Page 131 of Out for Blood
Instead, they walked unknowingly into a cage.
“They don’t kill them.”
The look Tyler gives me makes my stomach drop. For the smallest sliver of time, I find myself thinking death would be better, and guilt hits me like a punch the instant the thought takes root.
“They transform them.”
I gape at him in incredulity, certain I misunderstood, needing to hear every detail, no matter how vile.
“What?”
His eyes lift to mine, about to reveal another layer of the horror that will brand into my memory forever.
“The doctor morphs them into what they call marionette dolls.”
Hearing what their fate is leaves me staring at the screen stunned. I can’t stop wondering how humanity became this monstrous. At what point did people stop seeing human beings and start seeing commodities? Somewhere along the way, empathy was traded for profit, and now women are being bought,sold, and discarded as if their lives mean nothing. The thought leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.
Tyler opens another recovered file.
The sickness inside me enhances with every image.
They’ve been altered so significantly they no longer look human. Extreme body modifications including petite frames, over enlarged breasts with the perfect waists. Their skin looks porcelain, oversized eyes framed by impossibly long lashes, glossed plump lips, dental work, synthetic hair. Everything about them has been engineered to resemble living dolls, beautiful, delicate and disturbingly artificial.
They mold them according to their specific market of buyers.
These women are being treated as commodities not human beings.
“They spend weeks reconstructing them.”
My voice comes out tremulous.
“For what?”
Tyler clicks another file open.
A photograph occupies the whole screen.
I stop breathing.
It’s an old theater, elegant despite its age, with rich red velvet curtains framing the stage that looks like it belongs in a different century, gilded balconies rising in tiers above the seats, and massive crystal chandeliers that sparkle.
Dangling below the stage lights are women.
My pulse lurches into overdrive.
They are dressed like ballerinas, adorned with elaborate ballet costumes, white satin slippers, flawless makeup, fixed smiles with their backs held unnaturally straight.
All of them are breathtaking but the beauty is manufactured and their eyes are lifeless.
“What am I looking at?” I ask Tyler.
“A previous auction.”
I fixate on the image, analyzing the details.
The women aren’t dancing freely; they are suspended by rope-like cables that recede into the rafters above them.
Harnesses are concealed by their costumes.
