I thought tonight was going to end like any other, with me filling the void I felt within
myself with cheap booze. When I was buzzed I didn't have to think about how the one thing that
constantly nagged at the back of my mind seemed completely and utterly wrong.
3
I was raised like any other army brat, constantly on the move and adhering to the strict
rules and beliefs laid down by my parents. Unfortunately that means that my newfound urges
seemed completely backwards and wrong, which led to a deep hatred of myself for feeling them
in the first place.
Of course, my parents thought that I had been drowning myself in alcohol because of post
traumatic stress caused by my capture. And while they were right that my depression and bar
hopping was caused by being relentlessly tortured at the hands of my captors for weeks on end,
they couldn't be more wrong about why the flashbacks disturbed me. Sure I woke up screaming,
but it wasn't caused from a nightmare. If anything it was a wet dream as they pulled my bonds
tighter, slapped me, twisted my nipples, burned me with the butts of their cigars, and choked me
till I was on the verge of passing out.
Even thinking about telling them the real truth behind my bad mood both frightened and
embarrassed me. So yes, I hid my true feelings to keep up the charade of normality so that my
parents wouldn't disown their freak of a daughter. At least with a diagnosis of PTSD I would be
accepted as a normal person who went through some tough shit. If I told them the truth, then not
only would I still have that hole I longed to fill with the deep and dark pleasures I felt only when
my body was wracked with the sweet pleasures of pain, but I would also lose the respect of my
friends and family whom I'd grown up with... the people I fought for all these years, and I didn't
know which was worse. Denying my true feelings and keeping my loved ones happy, or dealing
with the consequences of embracing the freak that I was and giving in to the desires that were
slowly driving me insane while they further invaded my every waking thought as they continued
to leak from my dreams.
To wake up horny every morning with no hope of satisfying your urges... and to have no
one who you could tell the truth to about what you were really feeling... it was a whole new kind
of torture, only this was not the pleasurable kind.
So yes, I began binge drinking and my family just accepted it as my way of coping with
the stress. And what's worse is that they even encouraged it.
Though, to be fair, if I hadn't been hitting up every bar and nightclub I knew of in town
on a weekly basis, I would have never met the people who helped me to not only accept who I
really was, but also helped me explore the depths of my darker urges.
Maybe I should begin my story there...at Club Raven. My arms and torso were sprawled
YOU ARE READING
Prisoner of Desires
RomanceJoe is a marine who had what most would consider a traumatic experience over seas when she was a POW, but now that she is back stateside she realizes that the new tastes and desires she acquired during weeks of harsh interrogation are going to take...
