I sat in solitude, my legs crossed at the ankles and my arms crossed above my rib-cage. I could feel the clammy, slightly wet pavement beneath my feet, my toes scraping the rough surface. Goosebumps raised upon my arms, I smelled my own sweat, my own cold fear. I knew that this was a very bad thing. I knew that this was a very very bad thing, and that I was just a thing that happened to other people, and not me. Not me, not the little golden sweetheart of the town, not me. I half expected to wake up, but alas, I was not in the business of denying reality. It hadn't helped before, so I saved the denial stage of my grief.
I remembered my fear lessening into pain. I felt my pain lessening into a dull ache of stiff muscles. There was nothing keeping my bottom glued to the chair, and it was surprisingly uncomfortable, yet I sat. I couldn't force myself to stand, for whatever reason. Probably fear. Most definitely fear. As I have come to know, fear is a wonderfully effective motivator. As I began to move my muscles, the stiffness faded and I felt the warmth of movement spread through my limbs. I felt some bones crack, and took notice of my breathing. for what it was worth, I was definitely alive.
At the time, I was still a positive ray of sunshine, hoping for the best. Things like this were sorted out, right? The police were like a deus ex machina, so they would be here any minute, right? My head fought from both sides, and for the first time in my life I was met with my own cynicism. I couldn't decide whether I should hope for rescue or not. I couldn't decide whether hope was worth it. After a great deal of time passed, I had collected my misconstrued views and optimism into a sum of hope. I had resolved that I would not be broken, and with whatever determination I thought I had, I promised myself I would fight the cynicism. Day one, I promised myself that no matter what happened, my resolve would not be broken. I promised myself that nothing would break me, like my Ma would have advocated for.
Suddenly, my heart began to beat at an uncomfortable pace. I became disturbed and the goosebumps returned. Footsteps, behind me. I didn't move, for fear of aggravation. I thought that maybe if I behaved as if I had not noticed, I would not be disturbed. My mind went to the techniques of playing dead, staying still and silent, that I had learned in girl scouts. However, my assailant was not a cobra, or a mountain goat, or even a gigantic black bear. My assailant was human, and humans didn't fall for little girls playing dead.
I felt breath upon my neck, and I kept, my fist clenched and my eyes closed. I told myself I would wake up. I painted a picture in my mind of my old life, of a happy innocent girl in a small town, gardening with her Ma. My painting was broken my hands softly stroking over the back of my hair, and the indescribable sense of eyes upon my own. The hands, rough and calloused, running over my neck to my shoulders and arms, covering my shirt sleeves with what was either dirt or blood. This was truly a nightmare, and not one that I was going to be able to snap myself out of. I began to cry.
The roaming hands reached my waist, and with that I whipped around, tears streaming down my cheeks. I came to face the stomach smiling man that I would never learn the name of. He towered over my small frame while I sat in the chair, and for a fleeting moment our eyes met. His mouth was smiling, but his eyes were not, and I later learned that a smile did not always indicate a happy kindness. I was determined to stand up for myself. Mustering up all of the courage in my frail body, I stared him down, collecting the saliva in between my teeth. I puckered my lips, and before I had the chance to back down, I spat, full and angrily in his face. His smile never faltered.
Never a single time did his smile fade as he hoisted me from the chair by the undersides of my armpits. Never did he indicate any sense of anger or danger as he dragged me, feet barely touching the ground, to the other side of the room. Never did he speak, or even grunt or growl, as he threw me to the floor. Hitting the concrete, I noticed it was significantly damper along this side of the room.
I felt a dead weight suddenly hit and then settle out against my chest, smothering me. I screamed, finally opening my mouth, as the man retreated. A light slowly flickered to life as I heard retreating footsteps and a door slam somewhere in the distance. I gradually began to process the position I was in. I felt the clammy, still limbs upon my own and the dripping of the lukewarm blood onto my own body. I threw the corpse from my chest, heaving and wailing, pushing myself further and further from it. Her hair fell into her face as her head lolled to the side, eyes unseeing and unblinking. I cast my eyes upon my torso and legs, finding it covered in blood. I couldn't pinpoint the face of the person, but she had disgustingly greasy and tangled long hair. Her hair reached past her waist and was clumpy and uneven, patched of it missing. Her body was covered in scars and torn clothing, her fingernails long and padded with dirt. The odor nearly killed me, and it gave me shaking hands and weary vision the entire way to the other side of the room.
I put the most distance between me and the girl's body as I could, which was only about forty feet at the most. I wiped the blood from my hands and my face onto my shirt and pants, and I curled myself into a ball. I bit my cheeks so hard that I tasted blood, and allowed unearthly noises to escape my throat without consciousness. I dug my nails into my arms, breaking the skin and covering me with now my own blood as well. I kicked and I writhed and I wailed, wishing to god that the smiling man had killed me instead. I wished there was a way to kill myself, I wished there was a simple and easy way out. I gritted my teeth and screamed for what seemed like hours, and slowly became aware of the smiling man staring at me from across the room, still plastering his face with the sickening grin. He dragged the other girl up the stairs, whistling all the while.
He was playing with me. He took amusement from my suffering in cruel bouts of sadism, and I later realized that the whole endeavor had been to reap my stability. The whole situation had been played out to his own twisted movie, where he directed the torture in real time. I will never forget the feeling of warm blood slowly cooling and drying against my bare skin, and I will never forget the raw pain that I felt emanating throughout my entire frame.
It had not taken long for me to break my promise to myself.
I had not taken long for me to break.
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