ᖭི༏ᖫྀ
desolation: a state of complete emptiness or destruction.
anguished misery or loneliness.
-
"Ellie frowned at my refusal to shake her hand. I sensed her following me into the bar, and my emotions were bubbling over, threatening to erupt. I wan...
disclaimer: several mentions of sexual abuse, (if this is a triggering topic for you, please see summary at end of chapter to avoid reading any details that might be harmful) PTSD, and suicidal thoughts. please read at your own discretion. 18+
⋆⭒˚.⋆ Natalie - 14 yrs old⋆⭒˚.⋆
The leader of the cannibalistic cult that had captured me, David, began making regular visits to my cell.
Every morning. Every night.
Initially, I tensed at the creak of the door and his heavy steps echoing through the confined space. He would slip into my cell at dawn, before the sun even rose, and again at dusk as twilight fell. I assumed he chose these times to avoid detection by others in the community. If they were capable of consuming their own kind—people they had known, and enjoyed it—what regard would they have for their "Father" assaulting a young girl?
At first, I fought. I screamed, kicked, begged, bit, thrashed—anything to stay alive.
But after 22 days in this grim cell, my will to fight ebbed away. This wretched place drained my hope like a reverse transfusion.
The hope I once clung to was grounded in the possibility of a cure, believing my immunity could make a difference. But what kind of world would my immunity even be saving? A world where girls are confined like animals in cages? Where desperate pleas are met with cruel, heartless laughter? It was a world too far gone.
So I simply let go, releasing my tight grip on life. It seemed easier that way.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
They fed me once a day, enough to sustain me if I had actually consumed what they served. Each time dinner arrived, delivered by a young girl much younger than myself, I refused—knowing full well what they were disguising as 'just venison.' I would gag and swiftly retreat to the farthest corner of my cramped cell, desperate to distance myself from the plate. I would sooner embrace death than stoop to this dehumanizing level.
David noticed my refusal to eat, observing my breath growing more ragged each day, my shirt hanging looser on my small frame. His displeasure was palpable.
"You know, if you don't eat, you'll just die. Starvation is a slow and miserable death. Is that what you want?" His eyes squinted in my direction as he spoke.
I chuckled weakly. I may not have had any fight left in me, but this defiance was the one thing I could still wield against him—something he craved but would soon lose.
