Page 2 of Give Me Peace

A camcorder.

The technology was outdated, but I still knew it was. Whatever he planned to do, he wanted video evidence. Bile rose up my throat, the burning sensation a blip in comparison to the hysteria threatening to overwhelm me. I’d barely had a chance to process any of it when my nightmare come to life stepped back into view.

I screamed—again—the sound echoing throughout the small room and making my ears ring. I’ve never heard fear before. Felt it become palpable. At least not on the scale in which I was currently experiencing it. I had a normal life; I’ve never once been in a situation where I felt truly terrified of being harmed, especially by someone I looked up to or trusted. The obliteration of that innocence hurt like hell.

Try as I might, I couldn’t fight him off when his hands began to wander, pawing at my clothes with vigor. I slapped and kicked, but my attempts were useless against his larger frame. I watched in horror as my favorite outfit was torn from my body. Piece by piece they fell away—a pale pink top, white scalloped shorts, and lastly, my plain, white cotton bra and panties.

I prayed it wasn’t really happening, squeezed my eyes shut so tightly white dots danced behind the closed lids. I needed it to be a dream. A horrible, therapy-worthy nightmare I’d wake from at any second. As my hands were pinned behind me, any hopes of that faded into nothing. He dragged me to the mattress, winding a rope around my wrists with enough force to make my fingers tingle. To add more terror to the mix, a thick scrap of fabric was placed over my eyes to blindfold me.

My naked body was completely exposed for him and whoever might one day bear witness to this depravity. He fondled my breasts, his calloused fingers pinching my nipples and causing me to cry out from the pain. I thrashed, gave everything I had to try and make him stop, but eventually, the numbness set in. Survival mode took over. I shutdown and ignored what was happening to keep myself from shattering.

He moaned at the agonized sounds escaping me, and when he’d gotten his fill, the camera was switched off, basking the room in darkness once again. I have no idea how long he violated my body for, it could’ve been minutes or hours, but my chest ached from the onslaught. He hadn’t touched me below the waist, and for that I’d been grateful, but I was scared to know how long his refrain would last. I’d been certain he was going to take a part of me I’d never get back.

I was innocent. My basic understanding of sex was mostly in the context of reproduction. With Mom’s job being what it was, we never skirted the topic. But it was always discussed in clear and concise, anatomically correct wording. I didn’t know sex. Why would I, I was fourteen? I’d barely had my period for a full year.

As I lay there, slumped against the wall with my hands bound and eyes covered, a sob worked its way free. He’d been quiet, not a single word spoken since he’d first offered me a ride. No matter how many times I’d asked why he was doing this or begged for him to stop, he refused to speak. He gave me no answers or inkling of his motives. In a broken, scared voice, I cried for my mom.

And for that, he beat me within an inch of my life.

His heavy boot slammed against my side, the hit so brutal it knocked the breath out of me. Over and over, he dispelled his anger through kicks and punches, until I was nothing more than a broken, curled-up ball, my blood and dignity mixed with the dirt beneath me. I was covered in bruises, the purple and black splotches lingering for weeks after the fact.

To my absolute horror, those trips behind the bookshelf became routine. Once a month, he’d come for me, and so long as I was good and didn’t anger him, he’d let me out right after. But on those few occasions when my body refused to just sit there and take what he was doing, when I’d fight against the inevitable, he’d leave me there. For hours, sometimes a full day. The dark, combined with the absolute silence was cruel in its own right.

Aside from dropping off food and water, and occasionally restocking my hygiene items, I never saw him outside of those dreaded visits. He was always silent, and only provided enough to sustain me for a few days—maybe a week—at a time. I’m not sure if the psychological torture was intentional, but it worked. I was always in a constant state of dread, wondering if the next time would be the last time. The food he gave me was barely nutritional, and more often than not, expired. But it was food. Every time my stash would start to dwindle, the paranoia would set in.

I’d ration my meals down to bites, just in case he didn’t come back before I ran out. I think he took a sick sort of satisfaction in making it known, without ever needing to say it, that he held my life in the palm of his hand. In more ways than one. He could stock the room with a case of water or a jar of peanut butter, but that’d be too much of a kindness. Whether I continued to breathe was completely reliant upon him. The constant fear of starvation left me stressed, but nothing was more worrisome than what he planned to do with me next.

I always knew things would escalate. By my guess, I’d been held there a year when it finally happened. Time had been hard to keep track of when there was no sense of day or night. He’d come for me, the visit starting no different than the ones before it. I’d grown used to him groping my chest, but when his dirty hand slipped lower, my vision blurred. For the first time in a long time, tears filled my eyes. I’d done everything in my power to mentally prepare myself for that moment, but once faced with it, I crumbled.

