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My home has been a basement for the past three years with a man who loved to call himself the puppet master. I haven’t gone to many places; I guess it is to be expected. All the things I dreamed for myself have all disappeared. The sixteen-year-old girl who was excited about life, who trusted people, who wanted to laugh, who wanted to experience everything, that girl no more. In that girl’s place is a young woman that is missing hair, has words craved on her inner thighs, has bruises and cuts from men that enjoyed watching her bleed and enjoyed listening to her screams; no, that sixteen-year-old girl is long gone, and in her place is adirty whore, adirty slut, a dead man’sPuppet, abrokenbeing that can never be put back together again. My edges are jagged, broken, and sharp. I am not worth it; I never was.
Since waking up here, my brain has tried to convince me that what the men said to me was all lies, but my heart doesn’t believe my head anymore. My body doesn’t believe my mind anymore. All the memories flood in like a deadly virus destroying fucking everything inside me, tearing me apart from the inside. And the only one who knows what is happening is me, and me alone, but I should be used to that by now. Being alone is something I should be used to by now. The battle, the fucking war inside me, eventually is going to escape me and destroy fucking everything around me.
I take in a deep breath of the fresh, rainy air. Christian catches my attention. He is standing by the backdoor with his arms crossed over his tanned, scarred, tattooed chest, and his black hair is falling into his eyes. He is still wearing the sweatpants he wore last night, and his breathing is steady as he looks out into the yard, the yard leading into a forest.
Christian has been staying close, making me food, washing me, and watching me. Everything he does is so calculated. There have been times that I can’t even fucking look at him because of how intense his green eyes are, of how intense he is. My brain is fuzzy and consumed by the voice of the men, the men who took everything from me, and by the man, the puppet master who let them take everything.
Christian hasn’t said anything about Sebastian but doesn’t have to. I know he killed him. It happened in slow motion, like a movie I have wanted to see for three years.
Do I know it happened? Yes.
Do I believe it happened? No, not really.
Men like Sebastian don’t just die. The proof is inside my head. He is very much still alive, marking me, claiming me, whispering he loves me, whispering he will never let me go. I believe him. His hand is still wrapped tightly around my throat. I can smell his breath, feel his breath on my skin, his dick pushing into my sore pussy, stretching me; his hands have forever marked my skin.
My breath is deep and shaky as Christian turns around and goes back into the house. My entire body starts to shake; my eyes slam shut, the images, the smile on Sebastian’s face, the look in his eyes each time he raped me. He never felt remorse for what he had done to me. He never said he was sorry. He never showed any emotions towards his behaviors that destroyed me from the outside in.
My knees go weak and give out. My knees hit the wet ground, and I rest my head against the bars as the tears escape and roll down my face.
“Bambino,” Christian whispers from behind me.
2 Months Held Captive
I feel my heart sink as I feel Sebastian’s hands on my body. He grabs my throat tightly and pulls on my hair, causing my scalp to sting. His sweat falls onto my chest as his breathing increases, and his dick pushes into me, causing me to stretch, causing me once again to tear. My stomach tightens as he starts to move in and out of me.
A set of arms wraps around me, pulling me up from the wet ground. I twist around and swing my arm as hard as I can. I open my eyes, and Christian’s head goes to the side. My heart drops as the images of Sebastian disappear, and the memory starts to fade away, leaving me feeling ashamed and guilty. I want to reach out to Christian, and my mouth wants to say how sorry I am. But I can’t. I just fucking can’t.
Tears escape my eyes as I start to move around him, but he grabs my wrist and pulls me against his chest. His breathing is rapid and unsteady. He looks down at me as I look up at him, his eyes rapidly searching mine. The softness appears in his eyes as his breathing starts to slow down.
I begin to shake my head. “I’m sorry,” the words come out so quietly I can barely hear myself.
His eyes continue to search mine. “I didn’t fucking buy you or kidnap you. You’re an extension of me. There is no need to apologize for feeling your unhinged emotions. You can hit me, beat on me, do whatever the fuck you want to me, do whatever the fuck you need to do as long as you feel it, Nicolette.”His words are soft but firm. I stare into his eyes, searching for what is still to be determined.
All their voices come back into my head like a flood, and I slam my eyes shut. I shake my head and press it against his chest. His free hand rests on the back of my neck, and my knees go weak again. I know I am going to fall.
“I am dirty. I am a whore. I am a slut. I am a puppet. I am broken.” The words leave my mouth as unstable as my thoughts are. I pull back as I look into his once again. He keeps his hand on the back of my neck as he tightens his grip on me. His skin is like fire against my cold skin.
The voices continue to get louder as he releases his hold on me. I take a step back, lift my hands and cover my ears, which I know won’t fucking stop the voices. I quickly turn around, and as soon as I do, my mouth opens and lets it out. The scream, the scream I have been holding in since I opened my eyes, looking at Christian’s ceiling, laying in Christian’s bed. His arms wrap around me as we both fall to our knees. As I lean forward, the rain soaks us both, and my forehead rests against the cold, wet balcony wood.
You’re fucking Dirty.
You’re a fucking Whore.
You know you like it Slut.
Welcome home, Puppet.
You are Broken.
I begin to rock back and forth. Christian tightens his arms around me. He leans in, resting his lips against my ear, but he doesn’t speak. No words will take this feeling away, no words to erase what Sebastian and those men did to me.
Will I ever heal?
Will it always be like this?
Will I ever be normal?
Do I deserve to be normal?
