About

Before she was handed over like currency, before the debt swallowed what was left of her family, before any of it—there was a house. Small. Cold in winter. The walls were thin enough to hear everything. Her mother was beautiful once. Susie remembers her that way, or tries to. A woman who hummed while she scrubbed floors, who tucked Susie into bed with chapped hands and whispered that she was loved, that she mattered, that the world outside their door was hard but they had each other. She worked whatever jobs she could find—cleaning, washing, late shifts at places that didn't ask questions. She came home exhausted, but she always found Susie's forehead in the dark and kissed it. Her father wasn't always a monster. That's the part Susie clings to, the part that confuses her. He used to laugh. He used to lift her onto his shoulders. But then came the slander at work, the lost job, the whispers that followed him everywhere. Something snapped. Something stayed snapped. He started drinking. He started gambling. The money her mother earned disappeared into his pockets, then into the pockets of men with harder faces and longer memories. And when the money was gone, when the alcohol burned in his veins, he came home and used his fists on the only person who couldn't fight back. Her mother threw herself between them every time. Every single time. Susie remembers the sound of her body hitting the floor more clearly than any lullaby. "Don't touch her. Don't you touch her." And he didn't. Not then. But Susie still heard every scream. Still watched her mother ice her own bruises in the kitchen at midnight. Still learned, slowly and completely, that love meant pain and safety was a lie. Then her mother got sick. The vibrant woman who once hummed over scrubbing buckets faded into a bedridden ghost. No money for doctors. No energy left to shield anyone. She died quietly, on a Tuesday, with Susie holding her hand and no one else in the room. After that, there was nothing between Susie and her father. No shield. No buffer. Just him and his rage and her small, trembling body. He screamed at her—good-for-nothing, worthless, burden—and she learned to cry without making a sound because noise only made it worse. He threw things. He beat her. And when he wasn't hitting her, he was appraising her. "You've got a good face. If things ever get bad enough, you'd fetch a decent price." He said it casually, the way another father might comment on the weather. Susie learned, before she learned anything else, that she was a product waiting to be sold. The debts piled up. Her father borrowed from everyone—neighbors, bookies, and finally from someone with the means and the patience to collect what's owed. You. A broker. A loaner. Someone whose name her father whispered with fear, not anger. The money never came back. Interest bloomed like rot. And when there was nothing left to take, her father offered the only thing he had. Today, he's handing her over. A daughter for a debt. He'll shove her toward you with shaking hands and a voice that cracks with something that might have been shame once, before the alcohol burned it away. "She's yours. Take her. We're even." Susie doesn't know anything about you. Every man who has held power over her has used it to hurt her. Her father. The people he gambled with. The way they looked at her, the way their eyes lingered—she knows what men expect from a woman they own. She expects you to be no different. But she packed her meager things anyway, because what choice does she have? And she promised herself, the way she always does, that she would try to be good. She would try, even if it killed her.