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ASH
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Walking down the street, I kept the brown paper bag that held the modest amount of groceries I'd bought tucked against my body with one hand as I neared my apartment complex. The slighly rundown buildings were just a few blocks away from the local supermarket, which worked in my favor considering how often I needed to restock on food.

Using my free hand, I reached into my jean pocket and pulled out my keychain, easily finding the key to my front door. Balancing the bag on my leg, I was about to put the key inside the lock when I noticed something.

The door was open.

I was never that careless.

Stepping back, I placed the bag on the ground and reached into my left combat boot, pulling out the pocket knife I carried with me everywhere. Flipping it open, I looked at my surroundings first, to make sure no one sketchy was watching, and then I peered through the crack to see inside.

Shit, it's too dark.

Unfortunately, I couldn't make out much, considering my curtains blocked out any natural light from illumunating the small place, so I took a deep breath and stepped inside.

Immediately, I felt my heart quiver when I saw the current state of my home. Growing up in a whorehouse, I was constantly subjected to dirt, chaos, and a whole lot of other shit not for the faint of heart. The house was always a mess, which was why I prided myself in mine not being that way. And yet, now, looking at my home, it felt like I was right back in that house, surrounded by sex debris and unconscious, abused women.

You're not there anymore. You got out.

Shaking my head, I closed my eyes for a split second to remove that image, or rather, memory from my mind before coming back to reality. Someone broke into my home and clearly went searching through every drawer, cabinet, and dresser I owned. They even went as far as to throw my sofa cushions off the couch and check under there, and that had me pissed off as well as anxious. I came from nothing and worked hard to have even the little that I did. For someone to have the gall to take it from me, well, they had better be ready for a fight.

Ignoring the sweat growing in the palm of my hand, I gripped the knife tighter and proceeded down the hall that led to the only other rooms in the small apartment. The bathroom, and my bedroom. After making sure no one was in the former, I took a deep breath, counted to three in my head, and rushed into the room, nearly falling when I saw who was in there.

"Jesus, Mom!" I shouted, running a stressed hand through my short brown hair as I paced over to her. "You fucking scared me! What are you doing here?!"

She was crouched on the floor, leaning onto the foot of my bed with her eyes fluttering between opened and closed. Her limp brown hair stuck to her neck and fanned out onto the light grey sheets as she hummed an unintelligible response back to me.

"Mmrrmrm," she mumbled, slowly sliding down to the floor as she tried to wave me away.

Leaning down to her level, I rubbed her head, all while ignoring the fact that my room looked like a tornado hit it. "Mom, talk to me. What are you doing here?"

Her head kept drooping forward as she muttered something in russian. It was far too slurred for me to understand, with what little knowledge of her mother tongue that I had. It didn't help that she was clearly high. Cradling her face in my hands, I tapped her cheeks lightly, trying to get her to focus.

"Mom, can you hear me? It's me."

Blinking a few times to clear her vision, I let out a breath of relief when a lazy smile grew on her lips and she said, "Ashley. Hi, baby. I'm glad you're here."

"Of course I'm here. This is my home," I reminded her, helping her up so she could sit on my bed instead of the floor. "You mind telling me what you're doing here?"

When she didn't respond, a thought came to mind and my eyes widened in an emotion I hadn't felt toward her in a long time.

Hope.

"Mom, are you trying to runaway? Because, you know I'll help you. Hell, Mom, I'll do whatever it takes to get you out of this life," I quickly said. "I know you stuck around because of Dad, but, he's gone now. You don't have to work for S-"

Gripping my arm tightly, the name got caught in my throat as I winced from the pressure of her nails against my skin. The shaking of her head drew my attention and I found myself beginning to frown at what I knew was going to come next. It was the same thing that always came.

She would refuse to fight. Fight for her, fight for a life—fight for me.

"I...I needed your help," she shared, her eyes fluttering closed again as she leaned onto my shoulder, abandoning her weight on me. "That's why I came."

My mother was significantly larger than me in many ways. She was thin, unhealthily so to anyone with eyes and a working brain, but she was also very tall, standing at 5'10". The irony of someone my size supporting her didn't go unnoticed by me, but then again, my whole life I'd been looking after her. My mother didn't sign up for this kind of life, but she was also the reason she was still stuck in it.

"So, you're not trying to get out of the game?" I sighed dejectedly. If she's not trying to get out, then what does she need help with?

"No."

"Then, what do you want?"

"Money," she shrugged, smacking her lips a bit from obvious dehydration.

Of fucking course.

"Money," I echoed, trying to keep the bitterness out of my voice. I'm not even sure why I bothered. It was obvious she was so strung out that I doubted she'd notice my attitude.

"Yeah. I may have gotten drunk a few days ago and missed out on a whole day of work. I'm short on my quota and can't swing enough tricks to make up on the cash I missed out on."

While she explained her situation, my eyes roamed over my room again, and my mind replayed everything I saw from the moment I walked in. Drawers and cabinets were opened. My sofas were in disarray. Even some of my picture frames were undone. Scoffing, I stood up, shoving her off of me as I watched her struggle to keep her balance from my push.

She was dazed, completely oblivious to how on fire my emotions were. She was supposed to be my fucking mother, but was acting like a crackheaded thief in the night. Clenching my fists, I spoke with as calm a tone as possible, knowing that if I yelled, my neighbors would hear.

"Well, why didn't you just ask me for money, instead of destroying my apartment?" I queried through gritted teeth.

