11. Eleven #2
The summer I was ten, around the beginning of August, the warehouse was nearly half empty, when Father appeared through the single door cut from the steel walls near the room where Rafael, the other men, and I all slept.
Father’s appearances at the warehouse were rare and all had been quiet, since those products that remained had long since learned the price of noise.
The men and I jumped to attention at his entrance, but instead of looking at him, my eyes were drawn to a tiny brunette, her arm hiked at a weird angle thanks to the height difference between her and my father.
She was handed off to one of the men, who without a word, took into the main warehouse.
There were plenty of empty cages for her.
Once she was gone, I waited for Father to acknowledge me. To tell me he was proud. To congratulate me on my continued progress. On the work that I was doing to secure our family’s safety. He didn’t do any of that. He didn’t even look my way. Just spoke a single sentence to Rafa,
“She’s important. I want her perfect.”
Then, he was gone again. Leaving Rafael to determine how to do that. And for that, he turned to me. I was supposed to punish her, but for the first time in a long time I didn’t want to. Didn’t need to. Because she was already an angel. A nameless angel.
I would wait until the men fell asleep or started playing cards before sneaking towards her cell.
The other kids would cry or sleep mostly, sometimes begging in their dreams for their parents to save them.
But never her. Instead, she just sat in the corner of her cage, and I would sit beside her.
She never said a word, but eventually I filled the silence.
I talked to her about the men, about Father, and about how much I hated the warehouse.
One day, a few weeks later, she slid her slim wrist through the bars and reached for my hand. It was the first hand I ever held.
That day, I called my father and begged, begged for her to stay, for her to be my pet, for her to help me with the other kids. Anything I could think of that might keep my friend. None of it worked.
Instead, my weakness landed me in the dark.
In the dungeon, or at least that’s how I came to think of it.
Its bare, concrete walls were cold all of the time, even though a vent through the ceiling blew heat in.
There were no lights, few meals, and worst of all, there was no one.
No friends, no sister, no mother or father.
The only people I saw were the men, different ones, who night after night, would slip through the door of my prison and administer worse punishments than I ever thought possible.
Punishments so bad, I started to pray for that first beating instead.
After what felt like weeks, although I still couldn’t be sure how long, the darkness was replaced with blinding, skull-shattering lights and my father’s voice that said, “You see, my son, you can either be the predator or the prey. I hope from now on, you’ll choose the right one. ”
My throat ached from screaming my nights away, and my lips were cracked and bleeding after so long with so little water. Still, I needed to say something. My father stared down at me expectantly, and no question of Franklin Barrett’s ever went unanswered.
“The predator. Always the predator. I promise, Father.”
That had been the correct answer. I was released, even allowed to return home, to shower, to eat, and drink.
Most importantly, I never had to face the men in the dungeon ever again.
My next trip back to the warehouse wasn’t until the next summer, and by then, the girl was gone.
And I was glad, because after the darkness, I would have punished her, beat her, whipped her, and so much worse just to avoid ever going back there.
Just like I did to so many for all those summers after that.
It had been a long time since I thought about that dungeon.
A long time since I’d thought about that girl with the brown eyes that seemed too big for her small face.
But the little kid I used to be was long gone, and having seen what happened to the merchandise my father bought and sold from the Port warehouse, I hoped she was dead.
The alternative was much worse. From the front seat, Mikhael called out, “Nearly there, sir,” as we turned the last corner leaving West Barrett’s historic downtown behind.
In less than five minutes we’d arrive, so I shoved thoughts of the past out of my head and focused on the task at hand.
Tonight wasn’t a delivery. We were receiving products purchased overseas which would then be distributed to our many holding facilities until such time as Father had appropriate buyers lined up.
My job tonight was to look after the transportation of one particularly difficult piece of property from here to the airport, where it was being shipped to the West Coast, and one of Father’s preferred holding partners there.
When I stepped out of the car, Father was already in position.
His expensive black suit was a mirror image to my own.
I’d changed on the way down. Two of his men—backups, since Mikhael had come to collect me–stood at his back.
Waiting in the wings were others from our various crews, who like me, were here to collect and ensure products found their way to the right distributors.
I knew Father would be carrying, but unlike his men, his weapon and my own were kept concealed.
We paid other people to get their hands dirty if the need arose.
He gave me a quick dip of his chin to acknowledge my arrival, since directly ahead of us, a large cargo ship was already docked.
Two cranes working at either end were lifting steel containers one by one.
Those at the back of the boat were being loaded directly onto large trucks waiting to take their various goods to their destinations, but the crane at the front was moving much slower, lifting small containers–ones with noticeable ventilation along the tops–down onto the asphalt in front of us.
Two of the men, whose clothing marked them as ship hands Father had obviously paid off, approached the container, fiddled with the lock, and dragged the heavy steel doors open.
Our own men, dressed to befit their station with guns visibly in hand, charged inside.
There were cries, rattling off the metal, and then slowly, one by one, our foot soldiers emerged, leading groups of women on unsteady legs and dressed in soiled t-shirts, towards the largest of our hangers.
The women, shivering from cold, mostly followed like docile little sheep.
But that didn’t stop the ear-splitting noise from inside the container.
I kept waiting for the last of the men, Seb, to emerge and slam the doors closed.
When he did, I’m not sure what I expected, but it wasn’t to see his arms wrapped around a kicking, screaming adult woman.
Sure, our products vary in age, race, even gender, but usually imports are much younger than this woman looked.
And much less feral. Her dark tightly braided hair whipped back and forth as Seb tried to restrain her.
He eventually succeeded but that didn’t stop her from shrieking and twisting violently while he fought to carry her the twenty feet to me and our waiting town car.
When he got close, he stopped, looking to me for direction.
It was going to be a long trip to the airport if I had to listen to this bitch’s cries the whole way. I sighed, “Put her in the trunk.”
Promptly, Mikhael popped the back open and Seb dropped her ass down.
When the door was slammed closed over her, we could still hear her shouts and curses, but they were much fainter.
A volume I could live with. Only then did Father approach, an envelope extended in his hand, “It contains a passport for her, and payment for the pilot. They’ll be leaving from our private airstrip, you know where to go. ”
“Yes, Father,” I said, taking the envelope from his hands. I couldn’t resist asking before he walked away, “Who is she? She’s not our usual product.”
A quick grimace flitted across my father’s face, but it was gone nearly instantly.
“No one,” he gritted as he smoothed the edges of his suit jacket, even though it still looked pristine, “Let’s just say, she’s a return. And a pain in my ass.” His eyes darted over to the trunk, as if he was checking she was still in there, before focusing back on me.
“Get going, Francis. I want her out of my sight and on that fucking plane as soon as possible.”
“Of course, Father,” I answered, opening the car door behind me.
I got in, and, through the tinted glass, watched my father walk back towards his own vehicle, pointing and shouting instructions at his men.
As he walked, he rolled his shoulders like he was shuffling off a weight.
Impossible, since my father, both then, and now, was always the one with the master plan.
A plan I intended to follow. I’d get rid of the dead weight in the back as quick as I could, and this time tomorrow I’d be back at Agonde, taking my rewards from my sister for a job well done.