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After a few more pumps, he pulls his flaccid penis from my sore mouth. Shoving me away, I fall to my side on the floor.

Used and no longer useful.

I lie there helpless at his feet, the musky taste of his cum cooling on my tongue. Unable to move, I stare straight ahead at the sofa; underneath it I see used condom wrappers, beer bottle caps, popcorn and crushed potato chips. I am down here with the rest of the discarded and forgotten trash.

He leans back with a groan and reaches for the remote. I hear a click, then the mindless buzz of a football game. He places his bare feet on my hip.

I feel bruised and numb. I’ve lost track of how long I’ve been on the floor. Nothing more than a foot rest.

“Steve? Steve? Are you down there? Answer me!” a woman’s agitated voice calls from somewhere above.

“Fuck. She’s home early,” curses Steve. “I’ll be right up, dear,” he calls out.

Rising, he leans down and lifts me up high. My feet drag listlessly along the floor as he pulls me behind the bar.

“Open up, sweetheart. Time to clean that dirty mouth of yours,” he whispers almost affectionately. I feel my stomach clench as I fight the urge to retch. Holding me up by my hair, he raises a bottle of dish soap to my mouth.

No! No! What are you doing?

“Open up.”

Bright green liquid soap drips into my mouth. The chemical bitter taste burns my tongue. I so desperately want to cry but the tears won’t come. Steve reaches for the faucet and pulls it free of its base. Turning the water on, he directs the stream directly into my mouth. Cold water shoots down my throat and up my nose. I try to struggle but can’t move. I’m drowning. It feels as though my whole body is shaking but I cannot tell. Pulling the faucet away, he pats my mouth, throat and breasts with a dirty dishtowel.

“All clean,” he states as he once again lifts me up high. “Time to put you back in the closet. Can’t have the wife finding you.”

No! Please no! Don’t put me back there. Back into the darkness. Please! I need the light.

As I wrestle with the rising panic of once more being locked in a closet, I catch a glimpse of myself in his arms in one of the cracked bar mirrors.

I stare.

And stare.

Not believing my eyes.

It’s me… but it’s not me.

I’m not real.

I’m not real!

The mirror reflected the vacant, empty stare of a life-size doll.

Chapter 3

There is no cathartic release without expression.

Fear, agony despair. These emotions are too strong, too overwhelming to be contained inside your own head. They need a release. Tears, thrashing arms, screams. After being shoved into the dark closet, I thought I wanted to cry but I was wrong. I didn’t want to cry. I wanted to feel my own tears. I didn’t want to scream. I wanted to open my mouth wide and hear the power of my own voice. I wanted to feel the bite of my nails as they dug into my palms when I formed my hands into angry fists. I wanted to pace and thrash my arms about.

I wanted to move.

I wanted to be heard.

But there was nothing. Worse than silence… there was stillness. No matter how I may have screamed and thrashed about, all inside the closet remained quiet. It was all inside my head.

A person could go mad with only their own tormented thoughts for company.

My thoughts spun in circles till they became a twisted, gnarled mess.