Human Trafficking - Russia
2 flashes into the open darkness, signaling them we are here, nothing but dust and shadows in the distance. Flash again to make sure they see the lights, suddenly out of the grave darkness they appear.
Machine gun and rifles in hand. Draped in all black, dressed for the occasion or simply to disappear again into the darkness with ease. Hand gestures “come forward”. No sounds besides the engines running.
Pulling up along a long black car, tinted windows as though the devil himself rode in it. The window slowly opens, just enough to scream instructions at the men in a language that sounds like a drunk man would understand.
They untangle large iron chains off a shipping container, ensuring the merchandise was safe. No one to get in or out, especially out.
The door open abruptly as being forced open from the inside ensued by screams and shouts, naked bodies running aimlessly into the night. Confusion as which way to go, no understanding of where they are.
The sudden blow to her face of the back of the rifle. The warm blood running down her pale lips, covering them in rouge red. Violent pulls and pushes, forcing them into a straight line.
Foreign instructions screamed at them as children. Clinging to each other for security, warmth and protection as they try to hide their naked bodies, their private parts. Feeling vandalized, ashamed, and dirty.
The doors open to the luxury cars. Clean, well dressed, elderly, executive men jumped out the vehicles, smoking cigars. They walked to wards the merchandise, checking the quality, age, height, body weight, breast size, hips, stretch marks, looking for a specific look of what the market is craving.
No words are exchanged. Everything is a hand gesture or a push or pull in a direction they want. 25 naked white females stand in -2 degree weather, waiting to be selected. To be chosen. Not knowing if they go back in the shipping container or a warm bath.
The bellowing of the women is unsettling, hard to decide when the bitch is crying, her face all pulled up and frowning like old fruit. 6 are chosen, they young, the eldest look no more than 21.
A large white van pulls up and the double doors open politely as though their salvation, once again the gestures and grunts, a set of instructions of push and pull no words.
The women separating sends them into an emotional craze, as though mothers, daughters and sister being separated. Screams and tears fill the empty dock yard followed by loud automatic gun fire.
Naked bodies running in every direction, not to safety but rather to each other. Landing heavily in each other’s arms, wide eyes glaring filled with tears and life leaving them, words being mumbled, goodbyes being said. Exchange of apologies. The sound of men running towards them, the meeting of a starry sky as her head falls back the blood colours the floor in passionate red.
thank you very much, grately appreciated
Iesu Grist, melvyn, and I thought I did the dark side! Powerful moving narrative "art must scream for those who cannot" - grafitti at Tuol Sleng. This prose screams!
sounds like a script ready for sale, smb buy it