r.e.m

love me 4 me.

"You never loved me for me, saw me for me
You never saw me for me, loved me for me."

The man who had won his bid on me, who Travis had called "Mr. Green", lingered in the back of my mind like a nightmare I couldn't wake from. His hands had been rough, his voice a sickening mix of amusement and cruelty, and I had retreated into that numb place I swore I would never have to retreat to.

It wasn't me on that bed that night. It was someone else, some hollow exterior I'd created to survive. I let her take over, let her feel the pain and disgust while I floated somewhere far away. That was how I survived then, and how I've managed to survive while being here.

It had been two weeks. Maybe longer. I couldn't tell anymore. I had no windows in this trap house Travis had stashed me in. The walls of this abandoned house closed in on me, but it was the eyes that haunted me. The ones watching from the cameras mounted in every corner, their red lights blinking like tiny heartbeats.

I had no idea where I was. Somewhere deep in the outskirts, maybe, where the trees grew thick and the roads stayed empty. The kind of place people didn't ask about or where no one would think to look. Somewhere forgotten and abandoned like I felt deep in my soul.

I sat on a worn-out couch that creaked every time I shifted, staring up at a cracked ceiling with water stains that looked like inkblots. My wrists still throbbed from the last time Travis had yanked me around like a rag doll. The bruises were fresh, purple shadows against my skin that ached every time I moved.

Lately, Travis has been more paranoid, and twitchy. Every noise outside had him reaching for his gun, barking orders at Kai or whoever else was around that seemed to be on his payroll. I kept telling myself, trying to convince myself that Blaze was close. That Jasai was figuring it out. That they were somewhere out there, hunting for me.

My attention shot to the door when I heard footsteps in the hall. The familiar, heavy drag of boots made my skin crawl. My mind felt fuzzy, almost like static. Yesterday, Mr. Green "visited" me again. He came almost twice a week now, like clockwork. A pathetic old man in a cheap suit with greedy eyes and sour breath. The kind of man who paid to feel like he owned something.

Every time he showed up, he came with a little orange bottle. Perc 10s. I hated them at first. I fought him every damn time, kicking, screaming, and biting. But he didn't care about my protests. He would just hold me down until the pills were shoved down my throat. And the pills... they made it easier.

I hated that they helped.

The first time he forced one down my throat, I fought the dizziness, trying to stay sharp. But now, I almost looked forward to it. It was like floating above the mess, detached and distant, watching everything happen to someone else. When the pill hit, I didn't have to feel the grime of his hands, the weight of his body, the suffocating stink of sweat. It was survival.