Fight. Fought. Finished. (Sequel to Gone. Done. Over.)

Chapter 1

Author's Note: Thank you so much for joining me, yet again, for the next installment of my short story series! I am looking forward to hearing your thoughts. -Your Faithful writer, Lewis

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Fight. Fought. Finished. That's what we did. And that's what we were.

***

Earlier:

"How about fifty." My hickory eyes flashed to the young woman standing on the auction platform. 'How can they do this to a person?' I glanced around at her potential owners. They were all sour-faced men, standing with their arms crossed over their chests. The auction compound, The Courtyard, was surrounded by solemn, two story buildings. Slanted tin roofs topped them and a balcony wound its way around the outside.

Dink. Dink. Dink. Dink. My hands moved thoughtlessly to the black hood that fell down my back and pulled it up to cover my charcoal hair. Rain pelted down onto the assembly. The silent men did as I had and cloaked themselves, but the auction would continue. We were used to rain in Melloette. "Fifty!" called one man in the crowd, raising a walking stick. He wore a flat, white hat and was rather heavy set.

"Fifty! Do I hear fifty five?" the announcer called. "Come on she's a fine young woman! Fifty! Going once! Going Twice!" My heart throbbed and I clenched my jaw. 'This isn't right.'

"Kendra Alexar, SOLD to Mr. Winston for fifty Corsneds!" the announcer, a tall balding man in a lengthy brown coat, exclaimed. He led the girl, Kendra Alexar, to the stairs where she met her new owner. He received her, arms open. I grimaced as Mr. Winston spoke to her. My nose twitched as if I could smell the strong, sour stench of alcohol which lingered heavily in his breath.

How many times had I watched this same transaction occur? How many times had I seen these young lives being bought and bartered for? How many times had I bit back the anger which rose in my gut? My father, Ross Gentry, owned The Courtyard. Apparently, it had never occurred to him that his own daughters could be sold just as easily there. 'If he would only think about what Kendra's father is feeling right now, maybe he wouldn't do this!' I was constantly worried about my sisters: Cyrene and Janelle.

"Corrie Axelson," the announcer stated, dragging another helpless girl onto the podium. My eyes flickered to father. He stood with another group of men a little further down the balcony, on which, I had positioned myself. I turned and walked briskly toward him, pushing my way through the men.

"Isn't this enough, father? Come on, it's raining," I stated, coming up to him. Father continued to stare forward and down at his paying costumers.

"Father—," I started.

  "Hale." He silenced me with his hand. 'Here we go again.' I knew the speech. I had heard it one thousand times in the last few years.

"Sold to Mr. Henderson for eighty Corsends!"

I tapped my foot impatiently. My father raised his hand, drawing it across his shoulders so as to signal the announcer that the work day was finished. The men began flooding back out of our compound. 'Finally.' We'd all been standing there since eight that morning.

"Mr. Gen-try!" George Winston staggered toward us. I eyed his worn suite with disgust. He reeked of cigar smoke and liquor. His hat sat crookedly on his wide forehead.

"Hello, George," my father said, shaking Mr. Winston's chubby hand. "I hope Miss Alexar is what you were looking for."

 "Indeed! You've done it yet again, Ross," Mr. Winston nodded. Then he turned to me. "I bet you will be even better than your father someday!"