She was there against her will. Marilynn Scott had been taken from the corner of her school, waiting for her mother after practice, at the age of 14. He had her and six other girls signed up on a multitude of websites as “escorts”, but with the ages bumped up by a few years. She only knew this because one of the men told her- the man in charge managed all their profiles. 
Now, at the age of 17, her family had long quit looking for her, but she didn’t know that. The police had listed her as “either in another country now- most likely Saudi Arabia- and sold off, or dead.” She hadn’t expected them to keep looking anymore; it had been of tireless effort for her to keep herself from hanging herself with her lingerie, so she couldn’t even imagine what it must be like for her family.
Like usual, the days blurred together. She got up, made herself presentable, had the little food she was provided to keep herself from collapsing, acted through the motions of what she was hired to perform (it was like acting, according to the older girls- they had to teach Marilynn what to do  because she was so young), and sleep. It was like clockwork- endlessly going through the same motions. She had accepted this was her life now: her disgusting, vile life. 
However, that day, she had gotten a visitor with what would describe as “morals”. When he entered the dimly lit motel room, he did a double take.
 “How old are you?” He questioned. Her profile said 23, so that’s what she said. 
“Like hell you’re 23. How old are you?” She stuttered out “17”, shocked that her client was asking; at herself for breaking the rules. He was… disgusted. Honestly, truly disgusted. That was a first. Pulling a gun out of his waistband, he laid it on the bed slowly, and started to walk out of the room, turning back solely to whisper these last words. 
“You need this more than I do.”
Marilynn had thought she had accepted her life. She truly did. But her option out, the cold steel sitting on the foot of the bed, caused the knotted feelings of rage in the bottom of her stomach to release itself. The resistance she had shown at first, the anger that she was not the only one, the fear that her family had retired from their efforts to find her; all of it filled her again. She mouthed a silent “thank you” to the man who left his gun for her, and picked it up. It was loaded. 
She went through the clockwork motions again, going to him for food. They always went alone- it was easier for him to ration out meals so it appeared like there was far less, and not like he was starving them. She knocked, and he opened. She went in for food, nothing unusual. When he turned his back to get her portion, she pulled out the gun slowly. He stood back up. She pulled the trigger.
She didn’t expect the noise to be so loud. She didn’t expect the blood to rain, splattering the walls in tiny droplets. They coursed down the wall, the wall going from tiny, red drops to almost a patch of solid red. She didn’t expect the brain splatter, and she most definitely did not expect the sirens that pulled up in front of the motel room five minutes later.  


Submitted: February 06, 2018

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