When the lights go out

Prologue

Hello, my name is Freya Myers. I'm currently in my senior year at MeadowCreek High School, and I have maintained a 4.00 GPA throughout my time there. I'm also involved in afterschool programs and events if I were chosen for the Georgia Fostering for the Youth scholarship I would further my education to get my degree in librarianship and business so that one day I’m able to open up my very own bookstore because growing up into the foster system since I was ten when I was taken from my mother due the fact that she could not provide a stable environment the only thing that ever kept me standing was books. They were my escape, my safe space — the one place no one could hurt me. One day, I hope I can be that safe space for another child. Somewhere they can breathe, dream, and feel seen.

Feeling the air leaving my lungs trying to grasp onto anything that will keep me grounded while my vision is becoming blurry my skin hot to the touch feeling myself cumming fast and hard but then beneath me, Nixon thrusts hard into me bringing me back to reality stopping my orgasm and making my back arch spreading my legs even more Open over him You need to pay attention he says if you want to keep that scholarship for college

keeping a steady pace pushing into me I feel a full fist of my hair getting pulled up with the most sinister smile on his face is Mason aww don’t forget about me he says taking my face pressing it against the tip of his cock suck it when I don’t proceed to move the smile begins to fade from his face before I could respond he takes his hand and pinches my nose which makes my mouth part open shoving his cock down my throat hitting the back of it. I didn’t even have time to adjust to the size before he started to fuck my face that’s my girl. He says

Who would have thought the most perfect family that was broadcasted to the world wasn’t so perfect after all?

Chapter 1

Freya

I grab what little I own. Which is not much but a bag filled with two pairs of jeans, leggings, underwear, a few pairs of Mitch Match socks, and my Kindle. I only have one pair of shoes, which are the ones that I’m wearing– the old faithful Converse. When you're used to bouncing from home to home, you kinda learn what’s important to keep because you can’t take everything.

I take one last look at this room, knowing I won't be returning here. Hopefully!— really hoping I know the feeling way too well of being wanted, but once you're no longer useful, they throw you away without taking a second thought about it. Still, I won't miss the squeaky floors when you walked on them thinking you were going to fall through and the windows that never could close straight, especially when it hits winter in Massachusetts when it gets below twenty-nine degrees outside to the point where you can’t feel any of your toes. The one thing that I really won’t miss is the rats that would crawl into the walls or the black mold in the bathrooms. Then again, I will always be grateful to Ms.Hellman for taking me into the orphanage and giving me a home, plus the most prehistoric twin bed I’ve ever seen. Still, it was better than sleeping on a pile of dirty clothes surrounded by people who hadn’t showered in days or always worrying about where your next meal would come from. I wipe my tears and head downstairs. As I make it to the bottom, Ms.Hellman says

“Freya, these gentlemen will be taking you to the airport.”

They looked like someone threw them up straight out of the 8 Mile movie — ripped jeans, Jordans, plain gray hoodies, low-cut fades, and cologne so strong it punched the air the moment they walked in. I’d never seen white men dress like that in real life. But then again, I haven’t seen much of anything.

I didn’t ask questions. Just nodded, slung my bag over my shoulder, and said my final goodbyes to the only place I’ve ever halfway called home.

Did I make good memories here? Bad ones? Both, I guess.

Like the time a group of girls cut my braids while I was sleeping — thought it was so funny. Or when some boys locked me in a room and told me to “go back where I came from,” like I was Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz. But you know what? I wouldn’t erase those moments, twisted as they were.

Because for one brief second, in those cruel jokes and pranks, I felt like I belonged. Even if it was just as the punchline.

..…

We were making our way to the airport— about a three-hour drive away. I'd never been this far out before. If we are being honest, the only way I saw myself leaving this place was either when I turned a legal adult or, you know, playing with the angels.

The car they picked me up in looked expensive, the kind rich people buy just to look at.— A black Cadillac Escalade with all the windows tinted dark enough to erase you from view. You couldn’t see in, but you could see out. The inside was unreal: white leather seats with oak-brown trimming, and a dashboard big enough to be a tablet. It was the kind of car where you don’t eat, breathe too loud, or even think about putting your feet up.

Feeling like if I moved the wrong way somehow I would ruin the seats sitting stiff as a board. A girl like me could work until I’m skin and bones and still will never be able to afford something like this even if I sold a kidney and added in a tittie for research purposes.

The men were quiet. Too quiet. Late twenties, maybe early thirties. Military vibes. I don’t think they were dangerous… but you never really know. I might not have watched much TV, but I know who Ted Bundy was. It’s always the good-looking ones. The ones who smile easily, drive nice cars, and speak soft — monsters wearing people's skin.But if this was that kind of situation? I wasn’t going down easy. That’s for damn sure.

My eyelids got heavy before I could talk myself into staying alert. The hum of the tires, the warmth of the seat, the silence. It swallowed me whole.

I was about ten when they took me from my mother — if that’s what you want to call her. I prefer “womb carrier.” It’s the kindest word I’ve got for her. When you sell your kid to a drug dealer for one last hit, you officially hand over your Mother of the Year trophy. I still remember the feel of his hands — slow, deliberate, sliding down my back like he was unwrapping a gift. I remember praying. Not just to God. To anyone. To anything.

He leaned over me, heavy and grinning, reeking of booze and stale cigar smoke, brushing the braids from my face like I was a doll he didn’t have to ask permission to play with.“You know that whore of a mother has a debt to pay,” he whispered. I could barely breathe. The smell alone was enough to make me pass out.

I haven’t had a dream like that in years.

The kind that drags you under like a rip current, with memories so sharp they tear at the edges of your sleep.

As soon as I stepped out of the car the cold wind slapped me across the face. My cheeks went numb almost instantly, turning that flushed, pink that I always hated. But what made me pause wasn’t the cold — it was the scene in front of me.

Lined up on both sides of the walkway were men in black suits, all wearing matching sunglasses, standing completely still like they were auditioning to be Secret Service agents.

I blinked twice to make sure I wasn’t seeing things. “Who in the hell adopted me?” I mumbled.

One of the men cracked a smile but said nothing.

We were met by a sharply dressed pilot — crisp uniform, clean-shaven, no-nonsense. He informed us we’d be departing at ten-thirty. I had no idea what time it was. I’d never owned a phone. Not even one of those brick ones people use as a joke now.

The plane itself was sleek and gleaming white, like something out of a movie. Inside, it was even more surreal — chocolate-brown leather seats with gold trimmings, warm lighting, and the kind of quiet that makes you feel like you don’t belong.

The pilot’s voice came over the speaker. “We’ll be departing shortly from Boston Executive Air. Destination: Georgia.”

Georgia.

It didn’t sound real. It sounded like a word someone else’s life had.

I sat in one of the oversized seats, trying to disappear into it, while the two men buckled themselves across from me. Everything smelled expensive — leather, citrus polish, and something faintly floral. Not a hint of the musty air or cracked vinyl I was used to.

As we lifted off, the force of the sky pressing against the plane made my stomach drop. But I didn’t flinch. I’d had worse drops in life. At least this one had a seatbelt.