As the afternoon wore on, assistants processed the women. The matron had selected a gown of exquisite bright blue silk for Nina who thought the dress must be beautiful, but she could no longer see it as such. To her, it was nothing more than a visual representation of the chains, the bonds, that held her to a life of slavery.
When it was her turn, she approached the makeup station to which the matron directed her. Before her, on a dark wooden table, sat a tray of eye shadows, rouge, and lipstick, and on the wall, a mirror.
She gazed at her reflection. Looking back was the empty shell of a person. Her looks had changed. Once her countenance had held signs of life and interest, but no longer.
The face of the young woman who was to assist her came into the mirror.
Nina froze. “Erin!” she gasped.
The assistant looked at her with pure disdain. “And you would be?”
“Erin, it’s me, Nina.”
“I know no one by that name.”
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