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I wanted nothing more than to be free. Free from my mother, free from my father. Free from everything in this world that made me feel trapped, like school and church. I wanted to be free. I prayed for it, I cried for it.
This was not what I prayed for. I didn't ask God to bring me into the hands of these people, these criminals. Life has been so unfair to me, and just only seems to get worse with every year that goes by.
I was simply walking from my bus stop, when a van pulled up beside me and someone pulled me in. That's all I remember, besides the ski masks and stacks of money, before I blacked out. Or should I say, got knocked out.
"You hit her too hard Davis," I hear someone yell.
"Nigga, y'all said knock her out. What you wanted me to do? Pat her head?!"
"Shut the fuck up, bitch ass nigga," another guy responds. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to make it seem like I am still asleep but it fails because of the quickness of my heartbeat. I pretend to be dead. I wish I was dead.
"Is she awake," a deeper, more masculine voice asks.
"She playing possum, boss."
I feel my whole body being snatched up and quickly open my eyes. I'm faced with a dark skin man, with a fresh cut above his left eyebrow. It's bleeding, and seems to add to his dark demeanor. He stares into my soul it seems, and I stare back out of fear that if I look away, the anger in his eyes would increase.
His tattoos call out to me, and realize that this man is twice my size. His muscles are like tiny mountains and the tank top doesn't help the formation of his chest from showing. I stare with my mouth agape at the Greek god of a man standing before me, and his hands gripped my rib cage so tightly I can feel the bones of his fingers curve.
"What's your name," he asks me. I cannot even form my mouth to say the words in order to respond to the question. I just continue to stare at him, fearing the bruises his hands would cause in the long run. "Look, I know you scared as a bitch, shit, I would be too. But nobody gon hurt you if you cooperate."
A tear falls to my cheek and it falls onto my lap, and the man's expression changes. "What's your name, mama."
"Y-y/n." He nods his head and releases me.
"Can you hold yourself up or do you need my hands," he asks as I begin to grow weak from the lack of support his hands once gave me. I pull myself back straight and stiffen up in order to remain sitting up right.
