Little Girl Lost.

"These don't fit."

Tracey glanced at me and shifted the bucket she held in her arms that was brimming with dingy rags and bottles of bleach, "They don't fit nobody, just roll up the waistband. It kind of helps." She sighed in response to my complaint.

I pulled at the waistband of the long black sweatpants she had thrust into my arms minutes beforehand. They were hanging off my hips and bagging around my knees, probably two sizes too big. She had pulled them and a matching shirt from the back of a shelf in a storage room, said something about rules or regulation, wearing them was mandatory. I hadn't quite heard her, she tended to mumble a lot. Perhaps she hadn't always been so quiet and soft-spoken.

"Why do I even have to wear this, I feel like I'm drowning in...black."

"Everyone does, just the rules. Makes you blend in."

I shrugged my shoulders, she was probably right. It was probably better for me to fade into the background, maybe they would leave me alone that way and I could focus more energy on trying to stay alive..or getting out.

"Hope breeds eternal misery."

"Here, hold these. They won't ask questions if you look like you're doing what you're supposed to." Tracey grabbed a handful of rags from the bucket she was toting and tossed them at me, "They're like wolves, just waiting for a chance to pounce. Don't give them the chance."

It took a moment for the command to register in my brain, until I heard the familiar heavy thud of steel-toed boots approaching us from the opposite direction.

What was that she had said..don't let them break you? I figured cowering in fear of what they might do to you for simply walking down the hallway would be a pretty good indicator that they're starting to break you down. However, I didn't think standing up to someone who was nearly three feet taller than you and had multiple weapons strapped to their hips was such a good idea either. What was that saying about being stuck between a rock and a hard place?

The guards walked by without saying anything, but I could feel their eyes boring into my head like trained, pointed lasers.

"Where do they get these guys?" I whispered after they had passed, posing it more as a rhetorical question rather than expecting a real answer.

"Some people just like beating other people up and controlling everything they do. Eat this when I say so, take a shower when I say so, go to work when I say so. It's just about control. They get off on knowing that they're scaring you and controlling you. It's typical dominant male stuff."

I stared back at her, almost in awe. It was the most I had heard her speak and there was a subtle passion intricately twined in between her words. She almost sounded angry.

"How do they even find these sickos?" It was my turn to mumble, slightly caught off guard by Tracey's ferocity.

"They have some sort of way to recruit. I doubt it's through fliers on supermarket bulletin boards."

I nodded absentmindedly and followed her around a corner, coming to a stop in front of yet another cold, gray door. This one was different from the rest, a small rectangular window made of glass was set into the surface.

"You won't like it, kid."

"Like what?"

She readjusted the weight of the bucket in her arms, "Just don't end up in here and you'll be fine." Her words danced around my question precariously, she was treading lightly and I could see by the slackening of her jaw, squaring of her shoulders; she didn't want me to see how upset she was.

"Come on." She mumbled and pressed her shoulder to the door, pushing it open with a groan.

Before I could even take a full step inside the dark room, the smell hit me and I nearly doubled over. The room was hot and heavy; reeking of metal and..

Blood.

"Is tha-"

"Just..don't talk. It's easier." She mumbled, before turning on the light.

I shut my eyes. I didn't want to see whatever was waiting for me; whatever that raw, acrid air was fed by. The pungent odor invaded my nostrils, pushing its way down into my throat until my shoulders bobbed as I violently gagged and dry-heaved.

"What is that from." I managed to choke out, covering my nose with my hand.

"Grab one of those bottles, it's bleach. And the rags, faster it's done faster it's over."

I exhaled slowly, trying to control my breathing. I always got nervous before a competition or performance, Coach would hold my hand. She'd count with me until my anxiety had subsided and my breathing had returned to normal.

Come on, you're going to kick some ass and you know it." She'd say and I always believed her.

A lump formed in my throat and I swallowed hard, hoping it'd disappear and get buried along with everything else I was trying to keep at bay. If I didn't think, I didn't feel and if I didn't feel, I wasn't really here. If I wasn't here, this wasn't real and I could just detach from everything around me.

"Okay." I breathed, attempting to reassure myself more than I was replying to Tracey.

"Sorry, kid. Shouldn't be some of the first shit you see."

As if on cue, I opened my eyes. I regretted it immediately and spun around, facing the door. My head gyrated, like one of those twirling rides you pay two dollars for at the carnival. Nausea's familiar grip wrapped its fingers around my throat and I struggled to keep my feet planted to the floor, my knees locked.

"Is that blood?" I already knew the answer.

"Yeah..just, don't piss them off. You'll be good."

"Can I just..can I sit down."

"Sure, kid. I can do this, been doing it for a while."

