Stuck In Traffick

Chapter 5

Chapter 5

“Keep it down will you?!” Demanded one man, in broken English.

I can do nothing but strain against my gag in an attempt to reply.

“Leave her, let’s keep moving.” Said the other man.

“Kid… Move!!” Commanded the first man to a slightly smaller, more sheepish looking person with a more boyish, childish face. And with that the corrugated tin rolled shut. Then the cabin door opened, then clicked and closed shut, making a harsh resonating banging noise. Before long, the rumbling began again as we obviously set off and continued our journey.

            I purposed it within myself to attempt to stay awake for the remainder of the journey, however long it may be. I had no idea what they done or would do to me whilst I was unconscious and unaware. As I stare into the darkness fear strikes me. Violent and unforgiving. I feel my consciousness begin to slip away slightly and I begin to try and consider methods of keeping myself awake. I think back to my childhood before I was sent away. I thought back to Christmas Eve night when I would try with all my might to stay awake just for a glimpse of the plump, jovial man in red and his sack of cheerily wrapped offerings that would soon be in my small, childlike, hands. To stay awake I would sneakily read a book with a torch under my blanket; I would play a board game with my dolls and cuddly toys; I would read books to my toys (in a mouse like whisper, of course); I would sit by the window and watch for the reindeers descend from the skies, gliding down through the light, splayed clouds, or I would imagine their silhouette blotting out a sleigh-shaped chunk out of the moon and then descending and gracefully landing in my drive way, then seeing Father Christmas leave the handsome reindeer and returning with the carrots that I proudly left for them on my doorstep before I retreated to my bedroom for the evening. And then I’d listen carefully for the almost silent click of the lock on the front door opening – we didn’t have a chimney, so Santa had a special key that opened any door – and then for the magical, clunky footsteps of the oversized man crossing the threshold of the living room. Of course, I only ever imagined this part. I could only ever conjure it in my imagination and dream about the magic of the evening since I would never last that long, my childlike impatience would always get the better of me, either that or my childlike fatigue took over and sleep embraced me.

            I could now feel myself slipping away, deeper and deeper into the dark abyss, I could feel my consciousness leave me gradually, allowing me to grow comfortable where I am. The deceitfulness comforts me.

The forest is a magical place. There’s nothing like venturing into the tall, looming trees and feeling their protective embrace. This is another favourite of mine. There was nothing I enjoyed more than finishing my chores and homework for the day and then retreating to the lure of the forest for a little while until dinner. Methodically, I would put away the bucket, rake and shovel away in the small, wooden lean-to and lock it, and then lastly I would do one final check of my families meagre chickens and then lock the coop, safely tucking the ring of keys into the pocket on the front of my apron. Then, I would walk up the length of the gravel driveway into the humble farm house and return the ring of keys to its peg in the doorway and then discard my now off-white apron into the laundry basket. Then, noticing that my work was done for the day I would excitedly run to my room, change my shoes, rummage under my pillow for my notebook and pen and then, as quickly as I entered, leave my room and descend the stairs, two at a time and as I leave the house, I shout over my shoulder at my mum, “I’ll be back in an hour, mum!” and I begin my venture to the forest. The short walk to my   forest is the most intriguing part. The walk begins by the waterside, and then after a short climb up a small hill, I’m then walking along beside fields with horses and town legend says, a bull. Then finally, I see the entrance to the forest and I quickly climb over the small ditch to reach my sanctuary.

            My sanctuary is a small clearing with everything I could ever need in it. It has shelter, a seat, and a table. Where I like to sit is sheltered by the roots and base of a fallen great oak, the roots welcome me, allowing a slight entrance, culminating in a slight cavern with a small tree stump to sit on. I would come here most days, normally to write. I enjoyed writing, I would peek out of the tree and conjure up stories out of what I imagine may happen in the forest. I enjoyed the fantasy of it all; I enjoyed escaping from the confines of reality. I’ve always wanted to be a writer, the idea of becoming famous for simply doing something I have a passion for sounds like the easiest life. For me, it’s not as much about creating something brilliant, it’s about experiencing the world and escaping the world that I’m in. I write a lot about what I’d be if I was free. Where I’d go, what I’d do. In this world, no harm can come to me. My dad needn’t worry about the dangers that he tells me about that lurk and lie in wait for me to fall into their attractive trap. I can be whoever I want to be. I can be whatever I want to be.

            I very much wish that I can share my work with my family but I live in the constant fear that my father would be angry at my writing. My main fear being that he gets upset by my desires to experience the world, I could never tell what he might do should anything ever happen to me, and if I was even to elude to the fact that I wanted to live a little then I couldn’t help but wonder if it would destroy him. I could almost picture the hurt in his eyes.

I feel tears slither down my dirty cheeks. The slight tickle of them tracing my face awakens me from my slumber. I wonder what he’d say if he knew what was happening to me, I think to myself.

            I don’t know how long I was out for, but I can feel that the rumbling and movement has stopped. Through the pounding noise of my head I try to hear for any sound, no matter how small it may be. I couldn’t hear anything except the slight rush of wind outside.

            With the empowerment of my curiosity, I mustered all my strength and cried out despite the pain in my throat that resembled many razor blades cutting and scratching at my raw, dry throat.

“HELLO? IS ANYONE THERE? HELP ME!” I cried. Depleted of my remaining strength, I relented and simply wept. I feel so defeated and defenceless. I don’t know what else I can possibly do to beat this.   

            I try in vain to relax and calm myself and not allow my mind to wander to the endless possibilities. I wonder where I am; where I was; why I’m here; who these foreign men are; what they will do to me should I choose not to co-operate. But most importantly, I wonder who sent me here and why. My dad never told me I was leaving home, I never gave him any reason that I should leave home or any reason that he should kick me out. He always told me he’d never let me go, never let any harm come to me. He once even told me that he’d give his own life to know that his two girls are safe and would never let anyone injure me in anyway, physically or mentally, but that all changed. He sent Lucy away, I don’t know where to or why either. I remember it as if it were yesterday, it may well have been for all I know. My comprehension of the passing of time has gone; I don’t know whether I’ve been away for weeks, months or simply just days.

            My whole body begins to shake in a violent tremor as involuntary sobs wrench through my small, gaunt frame. Against my own will my hands shudder against the biting shackles that contain me. In a sudden rush of pain, I instinctively wrench my arm to my side to protect it from the invisible foe. As I move my arm, I feel the strong, thick, heavy, clanking chains follow then as if all in one sudden movement I feel a large crate fall on top of me. Instinctively I let out a loud, peace shattering cry of pain and fear, hoping this heavy crate won’t crush my delicate body. My brittle, malnourished bones might not have been enough to withstand a great weight.

            In a sudden rush I hear the sound of hurrying footsteps and the familiar tin rattling and a warm glow enters the grubby, trailer.

“YOU IDIOT! CAN I NOT LEAVE YOU FOR FIVE MINUTES?” To punctuate the question I was met with a clobbering, backhanded blow to my cheek, I shrieked in pain. The pain reverberated through my head and became so intense that I lost consciousness yet again.