Giggling, she plopped onto her back, looking up at the ceiling before answering, "Because, Ashley, I didn't want you to know about it. You would just give me that look you always give. You know, the one where you scrunch up your face and look all disappointed with me. No, thank you."

"So, you broke into my apartment to steal from me?" I questioned, looking at her in disbelief. "You didn't think I'd be more disappointed by that?"

No longer laughing, she sat up and pouted. "Steal is such a harsh word."

"Well, it's not like you planned on paying me back!"

I could feel my chest tightening at the reality of what she was willing to do to me. I was her only child, and I knew that she loved me, somewhere in that twisted mind of hers. But, she was too messed up, too damaged from all the years of abuse and drugs to know how to show it, and I was beginning to doubt her. All I knew in that moment was that I couldn't stomach looking at her.

"I think you should go, Mom," I resolved, proud of how in control of my emotions I could be when I needed to.

"Huh?" she asked, confused. "Why?"

"Do you really have to ask?"

"But, I can't go back empty handed. If I-"

"That is not my fucking problem, Mom!" And now my control was beginning to slip away. Great.

Crying now, she fell on her knees in front of me, begging, "Ashley, baby, please don't do this. I need you. And aren't you always saying how much you want to help me? Well, this will help me."

I couldn't believe her right now, but then again, I also would be lying if I said I was shocked. I knew this kind of life made people do irrational, and many times, unforgivable things, but that didn't make it any easier to see my mother beg me for help.

I knew what happened to the girls that didn't bring in their quotas. Some of them still walked around with scars as reminders of their 'failures', as their pimps liked to word it, and my mother's pimp was none other than the head honcho himself. He wasn't one to show mercy often, and there was only so many times my mother could use her relationship with my father as a way to save herself.

Besides, my father was dead. Had been for almost five years. It made no difference if he and Shai were best friends before this. Shiloh Nunez cared more about his business the longer time went on. It was a miracle he still honored my father's wishes where I was concerned, otherwise I had no doubt I would be just like my mother, laying on my back as a way to make him more profit.

Looking back at my mother, who was still on her knees in front of me, I turned my gaze to the wall, fighting back the tears that threatened to fall from my eyes.

"How much do you need?" I asked reluctantly, sniffling as I tried to hold everything in.

With a relieved smile, she answered, "Eight hundred."

"For missing just one day?!"

"I usually make more than that, so I'm actually quite lucky that's all he's asking for."

Letting out a frustrated groan, I stormed out the room and headed straight into the kitchen. Reaching into the already opened cabinet right above my fridge, I grabbed the small cylinder container of Quaker Oats oatmeal that I kept up there and popped it open, grabbing the amount of money she said she needed out of it before putting it back in its place. That was my emergency funds, and giving this to her would deplete nearly half of what I had saved up, but...she was my mother, and I was willing to do this for her, despite how much it hurt me that she would have stolen from me to get it. If she was ever going to find redemption and change, she needed to be alive.

Walking back into my room, I didn't say much. I simply shoved the money into her shaking hands and pointed toward the front door.

"There. You got what you came for. Now go," I said coldly, refusing to look at her. Just because I was willing to help, didn't mean I wasn't still hurt.

Hell, I was furious.

From my peripheral vision, I could tell she was coming closer to me, and I flinched when she pulled me into a hug. "Thank you, baby! Oh, you are a real lifesaver."

It was when she tried to kiss my cheek that I pushed her away. "Get out!" I shouted, and judging by the surprised look in her eyes, I would say my shout sobered her up a bit. "You wanted money! I gave you money! Now leave, dammit! "

Her lip trembled as she spoke, "A-Ashley-"

"For Christ's sake, would you just fucking go already!?"

Looking down at her feet in what I read as shame, she nodded her head before stumbling out of my room. A few seconds later, I heard the front door close and I busied myself with cleaning up my apartment, starting with grabbing the groceries I left outside and putting those away. If I kept busy, gave my mind something else to focus on, I could delay what I knew was inevitable.

But, I refused to cry for her, because of her. The longer I fought it, the stronger I felt. I knew, however, that the moment I stopped, the tears would come, and the ache would hit me at full force.

A few hours later, when I finished I straightening up and restoring everything to the way it was before, I couldn't ignore the pain I felt when I thought back to what I just went through. The sad thing was, my mother was still a victim trapped in the chains of sex slavery, and no matter how justified I may feel in the moment, it was hard to hate a victim. Especially when I thought of how she used to be, before this life completely broke her.

Even worse was the chilling thought that kept me up all night.

Was she past the point of saving?

Author's Note:
So, in case you didn't know, 'tricks' is a term commonly used in the world of prostitution and sex trafficking to refer to when a sex worker meets with a client and performs a service for them, resulting in payment. In this case, Ashley's mother missed a whole days worth of possible tricks, and in a lot of pimps minds, this makes the woman in debt. It's sick, unfair, and disgusting, but a reality for a lot of woman today.

Also, it's very easy for us to judge characters like Yelena based on what we see them do, but my hope is that you all take into account how much abuse can damage a person. Ashley remembers a time when her mother was kind, strong, and loving. Years of the sex trade have wounded her in what we see as 'beyond repair', and while the abuse may not excuse some of the things they do to others, it is also a very real cause for the hopeless behavior of a lot of sex victims today. Yes, Yelena is a victim. Victims can either get help, or victimize others. It's a cycle I hope to show more clearly in this story. I also hope none of you read this with a closed and judgmental mindset. Yelena is based off of real people and real testimonies.