dehydrated skin moves beneath his touch. “I want to see no fewer than twelve people on the boat.” He taps my cage. “Start with this one.”