The Auctioned: Chains of Betrayal

Before she finished, the town manager came over, holding a glass and grinning like we were old friends. He made a big show of toasting us, his laughter too loud, his eyes lingering on me a beat too long. My skin prickled with discomfort.

Not long after, my head started spinning. The room swam, sounds blending together. I felt myself slipping, the world dissolving into a blur of colors—and then nothing at all.

When I finally woke up, I was sprawled on a lumpy cot in some drafty shack. The air was cold, biting at my skin, the walls so thin I could hear the wind whistle through the cracks. My head throbbed, like someone had split it open with an axe.

I tried to sit up, but pain shot through my skull, and I gagged, bile rising in my throat. My mouth was like sandpaper, my arms and legs heavy, like I’d been drugged. The room spun. I blinked hard, trying to focus.

"Awake?" A man's voice grated through the air—rough, unfamiliar, the kind that makes you want to shrink away. The hairs on my neck stood up.

I flinched, scooting back until my shoulders hit the wall. I moved too fast and gagged again, chest heaving. My heart jackhammered, panic burning through me.

"I'm your man now." He flopped onto the cot, his movements wild and jerky, a cigarette hanging from his lips. He crouched in front of me, his hands rough and yellowed, reaching out for my face. His breath hit me—hot, sour, too close.

"Get away!" I shrieked, slapping his hand, scrambling to get off the cot. My whole body shook, every muscle tensed.

My foot hit the floor, but he yanked my hair so hard I gasped, clawing at his hands, desperate to get free. My scalp burned. I kicked and twisted, but he was stronger.

He wrapped his arms around my waist, pinning me down. I fought, but my shirt tore open, the sound of fabric splitting loud in the small room—like paper ripping, but worse, more final.

I was nothing but a rag doll in his grip—limp, twisted, terrified. My mind screamed at me to do something, but my body wouldn't move.

"Ms. June! Jamie! Quinn!" I screamed their names over and over until my throat felt like it was shredding. The words came out raw, more like a howl than a cry for help.

"Shut up!" He snapped, and his hand cracked across my face. My lips split, blood flooding my mouth—hot, salty, metallic. I choked on it.

His hand slid down, fingers pressing into my skin. He leaned in, whispering, "I wanted to buy that Quinn, but she was too expensive. I could get two of you for the same price." His breath was wet in my ear, and I wanted to vomit.

Even through his weird accent, I understood. My stomach lurched. Dread twisted inside me, cold and sharp.

Buy? Buy what? The word rattled around my head. I couldn’t make sense of it. My thoughts scattered, refusing to land anywhere safe.

Yesterday’s scenes replayed, chopped up and jagged—faces, voices, hands grabbing, laughter that sounded wrong. It hit me all at once. Could it be—I was trafficked? The realization slammed into me, knocking the breath out of my lungs. No, no, no.

He must’ve seen me go slack, because he loosened his grip, his eyes greedy, hungry for something I didn’t want to name. He thought I’d given up.

"As long as you behave, I’ll treat you real good." His words oozed out, fake-sweet, and my skin crawled. I wanted to scream.

My legs shook, but my mind finally cleared. Panic faded just enough for me to think. He was skinny, but still stronger than me. I tried to figure out if I had any shot at getting away. Nothing came to mind.

Getting him angry would only make things worse. I forced myself to breathe, counting in my head. Don’t lose it. Don’t lose it.

He’d mentioned Quinn. I latched onto that. "Then where was Jamie sent?" I asked, my voice barely more than a croak, but steady. I needed answers.

"Who's Jamie?" He froze, then his face twisted. He grabbed some rope and tied me up—his hands rough, the rope biting into my wrists. He worked fast, like he’d done it before.

"No more questions. Tonight, you and me are making it official. Wait for me." He flashed a greasy smile that made my stomach churn, then left me alone in the dark.

The room went dead silent. My headache eased just a little, but my thoughts spun out, wild and desperate. I kept searching for any way out, any crack in the walls, any hope.

It hit me hard—everyone except Quinn and me had been acting. I felt like I’d been punched in the gut, a wave of betrayal crashing over me. Jamie, Ms. June—all of them.

On the drive, Jamie never shut up. In five hours, she got nearly everything out of us—where we were from, who’d miss us, who’d pay. She wasn’t making friends. She was fishing for details.

Ms. June took our phones and IDs, and Jamie helped her, acting like the friendly sidekick. All of it was a setup.

The house visits weren’t about seeing sets. They were parading us around, showing us off, letting buyers decide who to bid on. We were nothing but meat on the block. I wanted to scream. The truth was uglier than anything I’d ever seen on TV.

Some girls dream of getting famous overnight. They’re usually the tall, pretty ones—prime targets for traffickers. That stung. I guess I was never in any real danger of fame, just the other kind of danger.

Quinn and I were alike: small-town girls, new to the city, no one looking out for us, easy to lose track of. We were invisible. Disposable.

