Daniel Okebalama
@danielokebalama185573
1 year ago

#writinginprogress

FORTNIGHT

PROLOGUE

Dim blue lights cast an eerie glow over the room, while speakers reverberated diabolically, filling the air with pounding bass. Grim faces, shrouded in shadow, sought solace at the bottom of green bottles, each sip an escape from their harsh reality. Scantily clad women, chewing gum and swaying their hips seductively, moved through the haze like spectral figures.

From a dimly lit corner, an elderly woman emerged from a staircase on the right. Her appearance seemed to defy time itself. Her unnaturally fair complexion couldn't conceal her true skin tone, revealed by dark knuckles. Her face was adorned with piercings in unconventional places. She wore minimal clothing, a red bra barely concealing cleavages that had seen better days, and a miniskirt failing to mask stretch-marked thighs. Tattoos on her right and left thighs bore the words "Joy" and "Giver."

A sardonic smile played on her lips as she approached. "How old is she?" she asked, her voice tinged with knowing.

"Eleven," came the reply.

"She seems mature for her age," the old woman remarked.

"Isn't that a good thing?"

"Indeed," she agreed, her hand slipping into her bra to retrieve a small brown envelope.
"Full amount?"

"I don't owe you," she replied, finalizing the transaction by handing over the money.

With the exchange complete, the old woman bent down to face her. Playfully, she pinched her cheeks and gazed deeply into her eyes, momentarily frowning as though seeking something. Whatever it was, it seemed she had found it. Joy Giver beamed widely, revealing teeth stained by the smoke of her vices. She rose to her feet with a stifled wince, gripping her hand as if with the intention to hurt her.

"Where are you taking me?" The young girl turned to her uncle, the one who had committed unspeakable acts. His uncertain gaze averted hers, and he blew a kiss at Joy Giver before making a hasty exit.

"Leave me alone!" Her voice rose above the deafening music, but her cries went unheard. She struggled against her new master's vice-like grip.

"It's just you and me now," Joy Giver grinned sardonically, dragging her into the bar.

Inside, a distressing scene unfolded. Young girls, some her age, some tearful, while others had grown accustomed to their torment, were dressed uniformly. White crop tops verging on transparency met checked skirts that barely reached their knees. Knee-high white stockings and cheap sneakers completed their ensemble. It was a uniform that symbolized innocence stripped away.

Realization hit her like a wave, and panic surged within. She wriggled her hand ferociously and screamed for help, yet her voice was lost amid the thunderous music. The pressure from her struggles caused Joy Giver to lose her footing. Joy Giver retaliated by using her left hand to inflict pain on her cheeks, silencing her. With her will defeated, she was forcibly dragged up the staircase.

"New recruits are here!" a voice proclaimed.

She looked up to find two men waiting by a door. One appeared as though he were a living specter, his disheveled appearance a reflection of a life in disarray. Long, unkempt dreadlocks framed his face, bloodshot eyes conveyed a sense of detachment, and his attire—faded green shirt and a pink trouser in need of salvation—completed his mismatched appearance. The other man stood in stark contrast, the epitome of well-groomed professionalism. Clean-cut crewcuts, a belly that affirmed his status. They both appeared completely disconnected from the reality of the outside world. She was thrust toward them.
“Take it easy, it's a new recruit," Joy Giver remarked with a twisted sense of humor. The disheveled man hoisted her over his shoulder and entered the room. The space resembled a battleground—disorganized, cramped, and aged. Opposite the door lay a bed, positioned directly beneath a window. The sheets seemed untouched for years. A bedside table sat in the corner, just an arm's length from the bed, appearing even older than the girl. The only item on it was an empty beer bottle. She instinctively dug her hand into the disheveled man's eyes, drawing a groan of pain. He retaliated swiftly, swinging his hand to strike her face with a clenched fist. With brutal force, he hurled her onto the bed and began to undress.
"Take me home… please," she pleaded, her eyes filled with desperation as she looked towards the executive, who had followed the disheveled man's lead. "Don't worry, child; we'll make sure you come home," he chuckled. The disheveled man gestured for the executive to go first. Approaching the sobbing girl, he leaned in and whispered into her ear, "Now, child, you better behave yourself; I paid a lot of money for you." He seized her hand and turned her over, pinning her to the bed with his strong grip. Unzipping the dress her mother had bought for her birthday, he flipped her over. She cried out for help, but the world had turned deaf to her pleas.
Driven by a sheer survival instinct, her body seemed to act independently. She extended her right hand toward the bedside table and used the bottle as a makeshift weapon. With a swift and brutal motion, she smashed it against the executive's head, instantly rendering him unconscious.
"Jesu Kristi!" the disheveled man exclaimed in shock. He lunged toward her with remarkable speed. She shut her eyes tightly and thrust the bottle forward, preparing for the inevitable. As her eyes reopened, she sensed liquid trickling along her hand. She dared to look and saw the jagged end of the bottle buried in the disheveled man's stomach, his life slowly slipping away. Her body convulsed uncontrollably, a mix of fear and adrenaline coursing through her veins. Without hesitation, she rushed to the windowsill, flung open the windows, and made her life-altering decision
She jumped.