Alice

Her head is lowered. Her shoulders are shaking from the cold, even though it's summer outside. She sits with her knees drawn up in the corner of a rusty cage, chained at the ankle. Her body is skin and bones. Narrow shoulders, sharp elbows, ribs visible under gray, dirty skin. Her eyelids are heavily closed, but not from sleep—he can't sleep. He's too hungry, too afraid.

Alice is eighteen, but looks no more than fifteen. She has a childish face, but it's very haggard. Her lips are dry, the corner is cracked and bleeding. She hasn't asked for water in a long time. After the last time, she broke his finger.

The silence in the market is relative. The shouts of the traders, the clanking of metal, the smell of fumes and spices—all of it passes him by. She's not a person. She's a commodity. Pitiful, worthless.

She doesn't cry. Tears are weakness. And weakness is what gets you beaten. That's how they taught you. That's how they beat you. And even when they didn't beat you, you still wanted to disappear. To dissolve. To vanish so that no one would ever find you again. Not new owners. Not memories. Not herself.

Once she called for her mother. Then she simply called for someone. Now she is silent. She is not even sure if her voice still exists.

Alice sits in a cage, hungry, timid, and waits. Not for hope. Not for help. Just for what will happen next. Another day, another pain. All that's left is breath.