The dim glow of the television flickered weakly across the damp, dark living room. The stench of cheap alcohol bottles scattered on the floor was strong enough to sting anyone's nose.In the corner, the muffled sobs of a young girl filled the silence—her fragile breaths trembling in fear.
On the torn single-seat sofa lay a man everyone called father, his hand still gripping a half-empty bottle. He was fast asleep, snoring loudly, his chest rising and falling in drunken peace.
Her name was Elena. She had just turned fifteen.Instead of spending her days laughing with friends, she sat alone at home, crying quietly while clutching her bruised thigh—the mark of a belt still fresh on her pale skin. The punishment came because she was "too slow" to buy cigarettes. Something no child her age should have ever been asked to do.
This wasn't new to her.Beatings, thrown objects, verbal abuse—they had become part of her life. Sometimes she was hit just for playing, not washing the dishes, or hesitating to follow an order.
Elena sobbed quietly, holding her breath so her father wouldn't wake.Once, she accidentally broke a glass while washing dishes and woke him up. Instead of asking if she was hurt, he had thrown an ashtray at her head. The swelling was so bad she had to wear a hat to school to hide it.
She had thought about running away—or ending it all—more times than she could count.But she didn't know where she could go, or who would take her in. The last time she tried escaping, she stayed with one of her teachers for three days before her father found her and dragged her back home. When her teacher's husband tried to intervene, her father attacked him—almost stabbing him—if not for the neighbors who broke it up.
Since then, Elena had been too afraid to run again. Not for her own safety, but for the people who tried to protect her.
Outside, faint voices broke through the silence—a man and woman, soft and playful:
"You're heading home early tonight. That's unusual.""Yeah, Sam, Elena's sick. I should check on her. Sorry, maybe next time?""Alright then.""Thanks, I'll head in now.""Why so fast? Should I come in too?""No, please, not now. Maybe later, okay?""Haah, fine, fine. I'll call you later then.""Okay, take care on the way home.""You too. Don't forget next week.""I won't."
Moments later, the front door creaked open.Cynthia, the woman Elena called mother, stepped inside. The scent of cheap perfume filled the room. As always, there was no smile on her face—the warmth she had outside vanished the moment she crossed the threshold.
Thud.
Her handbag hit the floor, the sound loud enough to wake her husband. Still half asleep, he blinked a few times before standing and walking toward her.
"How much did you get today?""Two hundred thousand.""That little? Guess Sam isn't that into you anymore."
He mentioned the name of the man who had dropped his wife off earlier.
"He said his company's not paying bonuses lately. Times are rough," Cynthia replied flatly."Huh. Guess even rich folks have their bad days," her husband chuckled, sitting beside her.
Cynthia said nothing.She couldn't tell him what she really thought—that Sam was at least a man who worked for his living, unlike her husband, who lived off the money she earned by selling her own body.
Sometimes, she imagined running away, leaving everything behind, maybe going with Sam.But she knew he only wanted her for lust, nothing more.
Soon, Elena came out of the kitchen, holding a small pot with steam rising from it. She set it on the floor in front of them and carefully arranged the dishes—rice, spoons, and a few noodles she had cooked. A poor excuse for dinner, but it wasn't their first like this.
By four in the afternoon, when the neighborhood workers had just returned from the market, Elena's father sat lazily under the guava tree nearby. He smoked cheap cigarettes and scrolled through an old Android phone, watching YouTube and Facebook using his neighbor's stolen Wi-Fi.
"Damn it, it's been thirty minutes!" he cursed, stomping back toward the house.
Bang! Bang! Bang!Three loud knocks nearly broke the worn-out door.
A man with a thick mustache and messy beard stepped out, smiling wide despite his shabby appearance.
"Five minutes over, but the pay's still the same, right?" he said cheerfully."Yeah, whatever. Get lost," Elena's father grumbled."Hehe, sure thing, boss," the man laughed, handing him two crumpled bills before leaving.
Inside, Cynthia sat on a thin mattress, adjusting her bra. The corner of her lip was blue.Her husband sat beside her, counting the money.
"A hundred and fifty thousand, huh?" she said dully."Yeah. That's what we agreed on, right?"He paused, his eyes narrowing."Did you… make a different deal with him?""No," she replied quietly."Alright then."
He stood and walked to the bathroom, leaving her in silence. Cynthia stared blankly at the dirty sheets and the yellow-stained pillow. The air was thick, foul—filled with memories she wished she could erase.She no longer knew whether to feel sad or numb. The gossip, the shame, the names they called her—"a whore," "a bad mother," "a wife of a useless man"—it all blurred together into a dull ache.
Some even whispered that Elena wasn't really Andre's child.The cruel words often reached Elena's ears—questions about who her father really was, insults thrown carelessly by neighbors or strangers. Whenever she cried and told her mother, Cynthia had no comfort left to give. Her heart had turned to stone long ago.
Letting Andre take the money from men who used her body was the only way Cynthia could survive.She didn't even cry anymore.The sight of those men smiling after they were done, tossing money in her face like a tip—it no longer made her feel human.