She was still in her raccoon sweater, hair in a neat ponytail and her favorite jeans the night she got taken.

  It was dusk, and the moon beamed from cracks of the train station. Olive walked slowly, her fingers in her belt loops, a thing Olive loved to do. Her chestnut hair swished with each precarious step she took.

   The sound of boots came behind her. It sounded as if the person was walking on their tip toes,  attempting to not be heard. Then, the steps grew louder, and faster.

     Olive began a brisk walk. A rat scurried across the concrete, stopping her in her tracks. The steps were close, too close. She tried to step forward when a cloth laid across her face and everything was a haze.

    There was pressure on her chest, as if someone was dragging her right below her under-wire. The person's leather gloves felt cold on her arm.

    She attempted to scream, but her throat couldn't make a sound. She wriggled in her captors' arms, the grip getting tighter.

    She felt the cool air as she was dragged into the car. Her body limp, it was easy for Olive to be thrown into the car that reeked of cigarettes and alcohol.

    Soon enough her eyes opened, and she was engulfed in darkness.

   Olive's ears rung, and her body ached. Scratches were all along her right cheek. Her hand was raw, and stung with the lightest touch.

     Her throat dry, she was able to whisper: "Where are you taking me?" Although she knew her captor couldn't hear her.

    Olive searched for her phone, but it was gone. She sank into the trunk, the smell of cigarettes and vodka strong. Her hands skimmed along the trunk door, deep scratches embedded into it.

     The car pulled into what seemed like a gravel drive way. The man drug her out of the car. She could see the moon glisten.  They walked up to an abandoned warehouse. Olive grew uneasy. The man opened the steel door to reveal many rooms.

    Olive heard women's screams, and some were able to be seen from a hole in their door.

      Finally, at the end of the hall there was a wooden door. Her adrenaline began to run, and her heart was palpitating.

       Her captors grip was always firm, the kind her mother used to use when they were walking in the park, or anywhere really.

    The room was dimly lit and smelled of mildew. Her captor walked across the hall into a room.

    A computer lit up the room, the reflection appearing on the concrete wall. The man came from a room with a camera. Olive body began to shudder.

   He forced her to pose on the bed for 3 photos: one sitting cross-legged, the other her sitting up in only her lingerie, and the last one an up close shot of her face.

    Olive was confused, and felt her eyes becoming groggy. She fell into a slumber and awoke the next morning.

     With a jolt of the door, Olive woke up frazzled.

       Her captor threw her a plate with a can of what looked like oatmeal and a cup of dirty water.

        Without thought, she guzzled the lukewarm water. It slipped down her dry throat into her empty stomach.

       The oatmeal was cold, and they tasted metallic, but Olive would take what she could get.

        After her meal, she laid on the bed, her bed for now. There were no covers, or sheets, just the stained mattress and one single pillow.

      Sometimes Olive would slide her index finger through a hole in the mattress just too feel the foam inside. It gave her a sense of comfort, a sense of relief.

    When she stepped off her bed to go to the restroom, next to her bed was a piece of paper that read: "Hi." A pencil rolled over her paper.

    Once she moved the paper, a hole was revealed. She decided to write back: "Who is this?" It didn't take long for the person to write back: " I'm Ophelia. I am another girl here. I still haven't gotten sold yet."

   Olive's body grew cold. Next door, Olive heard piercing screams, and a large thump. She scrambled to shove the paper and pen back into the hole.

   Once it was on the other side, the paper was snatched harshly. Olive jerked back.

     Her door slammed open, and the man grabbed her by the hair, and slapped her in the face. She could feel the tinge of the slap all across her face. Salty tears streamed down.

   The man slapped her again, this time, her face grew numb. He threw Olive back onto the concrete floor, her vision blurry and scattered.

  She laid there for the rest of the day, her head pounding harder and harder each time she tried to raise her head.

     All through the night she tossed and turned on the cold concrete floor, the screams echoing in her ears.

      The screams ceased, and Olive heard the humming of an object down the hall.

      Eyes swollen from tears, she closed her eyes softly and fell asleep.

      The next morning the man threw her a dress to put on. It was a beige dress with roses on it. Olive stared at the man with her piercing green eyes, but he wouldn't budge.

   As she uncomfortably slid off her pants in front of the man, her body trembled in fear. She laid the jeans on the bed, and quickly slipped off her shirt. The dress was tight, and it hugged her waist. She could feel the pressure on her ribs.

     The man ushered her forward. He escorted her out of the room.  " You sold pretty fast girl." The man said as he gripped tight on her wrist.

   Once again she had to lay in the trunk and wait in the vodka-smelling car, fearful of what was to come.