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CHAPTER SEVEN *EVERLY*

        At first, it was much worse than it is now. He didn't trust me so I was tied up all of the time. And he was full of fury so there was a lot of hitting and abuse. The first rape was the worst. I was resistant, I tried to fight him off. But I'd lost so much blood from where he shot me...it was futile. Even in my best shape I wouldn't have been able to get free. He had wrapped his hands around my throat, squeezed and squeezed until the room I was in faded out and I was only minimally conscious. The whole time, he was screaming at me to remember who I belonged to. To remember what I'd done to deserve this. The clothes were ripped off, the ties secured around wrists and ankles. And for the next few weeks I was at his mercy, completely vulnerable to anything he wanted to do to me. He fed me, bathed me, beat me or raped me, depending on his mood. Because I was his and had so much to make up for. He'd drink and come in angry and resentful. He'd slap me, pull my hair, force himself on me. He used a belt, an extension cord, and one memorable time, the ember end of a cigar. Almost a year later and the scars he's left behind those first weeks show us both the times he went to far.

        Then, like the bipolar man I'm convinced he is, he'd return sober and remorseful. His self loathing was evident in tone and act. He'd gently wipe dried blood from my flesh, clean his mess from between my legs, rub lotion on me and weep until my stomach turned and it was all I could do not to puke.

        He was SORRY. Why did I make him behave that way? He loved me- would always love me. If I would only ACT right.

        After awhile, the fear turned to numbness and I became better able to cope. To fake it. To lie and say the things he clearly needed to hear. And slowly, the trust came.

        He assured me that Noah and Julian were okay. When I insisted on proof, he returned with pictures of them on his phone. It was from a distance, like all of the other pictures he'd sent me, but I could clearly see it was them. Julian looked awful, dark pools under his eyes, pale. But he was okay, holding Noah, too young to know what had happened.

        To young to remember me at all.

        I wanted to reach out and touch those faces. To reassure them. What must Julian think? I knew his first assumption would be that I left. Again. After promising not to. And knowing he would think that filled me with sorrow.

        I don't know who tended to me after I was shot. I woke up in this strange room, weak and disoriented, and afraid. The bullet wound had already been cleaned and bandaged. Cleaned and STITCHED. Someone with medical experience did that. That was not the work of my captor.

        Talking him into untying me took time. Some begging and pleading. But after a bout of what I think was food poisoning, he finally relented so I could get to the attached bathroom on my own.

        There are no windows here. And it has the feel of a basement- slightly damp and cool all of the time. Well, downright cold when what I assumed was winter was upon us. Though the walls are painted light yellow and there's carpet on the floor, it is still a prison.

        I have been a good captive. I have too much to lose, too much at stake. I am acutely aware- and have been from the start- that Noah and Julian are at risk. I need to appease my kidnapper because I cannot know to what lengths he will go to control me, to claim ownership of me. Right now, I am separated from those that make him feel threatened. I desperately need him to keep his focus on me.

        I don't do anything to anger him. I don't fight or resist him any more. I don't search for ways to escape or scream for help in the hopes that someone will hear me. If I am here- if I am giving him what he wants- I'm hoping he'll never feel the need to think of Noah or Julian again.