Zoya James' Reflection on Her Past
I often sit and think about the life I had before everything changed; it feels like a different lifetime. I was born into what many would describe as a complete family, one filled with laughter, love, and the kind of happiness you see in movies. My father was my hero, always the first to catch me when I fell and the one who lifted my spirits with stories and jokes. My mother was my anchor, nurturing and wise, teaching me about kindness and resilience.
But then, slowly, the cracks appeared. It started with little things—my father coming home tired, then irritable. I brushed it off, thinking he was just stressed from work. But soon, the stress turned into something darker. He began to drink more and more, and each time he picked up a bottle, he seemed to let go of everything that made him the man I adored. The laughter faded, replaced by silence that thickened the air around us.
As the months turned into years, the drinking escalated, transforming my father into someone I barely recognized. He became angry. The man who once played games with me now lashed out at my mother, turning our home into a battlefield. I stood by helplessly, a fifteen-year-old caught in a tide of violence that I couldn't push back. I tried everything—begging him to stop, crying, pleading. I thought if I showed him enough love, he'd remember who he was beneath the alcohol. I was naive.
Then it happened—my mother had finally reached her breaking point. One night, after another brutal fight, she packed her bags and left. Just like that, she was gone, leaving me alone with a man I no longer knew. She told me she loved me, that she would always be there for me, but she couldn't stay in a place that had turned so toxic. I watched her go, my heart shattered. In that moment, I understood the depth of our family's fall from grace.
Now, at nineteen, I am still trapped in that downward spiral. My father's drinking has only worsened, pulling him deeper into a pit of hopelessness. Each time I see him in a drunken haze, I'm filled with despair—debt collectors knocking at our door, drug lords demanding more than just money. I've become the caretaker of a man who needs saving, a role I never asked for but had no choice in.
His debts have become my nightmare, leading to threats that hang over us like a storm cloud. I feel the weight of his choices strangling any hope I might have for my future. Each day I wake up, I wonder if today will be the day I can finally escape. My dreams of going to school and building a life for myself fade more and more.
What once was a happy home has crumbled into chaos, and I am left to figure out how to survive in a world that seems determined to crush my spirit. I grapple with the haunting question: can I break free from these chains that bind me, or am I destined to be just another story of failure and loss? Only time will tell if I'll find the strength to reclaim my life.
-----
Zoya's Desperate Escape
The aroma of sautéed vegetables filled the cramped kitchen as I hurriedly prepared dinner. I didn't mind being in the kitchen; it was a small comfort amidst the chaos that soaked my life. I was bubbling with excitement, practically dancing around the tiny space as I chopped onions and stirred the pot, feeling hopeful for the first time in what felt like forever. News of my new part-time job at the local café felt like a light at the end of a long, dark tunnel. I could help my father, help pay off his accumulating debts. Maybe, just maybe, this would lift some weight off our shoulders.
As I set the table, I daydreamed about sharing the news with him. I could see his face light up, even if just for a moment. I hoped he would realize that there was still goodness left in our lives, that maybe my small victory could spark a change in him. I heard the front door creak open, and my heart leapt at the idea of sharing my happiness.
But when he walked in, the moment of joy shattered like glass. My father staggered through the door, reeking of whiskey and misfortune, a familiar, unsettling sight. His gaze was clouded and unfocused, a cruel reminder of how far he had fallen.
Before I could even say hello, he muttered words that sent ice through my veins. "Zoya, I've made arrangements. I'm selling you to Tony." The name "Tony" hung in the air like a death sentence—it was the name of one of the drug lords my father owed money to. My breath hitched in my chest, and it felt as if the room was closing in on me.
I couldn't comprehend his words at first. "What do you mean? You can't—" I choked back tears as my voice trembled. "You can't do this, Dad! Please! I'll do anything! Just let me help you pay off your debts! I got a job, I—"
But he turned away, dismissing me like I was a nuisance rather than his own daughter. "Money is all that matters. You're worth a lot more to me this way, Zoya." I felt like I was standing at the edge of an abyss, teetering over the brink. It was as if all the hope I had clung to turned to ash in my mouth.