I let out a bitter laugh. Quinn, Charity—our names could’ve been switched, just like that. We could’ve traded fates in a blink.

That’s right. My name is Charity Nichols. I whispered it to myself, clinging to it like a lifeline. I needed to remember who I was. I was still here. I had to be.

My family only cared if I sent money home—never where I was or what I did. Love came in the form of wire transfers and calls about bills. Not much else.

If I missed a payment, they wouldn’t think something was wrong. They’d just call me ungrateful, a burden. The guilt always landed on me. Always.

I stared out at the sunset, blank and numb. The colors outside smeared together, pretty but sharp, like a wound that wouldn’t close.

Images of girls trafficked into the mountains flashed through my mind. I shivered, a cold sweat breaking out. News stories I’d half-watched, now they were my reality. I never thought it could be me.

The door creaked open, and I shrank back, heart pounding. Every muscle tensed, ready to run.

"Come on, honey, I made you some chicken soup. Eat up, then we’ll get you changed for the wedding." The voice was flat, no emotion. Just another day.

This must be my so-called mother-in-law. I’d seen her yesterday—she didn’t say much, just measured my waist with her hands, sizing me up. Now, her eyes looked dull, like she’d seen too much, nothing left to care about.

Looking back, I realized every gesture, every glance, was part of the deal. Nothing was an accident. I felt like I was drowning.

"Ma’am, how much did you pay for me? Let me go, I’ll pay you double." My voice was desperate, words tumbling out. I wanted to believe there was still a way out.

She didn’t react. Just kept spooning soup toward my mouth, her face unreadable. I tried to search her eyes for something—anything.

"Triple!"

"Five times!" I begged, voice cracking, tears running down my cheeks. She wiped them away with her rough sleeve, her hands trembling just a little.

"Girl, as long as you behave and give us a few grandkids, my son will treat you well." Her voice was flat, her eyes even emptier, like she’d stopped hoping for anything years ago.

We just stared at each other until someone outside yelled, "Edna, something’s happened!" The shout made my skin go cold, a chill running up my spine.

She set down the soup and hurried out, her footsteps pounding the old floorboards, heavy and uneven.

Later I found out it was about Quinn. The details came in slow, each one hitting harder than the last. I almost couldn’t listen.

After waking up, Quinn tried to run. No one knew how she found the strength—she almost made it out, but a bunch of men dragged her back. Their laughter stuck in my head for weeks, replaying every night when I tried to sleep.

Her clothes were torn. The men who "helped" all took their turn. There was no line they wouldn’t cross. I wanted to throw up.

Edna’s son, desperate and angry, climbed in through the back window to see her and almost got caught by the others standing guard. The chaos never stopped. It was like a nightmare that wouldn’t end.

Quinn couldn’t avoid a beating. In the struggle, Edna’s son broke his leg trying to escape through the window. The crack of bone was sickening. I still hear it sometimes.

Her buyer’s family didn’t care about her injuries. That night, they put her, barely alive, on the bed and called it a wedding. It was a sick joke, a final humiliation.

The next day, Quinn was stripped and thrown into a shed, chained by the ankle. Her screams ripped through the night, sharp and raw, impossible to ignore.

Edna’s tone was flat as she told me all this, like she was talking about the weather. "If she keeps trying to kill herself, she’ll be locked in the shed to make money for the family."

And then, one night, after her body goes cold, they’ll just dump her in the river. The words made my whole body go cold. I hugged myself, trying to stop shaking.

When Edna told me these things, her eyes were blank, empty, staring right through me. There was no comfort, no warmth—just a warning, plain as day.

I knew what she was saying: behave, don’t even think about running. My choices were simple—survive, or disappear.

With Edna’s son’s leg broken, our wedding was postponed. It felt like a tiny reprieve, but I knew it wouldn’t last.

During that time, I started to understand the rules. I did whatever they wanted—served him day and night. When he forced himself on me, I just lay there, empty. My mind shut down. I was a shell.

But I never stopped planning to escape. I just had to survive first. Every day was a new risk, every hour a new calculation. How long could I last?

There were only three of us in that house—Edna, her son, and me. Edna’s husband had been killed in a car accident the year before. He used his last breath to get some insurance money, then died. They told the story like it was nothing. Just another fact of life.

That money bought me. That stung. I couldn’t shake the taste of it.

In other words, his father’s death paid for me. The thought made my stomach turn. I wanted to scream.

I learned all this after my first escape attempt. The lesson was brutal—one I’d never forget.

Edna shadowed me everywhere. No one in town would speak to me, and I couldn’t get anywhere near the town entrance. If I tried, she’d drag me back, her grip like steel.

The house phone had been cut off for years, and only Edna’s son had an old cell phone, which he kept on him at all times. My world shrank to that house, the four walls, the locked gate. I felt like I was suffocating.

The community center and the tiny grocery store had phones, but they were watched all day, locked up at night. I stopped letting myself hope. Hope hurt too much.