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I roll my body, taking care to feel the soreness in my muscles. It’s an inventory of sorts, allowing me to determine where my injuries are and if my body would be capable of fighting back if given the chance.
I ache from the top of my head to the balls of my feet. Everything hurts, but I’m no stranger to pain.
What’s new is the desperate urge to cry, to beg for mercy, to ask my captors to set me free.
I don’t want to help others. I only want to help myself at this point.
I make a plan in my head to seek my revenge, and it’s not on those that have me bound to the bed. No, that energy is focused on Angel. He made me weak. He made me want things I have no right to consider. He made me lose sight of what I need to do and how I need to spend what little life I may have left.
If I ever escape this time, I’m going after him.
Darkness swirls around me, very little light filling the room as the bed dips.
I sneer, turning my head toward the intruder. He’s just another man who wants to hurt me, to take things from me.
Maybe he’ll be surprised when he discovers I have nothing left to fucking give. I’m drained of it.
I flinch when a finger presses into a bruise on my arm, and I hate myself for it.
I’m all big talk in my head.
I have so much to lose, and pretending in front of one more person doesn’t seem possible right now.
I attempt to jerk away from the man, but my restraints are tied tighter than I initially realized. I fight down the urge to sob at knowing it might actually be impossible to get away.
I’ve never let defeat sink inside of me. I’ve always had a plan and then another plan if that one didn’t pan out.
I have nothing right now, and for as long as I thought I’d be relieved to die, I find myself wanting to fight those thoughts.
I have nothing to live for, but it doesn’t stop that intrinsic need to live from bubbling up and taking over.
I open my mouth to speak, but it makes my throat hurt, makes the corners of my mouth tear because of their dryness.
When a cold cup is placed to my lips, I want to jerk away, refusing to take anything that’s offered to me because it’s never done in kindness. A slick throat is easily fucked, and I learned my lesson long ago about biting. It left me with a concussion, forcing me to spend several more weeks in captivity, whereas just letting it happen would’ve meant I could’ve helped other women quicker.
My body’s responses aren’t my own, and I drink greedily, grateful that it’s actual water and not a cup full of vodka or whiskey. The cup is pulled away when I start to cough and choke. I lift my head as high as I can manage to get another sip, but it doesn’t come.
Teasing with food and drink is a common tactic by these guys, so I’m not at all surprised, but it doesn’t stop me from begging for more.
The shadow lifts the cup to my lips once again, and I don’t waste the opportunity I’m provided. Taking any form of kindness from them seems counterproductive, but I can’t do much when I’m starving and dehydrated.
Without a word, the man leaves. He doesn’t hurt me again or say a word.
It doesn’t take long before darkness takes over again.
The second time I wake up, the evaluation of my body doesn’t take as long. I’m still tied to the bed, naked and starfished on a mattress.
With the bedroom door open, more light is cast into the room.
I cringe at the sight of the IV bag hanging near the bed, and I’m not surprised to follow the plastic tubing to the back of my hand.
I must’ve been sold without realizing it, but experience tells me that just because I’m being nursed back to health doesn’t mean I’m safe.
There isn’t a single person in the world that buys someone out of the goodness of their hearts. If that were the case, I would be covered instead of freezing with the ceiling fan blowing cold air on my body. I wouldn’t be tied down and alone.
Hell, I would be in a hospital, surrounded by helpful staff, not in someone’s dark room.
I do count the good things. The mattress I’m on is soft. I’m not surrounded by putrid scents of an area that hasn’t seen disinfectant and a scrub brush in a decade. I hear no screams or begging from other women. All in all, I can say that this place is much better than some of the others I’ve been, but I don’t allow false hope to settle in. Some of the most sinister people I’ve come across are capable of some of the evilest ways to hurt people. Class and sophistication just mean they have the money to hurt someone differently, more creatively.