I begged and pleaded. Tears streamed down my face, soaking my cheeks as I begged him not to give me away, that we could figure something out together. With each word, my despair deepened, and I watched as my father's expression remained unyielding, hardened by years of desperation and addiction. He was lost beyond reach.
In that moment, a decision formed in the depths of my fear. I had to escape.
As he turned his back to me, I dashed for the door, seizing my coat and stuffing my phone into my pocket. The night was cold, but I barely felt it as I streaked out into the dark streets of New York. The city around me was a blur, a mix of dim lights and shadows. I didn't know where I was going or what I was looking for—only that I needed to get as far away from my father and his sickening plans as humanly possible.
I wandered aimlessly, the streets eerily quiet in the midnight hour. My thoughts raced, my heart pounding like a drum against my ribcage. I could hardly process the horror of what I had just learned, and even now, I felt the sting of tears blurring my vision.
Just when I thought I would drown in the silence, I stumbled upon a bar decorated with neon lights—a stark contrast to the darkness encroaching on my mind. The name "Smith & Co." caught my eye, and I knew the reputation that preceded it. Jerald Smith—the kingpin of New York's underground world. I had heard whispers about him, how he ruled his empire with an iron fist, and the aura that surrounded him was both thrilling and terrifying.
With nowhere else to turn, and desperation guiding my instincts, I stepped inside, feeling the weight of the world pressing down on my shoulders. The noise enveloped me, a cacophony of laughter and conversation that felt almost foreign after the lonely silence of my home. I hesitated at the entrance, the warmth of the bar contrasting sharply with the chill I felt inside. My heart raced as I scanned the bustling room, searching for an escape, a glimmer of hope.
And then I saw him. Jerald Smith, seated at a table with an air of authority and confidence that drew the attention of everyone around him. He was surrounded by men who appeared almost as intimidating as he was, their eyes scanning the room with predatory intent. But it was the way Jerald commanded the space—his relaxed posture, a slight smirk on his lips—that caught my attention. There was a danger about him that was both frightening and captivating.
As I stood there, torn between wanting to run away and the craziness of what I was contemplating, I felt a surge of determination. What other choice did I have? My father had put me in a position where I had to fight for my life. I wiped my tears away and took a deep breath, trying to steady myself as I approached his table.
"Excuse me," I said, my voice barely louder than a whisper, but I knew I had to speak up. The men at the table looked at me with curiosity; Jerald turned his gaze toward me, his expression unreadable.
His eyes locked onto mine, and for a moment, I felt vulnerable—like a lamb in front of a wolf. "What do you want, girl?" he asked, his tone low but commanding, making it clear that he didn't have time for nonsense.
"I need your help," I said, my voice steadying as I fought the urge to tremble. "My father… he's trying to sell me to a drug lord. I don't know what to do."
A flicker of surprise crossed Jerald's face, but he quickly masked it with a smirk that sent chills down my spine. "And why should I care?"
"I don't know," I replied, feeling out of my depth. "I just… I don't have anywhere else to turn. He's a drunk, and I'm terrified. I can't let him do this to me. I could work for you, whatever it takes, just please don't let him sell me."
The laughter from the surrounding table faded, replaced by a heavy silence as my words hung in the air. Jerald's eyes narrowed as he studied me, weighing my desperation against whatever unspoken rules governed his world.
Finally, he leaned back in his chair, deliberating. "You're bold," he remarked. "I'll give you that. But it takes more than desperation to survive in my world. Are you ready for what comes next?"
My mind raced, but deep down, I knew I had no option left. "I'll do whatever it takes," I vowed, my heart pounding with both dread and hope. "Just please, help me get away from him."
Jerald leaned forward, the smirk replaced by a more serious expression. "Alright, girl. You've got my attention. But if you step into my world, there's no turning back. Understand?"
I nodded, a mix of fear and determination coursing through me. This wasn't the fairy tale ending I had hoped for, but if it meant reclaiming my life, then I would face whatever darkness lay ahead. As I stood there, staring into the depths of Jerald Smith's eyes, I felt the weight of my father's betrayal beginning to lift, replaced by a new, fierce resolve. My fight for survival had begun, and I was ready to make a stand.