Maybe after an hour, or a minute we stopped. We heard scuffling and screams and soon afterwards, another girl entered. She was shoved ungracefully inside, bruises soon to be developed. Her head was a blunt bob, slightly modern, slightly chic, all defiant. Bruised lips and faded marks on her face told her story. She laid on the floor, too bedraggled to attempt to get up. I heard something gasp from her throat.
“What did you say?” I said, quietly and distinctly. She coughed, and looked at me, her eyes full of expression, but it wasn’t pain. It was something else entirely. Glancing away, she forced herself up into a position where she would be comfortable.
“I said, my name is Holly,” she rasped, trying to reset her voice. “What’s yours?” she casually started, as if all our trauma could be erased by an introduction.
“I don’t think it quite matters this minute. How did you get here?”
“My friends and I were walking home from school. We always turn onto this one street, where all the lots are vacant and full of weeds no one bothers to mow down. It’s one block over from my house. The van just pulled up. We kept walking. It slowed down near us and I shoved them into the nearest lot. None of them are fenced and it would have been easy to get away. They tried to put a gun to my head but I surrendered. I don’t see any point in fighting something we can’t win. I hope they’re safe,” she stopped abruptly. We let the rumbling of the road fill the air around us.
There was nothing so I fell asleep, my body’s way of dealing with trauma, my body’s only way. I didn’t cry. I never cried not even as a child.