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bathroom. The house is nice and clean, and I can see the sunlight through the windows, even though I can never feel it on my face.
    I think of the stories Sasha and the other girls have told me, and I fear what my new prison will be like.
    I have a feeling it will be worse. Much worse.

Day 45
     
     
    When Stefan used to tell me I was beautiful, it always lit me up inside. He did it a lot. I would catch him watching me with a proud smile on his face at odd moments in the day. Every night in each other’s arms, before we drifted off to sleep, he would tell me I was the most gorgeous girl in the world.
    When Paul looked at me and said I was beautiful it made me cringe. He is not saying it to a lover or a wife. He is looking at me like an object. Something that will make him money.
    I tried to engage my new owner in conversation on our drive from Italy to England, pretending to be friendly and chatty, but he would tell me to shut up. In the deafening silence I could hear my life ticking away.
    I only know three things about my new circumstances: 1) I now have a false British passport – I saw it as he handed it to the guards at each border; 2) He will kill Liliana if I do not do as he says; 3) He is no better than the Rapist.
    It has taken three days to arrive in England. As we sped through villages and towns, I wondered how many other women like me were out there. The more miles we drove, the more a heavy pressure settled in my chest, as if squeezing the life out of me.
    He has already asserted his authority over me with rough sex and threats during the two nights we stayed in small motels on the journey. But I want him to trust me, so I pretend I am enthusiastic, even though I want to batter him until his brains explode. I have become a learned student in acting, and I will use this skill well.
    My new cell is in an apartment that is a massage parlour somewhere in London. This is not the picture I had in my head of the city when my father told me it was a great place to start a new life. It is in a shabby and busy street, and I think the men will be worse here than before. A big, rusting sign hangs outside, advertising P’s Massage Parlour for all the world to see. Every single person who walks or drives past this place can see it, yet no one does anything. They are trafficking girls under everyone’s noses, but we are invisible.
    My room has shaggy pink carpet and pink wallpaper with frayed edges. It stinks from years of neglect and proper cleaning. The double bed is sagging and worn and it squeaks with the slightest movement. There are no bars on the window, but I am four storeys up and would probably kill myself if I jumped. Maybe that would be a good thing.
    I have no bathroom in my cell. There is a shared bathroom that the girls must use, with mould around the edges and leaking taps that have left greenish-brown stains on the white surface. There is a cracked mirror on the wall and my reflection sums me up perfectly.
    Broken.

Day 49
     
     
    I studied myself in the mirror and realized I have lost more weight. My hips bones and ribs stick out more, my eyes are sunken in my skull, and my stomach is concave. They give us food in small amounts, and if we want more we have to ask for it. I never ask. I do not want to eat, and I do not want to give them the satisfaction.
    None of the girls here talk about themselves like Sasha did. We are all nervous in case anything we say gets back to our captors. There could be one who is willing to pass on anything we say for the promise of better treatment.
    The days and nights are all the same again. The men come – drunk, dirty, smelly. Sometimes they are violent and they are thrown out, but nothing bad happens to them. They are filthy pigs, but I am the perfect whore.
    Paul is pleased with me. He said if I am good, I can visit the rich men he provides girls for. Anything is better than the men here.
    Liliana fills every waking thought, and she is with me permanently in my dreams.