Jasmine

There is little light left in the sky and she is huddled inside, on top of the sheet, her sleeping body coiled like a comma. The room has grown dim and the dusk breeze catches the curtain. The scent of the street rolls inside uninvited, carrying with it the increasing din of the evening as the quiet of the day rushes away. The girl is scantily clad, her legs long and bare. The room is modestly furnished, its walls old and grey. Like the girl, it is tired and rundown and abused. 

Outside a truck's engine complains in passing, the hiss of its breaks piercing the air as it pauses to stop at the lights. The girl on the bed stirs from the noise, and rolls on her back and assumes the position of a capital "T". She lies like somebody crucified. Her eyelids flick open, her eyes dart left and then right. She struggles up from the bed to study the room. 

She winces from pain and reaches a hand toward the throb in her head, and discovers a split that runs over one eye. Her fingers come away sticky with blood. She adjusts a spaghetti string strap that has slipped down her arm, and she swings her legs over the edge of the bed. She has no idea where she is or how she got here. No hints lie strewn, to help solve what has happened. 

In the dwindling light, fear settles beside her, keeping her company, making her fret.  She is foggy from drug induced sleep and she fingers a bracelet that hugs at her wrist. She stares down at her arm and in the light of  a car's sweeping headlights, she reads the inscription on the plate of her bracelet. 

                       "Jasmine".

 Her name is Jasmine. This is all that she knows.