Page 1 of Maksim

1

ELIRA

I’m still wearing the dress.

It’s no longer the bright white that stuck out so vividly among the others on the rack, calling to me like it was my destiny to wear it. I knew it would fit perfectly even before I tried it on, just had that feeling.

I’ve always known I had an average body, too average even, but the dress somehow accentuated curves I don’t have, flattering me in ways that have never made me feel so beautiful.

Now, wearing the same dress, I’ve never felt so ugly.

Whimpering pulls my attention to the corner of the cargo space, but I don’t allow my eyes to linger on the girl. She’s having a private moment, one all of us have had at one time or multiple since we’ve been in this space.

There were a lot more moments in the beginning. Most of us have run out of tears by now, but every time the back doors open to the cargo truck, the shaking intensifies. That hasn’t happened in what feels like hours, the rumbling of the truck constant, so it must be coming soon.

I wish I knew where we were. Or where we’re going. Or knew this country at all.

James, my fiancé and the whole reason I agreed to make the illegal trek to America, lives in New York State, which must be hundreds of kilometres away.

Which means he can’t save me. Nobody can save me. Nobody even knows me.

The woman next to me chants words to herself that I don’t understand, but I think the language is Russian. Everyone has been too frightened to speak, so even the foreign words sound like a courageous bit of comfort.

“Do you speak English?” I ask. I don’t bother asking if she speaks Albanian.

“Shh,” someone hisses.

The Russian woman doesn’t answer. Instead, she quiets, the universal shh one thing we all understand.

It’s dark in here, only slivers of light shining in through cracks in the exterior, but when the door opens, we’ve caught glimpses of each other. We’re a melting pot of kidnapped girls. It makes me wonder if our kidnappers simply camped along the Mexico-US border, waiting for international girls, vulnerable and alone, to snatch.

Or maybe they weren’t at the border like I was. Maybe they snatched these girls from an airport. Maybe they have all kinds of ways of stealing freedom.

It’s a sick sort of irony for this to happen in America when Americans seem to have such warped opinions of my country. My people welcome foreigners with open arms, not … this.

My throat hurts as my heart pangs. My dress, the dress, sticks to my skin with sweat and filth, mocking me, reminding me what a stupid girl I am to ever think I should leave Albania. That there could ever be a better life for me somewhere else. Somewhere like here.

What. A. Fool.

The rumble of the truck eases as we slow, pulling my eyes open. I wrap my arms tightly around my knees and stare at the cargo door, waiting for the inevitable.

Will it be my turn?

Will I be chosen this time?

Do I want to be?

I’m not sure. I’m terrified, already my hands are trembling before I even hear their voices, but I think breathing in the smell of urine and fear, drowning in the unknown, must be worse than the fate on the other side of that door.

Or not. Either way, I’ll find out. If it isn’t my turn now, it will be soon.

The hoarse voice of the driver floats into the cargo space just before he bangs three times on the door. The sound is so jarring that I flinch, scooting inches away.

My mother’s voice enters my head, and I use it to drown out the sound of the metal door grinding open, basking the dark space in blinding light.

Be a good girl, Elira. You know what men want.

She told me this at the airport when she thought she was sending me off to a better life as a betrothed woman. Even so, there was nervousness in her eyes that didn’t feel like it belonged in a fairy-tale ending. She must’ve known even happiness comes at a cost.

---