Resurrection

Chapter 1: Birthed Into Hell

It's dark in this wooden shack.

The daylight shines in through two small windows, but it's dark, damp, and humid. There's no furniture, no flooring. Just sand, four walls, a roof, and a door falling off its hinges. There's commotion outside. Gruff, manly voices carry into the shack and bounce across the walls.

Like an abandoned, decrepit piece of furniture, a young woman sits in the corner. Her knees are to her chest with her arms wrapped around them. Her eyes are locked on the door. She's terrified to come out, she wishes she could just curl up and die here. There's no hope now, she's realizing that there never really was. She's come all this way, survived this long . . . just to have a fate handed to her worse than death. There was never going to be a happy ending.

Eyes still locked on the door, her body now shaking and her stomach flipping, she starts to whisper a prayer. Padre Nostro, che sei nei cieli, Sia santificato il tuo nome . She's not sure if there's a God who's listening anymore, but either way, it's the only thing she can think of to soothe herself.

She hears footsteps trudging on a wooden board outside, and a snarled voice with a cockney accent posing a question.

"You'll let my girl stand with you, huh?" He says, mockingly. "She's clearly not great at selling herself yet."

There's no answer, but a deep, barreling laugh erupts in the same venomous voice. The footsteps start again, this time growing louder against the wooden walkway outside. The young woman's eyes lock even more intensely on the door, and she draws her knees even closer to her chest.

The door swings open, revealing the owner of the roaring voice. He's a wall of a man, tall and wide. He's bald with a bushy gray beard. He wears a sleeveless shirt that looks like it was fashioned from a burlap sack, and torn navy green pants. His large, bulky boots are clearly what's been making all the agonizing noise. He has tattoos on his arms, neck, and even parts of his face. He wears two small hoop earrings. His eyes are tired, but intense. Like a man who's been on the lookout his entire life.

He looks around briefly, then spots the huddled young woman in the corner of the shack, still trying to make herself as small as possible. He smiles a disingenuous, closed-mouth smile before walking over to her and crouching down in front of her, like he's trying to soothe a caged animal. Her pulse picks up, she feels her heart pounding. She feels like she's going to be sick. There's nothing I can do, she thinks.

On her level now, the man finally breaks the silence.

"Not too many customers in here, are there?" he says, patronizing. She looks at him with dark, intense, almond-shaped eyes. She clocks his every move. "Pretty lousy advertising."

She says nothing. Just stares.

"I know the girls who work the island well. Some I know really well." He chuckles darkly, "They said you can stand with them on your first day . . . just so other pirates know what the hell I'm selling."

The young woman didn't want to believe that this was her new profession, but this man confirmed it to her like it was a passing thought. He has decided her fate with as much power as God.

"You're not a very convincing whore." He snarls. "That could be an advantage, ya know. Supply a man with the 'virgin on her wedding night' fantasy. Lord knows there's no competition for that typa girl on this island."

She doesn't break her stare, she just sits and listens.

"You do speak English, don't ya? The pendejo sailor you were with said you did. Said you spoke a few languages. Again, very marketable if he was telling the truth." He says, half to himself and half to her.