I Never Even Wanted to Come Here...

Author\'s Note: I don\'t by any means condone what goes on here... actually this is based on a BAD DREAM i had last night and thought I could turn into a story. It\'s FICTIONAL, nothing represented here is in any way supposed to be real, if it did happen in real life it would he horrible and unforgivable, not to mention illegal and against the Geneva Conventions. This is fiction, just that, nothing more. I also don\'t harbor any ill-feelings for Uzbekistan or its people, it was just the place that was in my dream, no other reasons for choosing it. So don\'t get offended, I\'m just a poor, starving student... totally harmless, I swear. *meow*


Chapter 1 - \"A Day Trip to the Market.\"


My parents travel a lot. They\'re \"Doctors Without Borders,\" which means we go all over the world but not exactly to the famous vacation spots. I\'ve always had my share of adventures, for which most of my friends envy me, but I can tell you that no one will envy my trip to Tashkent, Uzbekistan. I\'m writing this from inside the place I now work, a brothel for the officials and wealthy men of the city. I may never get out, but maybe this notebook will. I\'ll tell my story in first person, so don\'t worry, you know I survive at least till this point, no matter how bad it gets. I don\'t even know how much time has passed anymore, but to give you an idea I\'ll say this was all about a month ago... though in reality it feels like these people and memories are years, decades away from me.

I never wanted to come here in the first place. I prefer to go places where I speak the language, I enjoyed Northern China and some parts of Southeast Asia. But Central Asia is different for me, for some reason here my red hair and green eyes and freckled skin seems to stand out even more than it did in Asia. I know that doesn\'t make sense, but something about the way people looked at me here made me feel much more uneasy than I ever had in Laos or Burma.

I was glad that there were other Westerners along on this trip. There were actually quite a few young people, a couple of Australian boys and one other girl, from France I think. I felt much safer in the company of the hardy Australian kids, one was 20 and the other 22, I was 19 but only half their size it felt like. After we\'d been in Tashkent for a week, waiting for our transport to carry us out into the more remote areas for our parents to do their work and (hopefully) go home soon, we were all feeling much more comfortable with our surroundings and were even beginning to enjoy the city. One early afternoon in mid-week we all decided to take a walk through the open market in the center of town, it was a wonderful way to take in the sights and sounds and smells of the city all in one location. It was usually packed with people of all stripes at this hour, and we all felt we could use the fresh air and excitement after being cooped up with our parents for a week.

So we set out on that fateful day to see the people milling around the market, and maybe pick up something novel to take home to our jealous, home-bound friends... most of whom couldn\'t even place Uzbekistan on a map, let alone name its capital. At any rate the four of us packed our little backpacks and the French girl (who was a few years older than me and rather reserved) and I covered ourselves sufficiently so as not to cause any uproar when we showed ourselves in public. It wasn\'t necessarily standard practice but I always tried to be respectful of the culture around me - aside from being what I considered common decency it greatly reduced the chances of any trouble.

It was, however, hotter than hell on a bad day outside, so I didn\'t wear that much. Just a thin cotton 3/4 length sleeve shirt, a long cotton skirt to my ankles, sandles, and a small green scarf half-heartedly covering my head. Much less imposing than the full-covering black abayas I\'d seen women wearing elsewhere. Maybe that was my first mistake... should I have suffered the heat rather than risk it? Well, it\'s too late for that now.

We stepped out into the brutal sunshine and made the 20 minute walk from our ragtag hostel over to the center square of town where the market had sprawled, a sea of colorful tents and milling people in cloth of all colors, accross several acres of city landscape. I felt a rush of excitement, there was so much life here - I could hear shouting, laughing, music; I could smell all sorts of street food and the spices in the market barrels; I could taste it all on the hot wind that drifted towards me, speaking the same strange and mysterious language I heard all around. This isn\'t so bad, I thought, as the Aussie boys teased eachother and us, and laughed it up. I remember hoping they wouldn\'t get us into trouble, they seemed like the sort who might shoot off their mouths at the wrong time. I was way too timid for that... I still missed the comforts of home too much to take any risks. Who knew it would be me who started the trouble?

