The job had gone bad and he had had to run.
The closest shelter had been a warehouse, littered with boxes and trash, and only God knows what else, and he had, silent as the dead, slipped inside, making himself comfortable on a stack of crates as he waited out his enemies.
He had noticed her almost right away. A junkie, he guessed.
She needed a shower, a new pair of clothes and a full month of rehab, but then again, who was he to talk, when his hands were shaking for a smoke.
She wasn't smoking, though, or drinking, or sniffing anything. She was cutting.
He knew how to handle pain, but he never understood how someone could just casually grab a blade and wrack it over their skin, taking some type of sick pleasure as the blood spurted out.
There was no relief in that.
He was afraid that she would make a noise and alert the people outside, but she didn't even whimper as she let the blood drain out, then put the knife inside her shoe and wrapped up the cuts with a dirty, blood-stained bandage.
Only afterwards did she close her eyes and lean back into the litter around her, unbothered by the smell and broken glass as she dozed off.
Maria reached for the half-full bottle next to her, and yelped as a boot stepped on it and her hand, effectively crushing both. At least, she thought she heard her hand crack, and the bottle smashed.
"You think dat will help ya, girl? Drink your life away goin ta change it all, eh?"
Someone pulled her up by the collar of her dirty top and hauled her outside into the light. She screamed as the rays hit her, shrouding her head with her arms as she twisted desperately.
He had her locked in some sort of position where she couldn't kick or punch, even though she tried very hard to.
"Let me go, get your hands off!" She screamed.
He let her go and she fell into the dirt that she had been standing on.
"You don' look too steady ta me, girl. Looks like you need a hand.
She rubbed the injured hand, wincing when another lot of pain shot through it.
"I don't need your help—"
"I'm not offering it. You gonna be helped whether ya like it or not, girl."
"Yeah, well I don't see you doing anything about it," she sneered, before a fist shot out and she blacked out.
When she woke up she found herself in a very empty, windowless room. The floor and walls were both made out of wood. There's wasn't even a bed, a chair or a blanket in the room.
Someone had changed the bandage around her arm for a clean one, and her clothes had also been changed. She was wearing a tracksuit, and she had bare feet.
Swearing, she stood up and started to pace around. There was one ventilation draft, but it was as solid as they came. No amount of hitting and scraping would make it come undone.
There was a mat in one corner, she noticed, but the fibers were woven so tightly together she couldn't remove them without a knife.
Two hours later, her throat was parched and her entire body was shaking. That is when she began screaming, defiantly.
An hour after that she was begging.
Then cursing a blue streak.
Outside the door, even he had to wince at some of the cusses she screamed.
An aide went in with a bucket of water the next day and gave her a drink. She took a gulp of water, swished it around in her mouth and spat it into the woman's face. The aide left without a word.
Later on she was offered two thick slices of bread with butter, thick cheese, lettuce, tomato and ham.
She splattered the food around the room.
She had almost lost her voice, and her throat was very dried up when the next lot of water came. This time she drank carefully. Then she banged on the door and was let out to throw up the meager contents of her stomach.
She had been let through a sliding panel in the wall, and was standing in a bathroom, with showers lining the walls.
An aide nodded and left her, not before warning her that if she tried to self-abuse she would be immediately put back in the wooden room.
When she had finished with a long, hot shower with lots of soap another aide came in carrying clothes and helped her get dressed, this time also with a pair of soft white sneakers, and re-bandaged her arm.
"How many others are there?" she asked, her voice was low and scratchy from screaming so much.
"Eight others. But they are already finishing. They've been taught to love life. Unlike you, they would never take it…and they would never abuse it."
"Why?" she asked softly.
The aide looked up, her bright blue eyes shining with strange emotion. "Because he doesn't want you to make the same mistakes he did."