He'd been extra rough, tweaking my nipples so hard I couldn’t help but whimper. I tried to hold it in, knowing it only spurred him on. He fed off my emotional pain just as much as the physical. The moment his greedy hand ghosted between my legs I think another piece of me died. Every time after that, he pushed for more. The day his thick finger finally forced its way inside me, I sobbed for hours. His assaults became relentless, each session going longer than the last.

The first time he made me orgasm I was horrified. It’d been humiliating and I felt so betrayed by my own body. I knew it was a natural response, but it didn’t make me hate myself any less. He licked my tears away while chuckling at my distress. It was my lowest moment to-date. Every muscle went limp, my fight and will to live being ripped away from me. He loved that, knowing I’d been broken me a little more.

Later that night, when he’d finally let me go, I’d tried to touch myself. I thought if I could take back control, be in charge of my own release, it wouldn’t hurt so bad. I couldn’t do it, though. The second I felt a spark of pleasure, all I could think of was him and the undeniable truth that he officially owned something of mine I’d never willingly given.

Honestly, it’s no surprise I finally snapped.

Over the years, I’ve been given a front row seat to inhumanity at its finest and I just couldn’t take it anymore. Two days ago—or maybe it was three—I completely lost it. It’s hard to tell how long it’s been when I’m surrounded by darkness, the constant silence my only companion. Truthfully, I didn’t think I still had any fight left in me. But I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t walk in that room, my feet carrying me there without protest, and subject myself to another debasing round of torture. He’s taken too much already.

Something clicked, and I realized I’d rather die fighting than lose anything else. So, when that lock twisted and the door swung open, I lunged. Teeth bared, arms swinging blindly, I gave it everything I had, determined to make it through that opening before he could close it. It was a stupid idea. There was a reason I’d never tried before. I’m small, but compared to him, I might as well be ant sized. Foolishly, I thought his bigger build meant he’d move slower.

I was wrong.

He’d caught me instantly, snatching me back by my hair and causing me to scream as a chunk was ripped from my scalp. I bit him, clamped his arm in a vise-like grip, but he’d only laughed, tossing me across the room as if I weighed nothing. I hit the floor so hard, I swore I felt my brain slam against my skull. He pounded the defiance right out of me, then dragged my half-conscious body behind the bookshelf, closing me inside the hidden space without a backwards glance.

And now I’m paying greatly for my error in judgment.

My ribs throb in tune with my head, each hit still fresh and vivid in my mind. Everything hurts. I’d cry if I weren’t so scared the effort would bring me more pain. Considering how dehydrated I am, I doubt I could even form a tear if I tried. The hunger pangs have gotten so bad I’m dry heaving. The last thing I ate—an over-ripe banana—has long since faded from my system. I can’t help but think that this is it. He’s finally going to kill me, or let nature takes its course and do his dirty work for him. I’ve never been left for this long, and a small part of me welcomes whatever comes next.

I’m so tired—the kind that can’t be fixed with a good night’s sleep or a hot meal.

Luckily, the oversized shirt I’d been wearing is still covering my body. He'd been more focused on beating me for my disobedience and escape attempt than getting off. But the thin material is doing little to ward off the chill. I haven’t been warm since the day he brought me here, but this room, with its dirt floor and cinderblock walls, has always felt so much colder. I think it’s a combination of the evil acts that take place in here and the shitty state of disrepair. Either way, I can’t make the shivering stop.

It's completely black, something I should be used to by now. But being robbed of a sense only heightens all the others. Every sound is amplified, my own breaths creating an echo. The tattered fabric of the mattress feels like knives against my battered skin. It’s a special kind of torment, to not know what’s in front of you or about to happen. I swear something brushed against my leg earlier, followed by a scratching noise a few moments later. A mouse maybe? The old me, the one who still secretly slept with a dozen stuffed animals and watched the Disney channel, would’ve squealed and scrambled for the highest surface I could find. This me? She might be desperate enough to eat it.

As I lay here, my eyes wide open but unable to see a thing, I try to think of something good. It’s a game I’ve played for a while now, a way to keep myself grounded. When something awful happens, I list a reason to be thankful. Because even though I’m living any sane person’s version of Hell on Earth, I make it a point to remind myself that it could always be worse. I’ve been through the bad, learned what to do and what not to do, and eventually found a place in between that allows me a sliver of sanity.

So, morbidly, I stay grateful for the things that haven’t happened, instead of mourning the things that have. It’s sick, this psychological warfare that’s been waged. The idea that I could be thankful to this man for a single thing makes my skin crawl. How fucked is it that I’m appreciative he’s yet to fully rape me? I know what the statistics say. Most girls who’ve been in captivity for as long as I have don’t make it out alive. And when they do, they aren’t really living. They’re shells of who they once were, too broken to ever function normally.