Bargained

“Make me a good offer, and she’s yours.”

The words shredded what little was left of the child Korra had once been, the child who had once thought love might save her.

Korra crouched in the corner of the small room, her arms locked tightly around her knees, shaking so hard her teeth rattled. Her heart pounded in her ears, drowning out the drunken laughter on the other side of the wall. The smell of smoke and sour liquor seeped under the door, clinging to her skin, choking her.

Her father wasn’t just starving her anymore. He wasn’t just hitting her; he was selling her.

And Korra… Korra was too weak to run.

**************

Her mind drifted back to the day she had lost her mother, the day her life had split into before and after. For years, she had buried it, refusing to return to the moment when everything changed, but it rose now like a ghost she could not banish.

She had been eight. The house had been poor and crumbling, but it had her mother in it, and that had made all the difference. That morning, her mother had braided her hair, her fingers gentle against her scalp, humming the lullaby she always sang to soothe her to sleep.

“The moon will guard you,” she had whispered as she tied the last strand into place. “Always, no matter how dark it gets.”

There had been no cake, no candles, nothing a child should hope for. But Mama had hummed softly as she set down a chipped plate with two pieces of bread she had saved, one for herself, one for Korra. She had kissed her daughter’s forehead, her lips cool and trembling, and whispered, “Happy birthday, my little star.”

Korra had thought she was just tired. Her mother’s face had been pale, her eyes shadowed, but she had still sung the lullaby, her voice barely above a whisper:

“Hush, little one, the night is kind,

Close your eyes, leave fear behind.

Close your eyes, my fearless star,

Your heart is stronger than the dark afar.”

But that night she hadn’t finished the song. Halfway through, her breath caught, and she pressed a hand to her chest. Korra remembered dropping her crust of bread, crumbs scattering across the floor, and reaching for her.

“Mama?” her small voice had cracked with fear.

Her mother had smiled through the pain, brushing her hand across Korra’s cheek. “Be brave, Korra.” Those had been the last words she ever spoke before collapsing on the dirt floor.

By morning, she was gone.

Korra hadn’t truly understood death then, only that her mother wasn’t waking up, no matter how hard she shook her. Her father had returned later, stinking of drink, and when he had found her curled beside the body, he hadn’t cried. He hadn’t grieved. He had looked at her with bloodshot eyes and spat, “This is your fault, you drained her dry, cursed brat. You killed her.”

A part of Korra had died that night, too. The part that believed she was worth loving.

*************

Korra hated remembering, but lately the memories came whether she wanted them or not. She shook her head gently, as if she could scatter them away, but then the cruel laughter from the next room rose louder, followed by someone’s proud talk.

“She’s unmarked,” one of the men said, his tone greedy. “She will surely fetch a high price.”

Her father grunted in approval. “My debts are heavy; I will trade her. She is of no use to me otherwise.”

“I will clear the debt, Garret,” one man slurred, “but the girl had better be worth it.”

“She’s young,” her father replied, his words sharp even through the haze of ale. “Untouched, that’s worth more than coin.”

Korra clapped a trembling hand over her mouth to stifle the cry clawing its way up her throat. They were talking about her as if she weren’t human, as if she weren’t flesh and blood but something to be weighed and sold.

“She’s my blood,” her father added, then let out a bitter laugh. “But don’t mistake that for care. She’s been a curse since the day she was born. A reminder of the woman who left me.”

Left him? Her chest twisted. Mama hadn’t left; she had died. Korra wanted to scream the truth, to tear open the door and shove it in his face, but what good would it do? He wouldn’t hear her; he never had.

“Name your price,” another voice urged.

There was a scrape of chairs, the clinking of coins. Korra’s heart thudded painfully against her ribs.

He was doing it. He was really doing it.

The room spun, and she pressed herself against the wall, hugging her knees tight, rocking the way she had when she was little, when Mama would hum her to sleep. She tried to recall her mother’s voice, soft and sweet, but the memory was fading, drowned out by the harsh laughter outside.

“Hush, little one, the night is kind…” she whispered, her voice cracking.

Tears spilled hot down her cheeks, blurring her vision until the room became a smear of shadow and dust. He had already taken so much: her food, her childhood, her hope. And now, he wanted to take what little she had left, her freedom, her dignity, and the last shred of herself she still owned.

Her stomach growled, empty and hollow, but hunger no longer scared her. This was worse; this was the kind of pain that consumed from the inside until there was nothing left but ash.

She wanted to run. Every instinct screamed at her to get up, to push open the window and vanish into the night. But fear anchored her. What if she were caught? What if the world outside was worse than what waited in here?

Her father’s voice rose again, clearer this time. “By tomorrow, she is yours. Just clear what I owe, and take her.”

The room tilted, and a wave of nausea hit her. By tomorrow, she would no longer belong to herself. Her fate would be sealed.

For years, Korra had been silent, swallowing every insult, every blow, every theft of her soul. But tonight, something inside her shifted.

If tomorrow was to be her end, then tonight had to be her beginning.

She pressed her hand to the floor, steadying herself, and whispered into the darkness, “I won’t let you sell me. I won’t let you use and destroy me.”

For the first time, she allowed herself to imagine escape, not just surviving another day, but leaving. Leaving him, leaving this place, leaving behind the curse he had chained her to since the day she was born.

The laughter from the other room grew louder, rough and vile, but she clung to her mother’s lullaby, finishing the verse in a voice steadier than she felt:

“Hush, little one, the night is kind,

Close your eyes, leave fear behind.”

Only this time, she wasn’t closing her eyes; she was opening them.

And as the night stretched before her, dark and endless, she knew one thing with a clarity that cut through the fog of fear:

If she didn’t escape, if she didn’t fight back, then tomorrow she would be gone.