Chapter 8
Chapter 8: Something to Be Sold
Finally, the tattoo pen died with a guttural snarl. I gasped as the woman smeared a cool, stinging gel over the inflamed skin and wrapped my wrist in crinkling plastic.
The black lines glared at me—bold, obscene against the angry red of my flesh. My first tattoo, and it wasn’t a symbol of rebellion or meaning. It was a barcode. A mark of ownership. I wasn’t a person anymore. Not even an animal.
I was shelf-stock. Commodity.
Disposable.
Replaceable.
Forgettable.
The last shreds of my fight collapsed under the crushing weight of hopelessness. I felt it cave in, heavy and unrelenting, smothering my breath like wet cement. My body throbbed. My soul ached. My heart was a bruised mess inside my chest.
I was spiraling, sucked into the hollow pit where monsters whispered and snakes smiled.
The woman—clean, clinical, and cruel—ripped off her gloves and snapped on a new pair. She moved to the end of the table, now more gynaecologist than tattooist.
No. Not this. Please.
I squeezed my eyes shut, twisting my head to the side. I willed myself to disappear, to float into the walls or sink into the floorboards. But her gloved fingers were real, intrusive, and cold. They kept me rooted in this living nightmare.
She examined me like livestock—silent and methodical—until, finally, she gave my thigh a condescending pat.
Just like that, it was over.
A reward for not biting. For not screaming. For playing the good little dog.
The leather buckles at my ankles came undone with sharp clinks. I scissored my legs together, locking my knees. My shame tried to cover itself even as my dignity bled out.
Jagged Scar laughed—a low, raspy chuckle like the scratching of rot on wood.
“Keeping your legs closed won’t save you. There are plenty of other places to violate.”
I bit back bile. My spine stiffened at the sound of the straps falling to the floor like the clatter of shackles being reset.
Please let this end. Let this humiliating, soul-crushing inspection be done.
I parted my lips to speak, to ask for release, but then I heard it—the sterile crackle of another plastic packet being torn open. My stomach bottomed out.
The woman turned, smiling, her gloved hand holding a small, glinting object.
A syringe.
“No,” I whispered, chest caving in. “Please. I’ll behave. You don’t need to drug me.”
Terror gripped me harder than any rope. A drug haze was a cage within a cage. A prison inside my mind. I couldn’t—I wouldn’t—lose that too.
I twisted violently, trying to flee the restraints, trying to do something, but it was already too late.
She didn’t aim for my arm.
She brushed the tangled hair off my neck and stabbed the needle deep behind my ear.
I screamed.
A jagged, metallic pain exploded under my skin as a tiny bullet tore into me—embedding, branding, betraying.
The woman tittered and tossed the syringe away. She said something smug in Spanish as Jagged Scar retrieved a black device—an iPhone-looking scanner. He hovered it over the raw wound behind my ear.
It beeped. Loud. Final.
Like a judge’s gavel condemning me for life.
“Working. Linked to the barcode,” Jagged Scar murmured.
They’d tagged me.
Just like that… my last hope shattered.
Escape was no longer an option. Not with something buried inside me, something they could track from anywhere.
I tried not to cry. I really did.
But the tears won.
They came hard, hot, and fast, running down my cheeks like everything I’d tried to hold inside was finally breaking free. The adrenaline that had kept me upright collapsed, leaving me cold and shaking.
Jagged Scar released my arms and removed the rope from my throat. My neck burned from the chafing, but I didn’t care. I didn’t move.
Couldn’t.
The idea that I was no longer my own shattered something deeper than bones.
Eventually, he yanked me upright. I gritted my teeth, cradling my ribs, not even flinching at the exposure of my body anymore. It didn’t matter. I had nothing left to hide.
I sat slumped, eyes to the floor, like a puppet with her strings cut.
This was the lowest point of my life.
No…
That wasn’t true.
The lowest point was back in my vacation hotel. When they ripped me from Adrian’s arms. When they beat him until he stopped moving and I stopped breathing. That was the moment I died.
A sob trembled on my lips. I swallowed it whole.
Don’t think about him. You can’t. It’ll break you.
A paper bag landed in my lap. Jagged Scar cupped my chin and forced my gaze to his.
“Good girl. You accept your future. It is better this way.”
His fingers on my cheek were surprisingly soft—almost tender.
Almost.
But I didn’t fall for it.
I would never fall again.
I wouldn’t surrender. Not truly.
Not when I still had a heart to protect and a mind to resist.
I glared at the woman who’d tamed me with steel and needles. “I hate you,” I whispered. “One day, you’ll feel everything you’ve done to us. Karma's coming for you.”
She didn’t respond. She didn’t care.
But I meant every word.
If I ever made it out, I’d burn this place to ash.
Jagged Scar sighed and ripped the paper bag open. He threw the contents at me.
“Get dressed.”
The clothes hit me like a slap. I slid off the table with a hiss of pain and dressed in silence. A thin brown sweater. White cotton knickers. Thigh-high socks that itched and rode down.
No pants. No bra. No warmth.
Just enough to cover shame, but not enough to protect dignity.
A costume.
A doll’s costume.
I was being packaged for sale.
The woman tossed a hairbrush at me. I caught it on instinct, startled.
This was the final step. The final polish. I was being presented.
I brushed out the snarls and tangles. My skin smelled of cheap, industrial soap. My hair was brittle and dry. My limbs ached with every movement, but I moved.
I would not be carried.
I would walk.
The woman yanked the brush from my hand and disappeared. I was left standing in the center of that metal room, cold, exposed, and primed.
I scratched at the bandage on my wrist, the barcode underneath itching like a second skin. My eyes dropped to the bruise at my ribs, the mark behind my ear throbbing with betrayal.
They didn’t need to kno
w my name.
They didn’t need to know my past.
They only needed to know what I was becoming.
A number.
A price tag.
Something to be sold.