by Paula Cox
I pull down my underwear and take the blade from my hip. There’s a clear outline from where it has dug into my skin and a bead of blood drips down my leg from where it’s pricked me. I kneel down and place the knife under the bed. My hand trembles, but I ignore it. This isn’t a time for trembling hands; this isn’t a time for fear, or cowardice. This is the time to fight, to get angry. If he comes in here thinking I am some girl to be taken, used as he wills, he’ll get a damn rude awakening, that’s for sure.
After a while, the sounds of the auction die down. Dozens of footsteps sound through the walls, growing louder. The men are being led to the booths. I think of Fiona, this woman I have become. What sort of woman is she? A woman to lie down and take it, or a woman to cut and spit and fight? I grit my teeth and tell myself: I am strong. I can do this. I can fight. I will not be hurt. I will not be used.
I don’t let myself think about what will happen once I’ve defended myself, just as stranded, just as alone. I can’t afford to think that far ahead.
Two paths lay ahead of me. In one, Alexander Smith is the man I briefly glimpsed, the man apart from the evil of this yacht.
In the other, I am covered in blood and searching for a way out.
Then the door swings open and I don’t know whether to breathe a sigh of relief or fear.
It’s Alexander Smith. He has won me.
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