A group for four dark-skinned men*

My heart sinks seeing the faces of men I do not recognize. They had dark skin too. I want to be happy that they did not wear expressions of malice or had the aura that they sought to take advantage of my situation. Concern painted their faces. Despite the young woman who was soaked by the rain, the eldest of the men walked out and picked me up effortlessly into his arms, carrying me inside the house.

I wanted to escape but I was too tired from my journey to this place. Plus, the warmth of the house was comforting and I relaxed once I was out of the wind. Any strength I had left dissipated from my body, but the movements that carried me into the house kept me awake at least. I was sat down on a hard, yet cushioned chair in the brightly-lit kitchen. I kept my eyes shut so as not to be immediately blinded by the light pouring from above. “What's your name, girl?” one of the men asks. I dare not to look up at them, feeling ashamed of my current state.

The older of the men, of whom I count a total of four members in this household, crouches so he is level with my eyes and with an encouraging expression on his face, he assures me, “It's okay. We want to help.” I turn my head to face him as he gives me the biggest of smiles.

“Devon,” I struggle to say, hopeful that I still remember my name after three years in that pit. I would have uttered a name that coincided with my gender, but I am hoping that someone in this room puts two-and-two together and somehow matches the name to someone who went missing three years ago. With that thought in mind, I look up at the other three men in the room, who are much younger than the eldest of them all. One is dressed in a suit, but seems to have been relaxing before my entrance, seeing his tie and buttons have been loosened. The one next to him is wearing scrubs, like that of a nurse. The last man, whose skin tone is a bit lighter than the other two, wears something akin to a mechanic's jumpsuit or overalls.

“Don't be scared of them, Miss Devon. These are just my sons. They are quite successful, too, so you are in good hands,” the older man says.

The son in the loosened suit asks, “Out of all the houses in this neighborhood, why did you choose ours?” His tone is mean and I drop my gaze as if I have been accused. I don't see his father jab him in the shoulder.

I nonetheless answer his question. “I used to live here.” I add by mentioning my memory of the address, right down to the zip code and the numbers that come after the first five digits.

The son in scrubs crouches before me, examining my hands and whatever else is not covered by the filthy shirt. “Where did you come from?” he asks.

I tell them that I was imprisoned in a nearby forest, in a place where there was no address, much less a street or driveway leading up to it. I immediately tell him a summarized version of the last three years, making sure to mention that I was not alone in my enslavement. I even add, against the judgment of those who do not understand, what turned me into a young woman. Ashamed of the torment I've experienced, I leave such details vague to my rescuers, hoping they get the idea. I'm also hoping someone in this room could connect the dots and do something about the information I've given them.

“See this, Marcus, the bruising on her wrists--?” the son in scrubs points out and the man in the loose suit finishes his sentence.

“--like that of really tight handcuffs. Now, I have a hunch. Whatever you do, don't clean her up... yet.” Marcus, the son who was in a loosened suit, leaves and apparently exits out the front door.

His father, who is still on my eye level, speaks up. “Why I said you are in good hands is because Marcus is a detective of the police department. The man in front of you in the scrubs is Maxwell, who is a doctor. And that's Tyrone in the back, my youngest. I don't quite know what kind of job he has, but he has brought income to this household, so that is good enough for me.”

Marcus returns with a plastic bag containing an assortment of items, mainly a number of small baggies, cotton swabs, and sterile water.

“Miss Devon, this is a **** test kit. With what you have told us, I believe that you have been a victim of **** and with your permission, I want to gather evidence from your body so I can match it with your captor. Do you understand?” Marcus explains and lastly asks.

Thinking that I would be the one to collect the evidence, I simply nod, and instinctively reach for the bag. But when he gets down on his knees in front of me and immediately gets a swab then tries to split my legs apart, I tense up and clench my legs together.

“Miss Devon, any delay decreases the chances of catching your assailant,” Marcus continues and as he is speaking, I'm shaking my head. This goes on for about a minute until Marcus is pulled back by his younger brother.

“There's a better way of doing this. Just wait. Give me a sec,” Tyrone says and rushes upstairs. He's gone for a good while until the four of us in the kitchen hears his steps coming down the stairs. However, who appears in his place is a skinny young woman with an eerily similar skin tone. She is seen in just a tank top and shorts. I am as surprised as the men in the room, as if they have not seen her before. She places herself before me, as if preventing any of the males from coming any closer.

“Where the fuck is Tyrone, girl?” Marcus asks. “And who the hell are you?”

“Name's Tyra... big brother,” she introduces herself, pauses and finishes with a title of endearment. Next, I hear an audible gasp among the men. From where I'm sitting, I could peak and see confused expressions on their faces.

“You mean to say... that you're the runt?” the voice of Maxwell resumes the conversation. “But how?”

After another slight pause, she addresses everyone in the room. “So, Dad, Marcus, Max... I was going to wait for a better time to tell you, but I guess this is a good time as any to let you know where I work. Last year, I was an intern as a technician for a pharmaceutical company called X-Change.”

“Fuck. Gender-swapping pills?” Marcus adds, his tone an accusatory one. It was likely he had come across them in his work as a detective and probably in a bad light to boot.

“That's right. They may be controversial, but their ethics are wholly good. It's the people who use them that cannot be trusted sometimes. My company makes pills that transform you into the opposite gender. Depending on the variety, it can transform them to the opposite gender up to 24 hours, a whole month, and one of them is a permanent pill. I've taken a Basic, the 24-hour one, making me into Tyra. See?”

“But why?” Marcus asks, his temper having simmered a bit.

“You asked for permission, but didn't get it from Devon in the slightest. You just had to barge in and do the deed. Could you have been more sensitive? I thought I'd be as sensitive, as a woman would be, and thus took the pill, so it would be appropriate in Miss Devon's presence,” Tyra explains. Her explanation seems to calm the men down.

The father speaks up. “Alright. So, what should we do?”

“Marcus had the right idea with the **** kit, but considering how insensitive he was to Devon, it's clear he hasn't used it before. There are clearly instructions in here plus a form someone needs to fill out,” Tyra says, presenting the **** kit and its contents to the group. “The bathroom down here should be a good place to do this. Abundant amount of light. And when we are done, Devon can clean herself off.” She lowers herself down so she is eye-level with me. “Shall we try this again, Devon? This way, we can get anything that could tie you and the state you're in with the man who kidnapped you.”

I nod as Max adds, “We would need a bed sheet too, so that if anything falls, we could catch and collect it afterwards.”

“I'll get an extra bag for anything else,” their father mentions.

“Are you ready, Devon?” Tyra asks and holds a hand out to me. I reach for it and grip it with whatever strength I have left. Tyra pulls me up to my feet and before long, she has me walking towards the first floor bathroom. She pushes the door open and turns on the light, which by now I've gotten used to. Before entering, Max comes in and prepares the floor with a bed sheet. The father returns with a paper grocery bag. “Alright. Everything is set. I guess I'm the one who will be doing the collecting. Devon, did you want anyone else to come in?”