Craft II (The Craft Saga)

2 - Nobody

I stared up at the ceiling in my new, boxed in home and twirled a piece of hair between my fingers. My other hand was coated in blood as I clutched at my shoulder. It was only a scrape but it hurt like a bitch and I prayed it didn't get infected.

The ceiling in this room was the colour of vomit and it turned my stomach. What was this place? It seemed like some sort of brothel by the looks of it, and if the Cabreras thought they were going to put me to work as a hooker they were certainly not going to like my response to it.

I was already panicking, wondering what more they had in store for me as I wished they had just killed me the second they'd found out I was a Dagon.

A rattle on the bars of my cell made me jump up with my fists clenched defensively as my heart immediately pounded from the adrenaline rush the sudden sound gave me.

'Dagon?'  The man on the other side had a deep, impatient, aggressive tone as he addressed me. He had a dirty, navy beanie hat on, a torn, tartan shirt and filthy jeans. I could see that one tooth was missing at the front of his mouth and he had a long scar that started on his forehead, went across his eye and finished at the corner of his mouth.

I tried to relax and show that I wasn't afraid. 'Yes?'

A devious smirk spread across his face. 'Those Dagons really did do a good job of keeping you hidden away...'

I didn't like the way he said it...or the way his eyes undressed me. 'And your point is?' I tried to sound intimidating and uncaring.

He scowled at me and clicked his tongue. 'They're gonna' regret letting you out of that pretty, little mansion.' He laughed to himself before pulling keys from his belt and finding the one for the lock on my bars. He unlocked it and slid them open before gesturing me to come towards him with his head. 'Let's go.'

'Where?' I asked, as I slowly walked across the concrete floor. There was a tiny glimmer of hope inside of me as I was leaving the cell. I knew I was going to immediately look for an escape.

'Don't ask questions,' he mumbled, as I stepped out of the cell and he gripped onto the top of my arm tightly. 'Walk.'

We began moving down the dull, narrow corridor  that was lined with cell after cell all the way down. Some were empty, some were occupied. The occupied ones were mostly women, who by the looks of them all worked the same particular job here and their cell doors were open for them to leave as they wished. Clearly these women had no other option than to take this place as a roof over their heads and work the job they had to work to secure it.

There were a few cells with men inside too, but those cells were locked just like mine. I assumed those people were prisoners - just like me.

'What is your name?' I asked the man guiding me.

'Didn't I say don't ask questions?' he hissed, his eyes flickering across my shoulder then away again.

'I just want to know your name,' I sighed. 'Please...I have no idea what is going on here or what I'm doing here.'

'You'll soon find out, Dagon,' he hummed.

'Tell me your name.' I tried one more time. I wanted to figure out what was going on in this place and find a way out. If escaping wasn't possible, I was going to have to befriend someone.

'It's Karl,' he sighed, as we reached the metal door at the end that was slightly ajar. 'No more fucking questions.'

'I need someone to take a look at my shoulder,' I told him. 'It's killing me and it's still bleeding.'

He ignored me and I felt my nerves increase as we stepped through the door. The sight that greeted me was what I could only describe as bewildering.

The room around us was enormous, and lined from top to bottom with tall wooden tables where men and women stood working. On the tables...cocaine. Piles of white powder being cut and segregated into large bricks then dropped into metal crates on the floor by their feet where more workers picked them up as they grew full and took them away as another empty crate took it's place and the job continued on. These people moved so fast. Their hands were like lightning as they worked and really showed how long they had been doing this. All of them were dressed untidily and looked in poor wealth. Clearly, just like the working women, these people had no other option either.