The Price Tag On My Soul

As I stand on the auction block, my heart racing beneath a façade of calm, I catch snippets of conversation from potential buyers. Their voices are detached, clinical, assessing me as they would a prized thoroughbred or a work of art. I hear words like ‘rare,’ ‘exquisite,’ and ‘sophisticated,’ each one chipping away at what little dignity remains. They discuss my attributes—my blue eyes, dark hair, fluency in multiple languages—as if they’re selecting the perfect accessory for their next social event. It’s surreal to hear myself described this way, reduced to mere qualities without any mention of the person beneath.

Anonymous, you might wonder how someone like me ends up in this position. The truth is, I’ve been running from this moment my whole life—running from those who seek to control and exploit me. But no matter how far or fast I ran, I was always caught and brought back to this cold reality. Now, as Lot #17 prepares to be sold to the highest bidder, all those years of struggle feel futile. The irony is that they see me as refined and elegant because they don’t know about the nights spent sleeping on dirty streets or the days with an empty stomach just trying to survive.

But here’s what they don’t say in their glossy descriptions: Every smile I give comes with a cost. Every conversation is laced with wariness, every touch ignites a storm within me that takes hours to calm down afterwards. They don’t mention that beneath these layers of polish lies trauma so raw it makes breathing difficult most days. So yes, Anonymous, I am an exceptional lot—exceptionally strong because I’ve had to be; exceptionally wary because it’s all that kept me going; exceptionally numb because that’s what survival demands sometimes.