We were walking through the open market area, our eyes unable to take in all of the different sites and our ears full off the strange sounds. We were all a little distracted and off-guard by the huge amount of new experiences around us. Another mistake, I see now. There was one booth that had beautiful little handcrafted gold espresso cups and plates and spoons, just beautiful things for not very much money, so I stopped for a look. I guess the boys and Sophie hadn\'t noticed me stopping, because I glanced over my shoulder and couldn\'t see them in the crowd of people milling about. As my head was turned I felt someone rush past me, almost knocking me over, and I panicked when I heard the woman who owned the booth yelling a word which I knew meant \"THIEF! THIEF! THIEF!\" I was terrified when the commotion started, people jostling and trying to get out of the way, I had seen the person running, I thought, maybe I could help catch them. I was so naive, and I stayed put where I was because I knew the woman had seen me looking and not running. After a few moments of general chaos I heard men shouting, and the crowd parted with an efficiency I hadn\'t thought possible. It was, of course, fear of the military police that drove them to move aside. Stupid me, the lone American, waiting by the booth to assist in their investigation. Everyone was staring at me. I could still see the person running down the long straight market road, and I quickly pointed that way so the police would know where to go. It didn\'t even register that they weren\'t following him, that they\'d stopped in front of me and were speaking to eachother quickly in their language which I was only beginning to grasp. I saw everyone at the market turn around, returning conspicuously to their business and ignoring the scene unfolding around me. Even the saleswoman, who I know had seen the thief, turned to another customer and completely avoided the situation.

One of the soldiers walked up to me and grabbed my arm, speaking calmly but firmly though I think he must have known I didn\'t understand. I tried to pull away, insisting in English that the thief had run away and I could identify them. But the officer was pulling on my arm now. I said \"no\" and pulled more firmly but he grabbed my arm so hard I had bruises there, and almost pulled me to the ground. \"I\'m an American!\" I protested, it sounded so weak but it was the only thing I could think of. \"Here, I have cash, American money, it\'s good, as much as you want, I don\'t care.\" Often that worked, there was usually a fine to pay, directly to the police officer, for whatever imaginary offence had been committed. I was an old hand at this, this still wasn\'t worse than anything I\'d experienced elsewhere. Travelling can be dangerous, I knew that.

I realized my words weren\'t working. Panicked, looking around for my friends - where the hell where they?! - I screamed and pushed the soldier who was manhandling me square in the chest and caught him off guard. He let go of me and I turned to run, but I hadn\'t made it four steps when I felt a hand on my back, I fell, and then a sharp pain in the back of my head and everything went black. The last thing I was thinking was whether the other kids had been arrested too.


When I woke up, aside from having a terrible headache and blurry vision, I could see that I was in what looked like a police station or military headquarters. They\'re really the same thing here, anyway. I took stock quickly of my state of dress and physical well-being before examining my surroundings. I felt my hair around my neck and realized that my headscarf must have come off during the struggle, maybe it was still lying on the street in the market, a clue for my friends if they were looking for me. Otherwise I was still wearing the same things as before, shirt and bra in place, skirt and underwear still there, sandals missing, probably taken and sold. I hadn\'t been wearing any jewelry so no luck for my captors there. I tried to move and realized my hands were tied behind my back but my ankles were free; I was lying on a hard metal prison cot behind bars in a cell which must have been a holding cell of some sort, as I could see the comings and goings of the police station from my cell. It also meant everyone could see me...

I coughed a little and made a noise, subconsciously just to see if I could form a sentence or say my name after being hit on the head so hard, and I regretted it instantly as I saw two of the guards look in my direction and begin a heated discussion.


---
Note: Chapter 2 coming later today! I\'m putting off studying for an exam so you can count on me :) I promise, NC-17 rating in the next chapter, thanks for your patience, feedback always appreciated this is my first story EVER! :)