One foot moves in front of the other.
There are more men with guns, and we are dragged from the prison cell and led up the concrete stairs.
The steps are chipped and broken. Old and worn.
Where are we?
Where are we going?
I’m in the middle of the line, and the younger girls are in the back. If we could protect the youngest, we would, but we are all prisoners here.
Men with guns stand at the top of the stairs. They’re grinning. What do they know that we don’t?
They lead us outside. The sunlight feels wonderful and warm. I want to run, but there are a dozen guards with guns.
We are outmatched and outnumbered.
The moment the door shuts behind us, the weapons are pointed at us.
“Strip!” one of the guard’s commands.
No one undresses.
The collar electrifies, and my fingers grip my neck. I can’t remove it. It’s instinctual, but it doesn’t help settle the pain.
I’m on the ground—the dirt at my bare feet.
Twitching and trembling.
Pain is my only friend.
I hate this life.
A blast of cold water assaults all of my senses.
I scream and realize the chill feels good. It takes a moment to comprehend what the hell is going on.
“Strip!” the guard commands again.
Beside me, the girls all glance at each other and slowly, methodically, we disrobe.
There are no houses as far as the eye can see. The land is flat. We’re in the valley somewhere.
Which means we’re not in Breckenridge. At least, I don’t think we are, but I’m not sure.
The hose of the spray pounds against my bare skin.
The sun is hot and fierce. The spray feels good once I get used to the fact men are staring at us naked.
I want to scream at them. Shout that they’re all a bunch of sick assholes, but I know if I do that, the collar will burn my neck and hurt not only me but the other girls.
Four of them are still children. I don’t look their way. I can’t.
It’s cruel.
Sickening.
I want to vomit, but all I do is tremble and gasp for air.