I fell to the floor, relieved. I didn't want to look, I wanted to claw my eyes out of my head. Get rid of it, obliterate it from my memory completely. There were already so many things I wanted..needed to forget. Only now, it was the brown and russet stains lining the walls and the half-dried puddle Tracey was kneeling over. It flashed in my memory and I ground the heels of my palms into my eyes. Maybe if I pushed hard enough, it'd push those pictures back into the unconscious, recesses of my brain. It would go away, it wouldn't be there. I just wanted all of it to go away.

I don't know when I started crying. I don't know when I started sobbing, shoulders heaving and lungs gasping for air in between coughs and chortled cries. I can't remember when Tracey grabbed me and wrapped me in her arms, letting me bury my damp face in the shoulder of her shirt. She didn't say anything, she just rocked back and forth and let me cry. I don't remember when I stopped bawling, when gut-wrenching sobs faded to whimpers and then to hiccups. I just remember laying there, just come out of the cacophonous cloud of panic, limp in her arms and sniffling, feeling like an overgrown child but for once, not feeling so alone and engulfed by the darkness around me.

"Calayah, I'm sorry." She said softly, "I..I know it's scary but that's what they want. They gotta scare you, don't let them. Don't let them see you cry, don't give them the pleasure."

I nodded weakly, too tired and emotionally exhausted to respond verbally.

"Hey, I mean it. Kid, you're better than this place and if anybody has a chance it's you."

She spoke like a mother did to her child, wrapping them in her warm arms and cooing softly in their ear. Even though she was just a couple years older than me, it was the closest thing to a mother I could remember. Mine never held me when I cried, she didn't tell me it'd be alright or kiss me goodnight when I was a child. She'd rattle off a few words about, "Pulling yourself up by your bootstraps," and "Facing the real world." It was never, "How are you," or even, "I love you." She simply didn't care.

"W-why am I here? I'm not a bad person, I've done nothing bad in my life. What am I being punished f-for?" I blubbered, wiping at my nose with the back of my hand and sniffling loudly.

"You didn't start this, it's not your fault."

"I w-want to go home."

She didn't say anything, not that I was looking for her to. I just needed someone to listen to me and let me know in whatever way, that I was heard.

"Hey, now you listen to me." She gently cupped my chin in her hands and pulled my watery gaze towards her, "You don't let them see you break, not for a second. Because they will pounce and tear you apart, and you'll be gone. They can't do nothing to you that you don't let them, so you give them hell. Those fuckers deserve it."

"But-" I started but she cut me off.

"I'm serious, I know it's scary in here. Shit, Cal. How long have I been here? They can't get me, not you either." She stopped, as if choosing her next words carefully, "But don't give them a reason to bring you in this room right here. I don't want to ever know you've been in here, you hear me?"

My eyes wandered past her pressing gaze and to the sullen walls that enclosed us. Blood splatters, stains and smears littered the surfaces, some too high for the bottles of bleach to reach. Old, rusted chains hung from hooks, shackles welded to the ends of the metal links. That wasn't what sent chills down my spine, though. It was what was hanging on the opposite wall. The long, coiled leather of whips. Some had pieces of glass or barbed wire braided into the long, browned pieces of hide.

"They..whips..what." I managed to choke out, burying my face in her shirt again.

"Don't give them a reason. Fight like hell and don't back down but kid, you have to know when to stop. Once they bring you here, you'll give up. I'm not letting you do that, you hear?"

"I don't know what to do."

"How does an ant eat an elephant?"

"What? What are you talking about?" I pulled away, confused and waiting for an explanation.

"One bite at a time."

"You're joking, right?"

She scoffed, it sounded dangerously close to a laugh, "One bite at a time, kid. You'll figure it out."

"You're nuts."

"How else would I still be here? Gotta beat the crazy with the crazy, right?" She smirked at me, the tiniest ray of a smile played across her cracked lips. She had actually smiled. Sort of.

She pulled herself off the floor, dusting off her pants with the palms of her hands before picking up the bottle of bleach and a handful of rags; her attention focused on scouring the floor beneath her of the crimson mar.

"Why don't you clean the walls?" Glancing at the myriad of stains littering the drab gray, I swallowed hard.

She glanced up,briefly scanning the chains, assortment of whips and marks that nearly covered the walls from top to bottom. Her wrist came up to her forehead, pushing her hair aside before she exhaled wearisomely through pursed lips.

"They don't like getting the blood on their shoes."

I didn't think I was supposed to say anything to that, not that I knew what to say. It wasn't as if I could open my mouth without throwing up. So I sat there on the floor, leaned against the wall watching absentmindedly as Tracey picked up the blood of people that were completely lost.

No names, no face. No matter.