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Rubbing my eyes, I pad from the little room I now call my own and stand blinking in the sunlight. I am sore between my legs, achier than I can ever recall. Pete smiles at me from the kitchen table, then pats the chair beside him. Gingerly I sit on the pro-offered chair. For a moment I stare at the bowl of porridge. Pete laughs as I suppress a yawn. “Why do I hurt so much?” I ask him. Reaching down, I rub at my pelvis. “You don’t remember?” Pete seems genuinely curious as he leans across the table. I wince at the sore muscles in my abdomen. Raising my sleep shirt, I stare at the fresh four-inch scar across my belly. “I…” I blink dazedly. “They took me away. I remember that. Something about… …

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Shivering, I hesitate at the back doorway. John is waving me in, stepping aside to give me leave to enter the little cabin. I ascend the two rickety steps and enter the lighted room. Four strange men are sitting around a table. There are cards laid out, and half-empty glasses of beer. Brian is standing by the bed and beckons me over. “I see what you mean,” the tallest man says. “She is quite a prize at that, but why not harvest her? Look at that ass, and those thighs! That’s a lot of prime meat standing there.” “You’ll see,” Brian says. At his gesture I lay on the bed. He shackles my ankles, then stands on a chair to run ropes through two rings on the ceiling. “The thing is, Gentlemen.” John reseats himself …

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I pillow my head on my arms, my pale breasts blocking my view of Pete as he spreads my legs. His hand glides in at once, no working to stretch me first. A year has passed and now I open inside at a man’s first touch—clit or nipple—it makes no difference. My hips are elevated on a pillow, my spread legs raised above my head, held widely apart by ropes attached to rings in the ceiling above. Pete is fisting me for the second time today, his two hands rotating slowly back and forth within my cunt. Frowning, I try to see between the two ripened melons on my chest. My breasts are swollen and heavy now, the delicate blue veins faintly seen beneath my skin. My nipples stand out hard and red from my …

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I am splashing over the rocks, my hands outstretched as I try to catch a fish. I have been on my own for two weeks, hiding during the day under clumps of ferns or blackberry bushes. My mother would not recognize me now with my tangled filthy hair and clothing torn to ribbons. I hiss as the river’s grainy water stings the cuts on my arms. With a lunge, I catch the fish, crouching to devour it as it squirms in my hands. Men’s voices rise behind me as heavy boots crash through the brush. I drop my fish and dash for the forest, zigzagging through the trees. The dog is howling as it catches my scent. Sprinting for a tree with low enough boughs, I grab for a branch, dragging myself up as my …

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There’s something in the bible I heard preached when I was very young, back when girls were still allowed to go to school. It described Eve as Adam’s “help-meet,” and went on to add that just as with the world with all its animals, women were put upon the Earth to benefit men. The reading came again a few weeks later after there had been rioting in the streets. The monotone voice again repeated that women were intended by God to be the perfect servants of men, a resource to be used and enjoyed—even harvested as sustenance to feed hungry bellies. “Let the woman return to her original purpose,” the speaker had said. “She is made for recreation, for procreation, and above all else—to nourish and sustain men.” I was twelve when I was taken …

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