The Monsters Inside (Formerly Extract)

Innocence

I lay huddled in a corner when my second encounter with the men occurred. Now, there were three, the same two from before and a new one. This new one had fire red hair and green, hypnotic eyes. They stood in front of me unspeaking. My wide, dazed eyes watched them as a deer would a speeding car: a beautiful disaster waiting to happen. The first to strike was the blonde one. My temple throbbed from the force of his hit, and my eyes rolled back in my head. Another punch to my jaw had me spitting blood. But I was not there. I was far away, up high in the ceiling, watching some poor girl get beat up by three men. I was a bird in the window of the adjacent room, a passing bystander, a random onlooker. Anything, but the one receiving the torture. That wasn’t me. That wasn’t me. That wasn’t me...

                                                              ~~~~~~~

            Five days had gone by. I counted the time from the small clock outside my little prison. The small, envelope sized window had been boarded with wood since my last escape attempt. I had forced my fist through the glass, clawing for the doorknob with no avail. There was always someone in the other room, making escape impossible. They had boarded the thing up while I had been knocked unconscious. A small chip showed the clock atop the tiny TV they had. I wondered silently if they had left that crack to torture me, to show me how much life was slipping away. And I could feel it slipping away, day by day, each second being strung from my body as I lay at the mercy of my captors.

The little lock clicked, and a small loaf of bread was thrown at me. This would be my meal for the day. I ravaged it, hungry for anything. My arm was numb from all the blood I had lost, but I didn’t bother with it. There wasn’t much in the room that could be used as a band-aid. I waited to hear the lock click again, announcing my imprisonment, but there was none. Instead two men walked in, one red haired and one with brown hair. I waited, knowing by the looks in their eyes that a fight was going to break out. But no, this time it was worse than a fight.

            The red head grabbed my arms and forced them behind my back. A lick of pain, like fire, shot down my shoulders, and I cried out. A slap, branding my cheek, was my reward. I waited for the rest of the hits, kicks, blood, but they never came. Cold, unforgiving hands reach up my skirt to my most secret place. I cringed, sweat breaking out on my skin as I realized what would occur. My underwear was ripped down, my shirt pushed up to my throat. “S-stop...” My whimper was ignored. Closing my eyes, I pretended I was somewhere else. I was outside, with friends, chatting happily about some party. I was with my grandmother, serving her lunch while she cleaned her room yet again. I was at home, watching a movie where a girl is beaten and raped. I wasn’t there. I wasn’t there. I wasn’t there...

            They left my body slumped on the floor, naked, blood staining my legs, among other things. Bruises covered my arms where they held me down. My chest was cut from when they pressed a knife to it. Tears noiselessly ran down my face, trailing down my cheeks, lingering on my chin, and dropping to the concrete floor. My heart was still thumping from before, and my mind refused to process what had just happened. Help, I thought, since my voice refused to work. I realized I was praying yet again, to a God I wasn’t even sure was listening. Help, help, help...

My naked body registered the cold before my mind did. Hands shaking, breath clouding, I tried to pull my clothes on again. Wrapping my arms around myself, I fought against the chill, and the sleep tugging on my soul, like an impatient toddler to his mother's pant leg. My eyes closed of their own accord. Maybe I could just rest for a little while. Only a little while...

                                                      ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

            Weeks had passed –or at least, it felt like weeks. Time had ceased to exist in my little prison, and my photo stopped appearing on the TV in the other room. I wondered if my family had given up hope. Had they even looked for me? Were they worried about me? Did they cry over me bed, wishing I was safely tucked away? Memories of my childhood flooded back, and I saw myself as a child, watching mother pace across the room. Worry was written on her face, little Tommy could not be found. Tommy!? I heard my mother’s scream as if she was right in front of me. She was frantic, sweating, crying. A knock at the door grasped her full attention. Our neighbor had come carrying my baby brother in his arms. He had been playing in the flower beds. Mother, relieved, rushed over and crushed Tommy to her chest. Everything seemed alright again.

            Tommy had only been missing a few minuets. I knew I had been gone for days. Mother must be beside herself with worry, I thought miserably. Closing my eyes, I saw my house in front of me. Lights were lit, and the smell of dinner wafted through the air. I imagined opening the door, when the sound of the real door –my door- slammed me back to reality. The men were back, although one boy was different. He seemed younger, angrier, and ready for violence. I cringed, contemplating what his rage would feel like imprinted on my skin. But, as the men threw him on the floor, I realized that this boy wasn’t another attacker. He was a prisoner, like me.