Captive{ated}

Thirty-Three: Denial

You promised me I wouldn't remember a thing, that I would sleep through the ritual, but that wasn't entirely true.

I don't think I was ever fully conscious, but there were things I was aware of. The feeling of my back on a table, the stares of dozens of eyes on my helpless frame. Something rough on my wrists and ankles. A rope for restraint? A glow from torches beneath the willow. My heart beating rapidly in my chest as I was unable to move. And I could hear your father's voice. Not his words, but it was undeniably him with his boisterous theatrics.

There was a cry of something. I don't know what. Terror. A hand caressed my forehead. Yours? Something warm poured on my stomach. The devoted chants of the Villagers.

These were all things that flashed through my mind the next time I fully woke up. My head was pounding, my stomach nauseous, and all I could do was cry when I saw the ruined dress I wore. Dried and crusty blood soaked through the light blue material making it a horrid brown. I brought my knees to my chest, wrapped my arms around them, and buried my face into my legs to release a muffled scream. I supposed I had a vague idea of what happened, both from the drugged memories and evidence left behind, but I was still so confused, so scared.

So violated.

By the time I wound up to release another scream, you came crashing in through the door. You hugged me tightly as I screamed again, repeating that you were sorry over and over, that you would never do something like that to me again. Shoulders trembling, I heaved instead of breathed. My mental state was far from sane. Not being able to think properly, it was you who took care of me.

"Let's get you cleaned up," you offered. When you pulled away, red splotched your shirt from me. Perhaps it was from the drugs, but seeing it made me dizzy. My vision turned red for a moment. You guided me up. I couldn't stand on my own two feet without your support.

I never did ask where all that blood came from. I didn't want to know.

When I washed, I sat in the bath tub as the lukewarm water trickled down me. Despite being slightly chilled, I don't know how long I sat there in a fetal position. You let me have as long as I needed.

When I finished, I didn't hurt as much anymore. The pain turned numb. It was more than that, though. It was impossible to feel anything at all.

My throat was so sore that I didn't speak anymore that first day. Knowing that I needed space, you made that easy, even sleeping in the other room so I could have our bed to myself. The only solace I found was Joy, my ever faithful companion, never leaving my side. She slept in your spot, licking my face periodically to remind me she was still there. She was the only reason I smiled at all that day albeit how sad of one it was.

The next day, I didn't leave the bed except for another long shower, still not feeling quite clean enough. Your mother paid a visit not having words. Her lip trembled when she tried to say something, and when all else failed, she held me and rocked me in her arms as I cried some more. She hummed Bob Marley's tune, "Three Little Birds," and the song had never felt so sad on my ears. She held me as though I was her daughter as I yearned for the touch of a mother- my mother. Since mine couldn't be there, though, Tara was a close second. She was the only one who knew the truth understood the fear I felt from the whole ordeal.

No ritual would help with the conception of a child. I went through the horror of it for nothing, forced to by both you and your father. Not only that, but now more eyes were on me than ever.

At the end of the day, I was still on the same boat, but now it was sinking like the Titanic: ever so slowly until it broke in half.

"What am I going to do?" I asked not wanting an answer. She didn't have one she could give if she wanted to. Instead, she continued to rock me gently, not missing a beat.