Escape

1

Quiet. The birds have flown south. At least that's what he's been telling me. Rough. The cloth under my skin. He once called them wool. Hot. He doesn't believe that any room should be less than ninety degrees. Weak. That's what he tells me I am. Small. The room that he's had me locked in ever since I was a little girl. Wrong. What he is.

He watches me through the door. A small hole cut through the brown rotting wood. He knows I see him, but he doesn't care. He wants to come in. To climb on the slab, he calls a bed and lie with me. He won't though. Not until it's safe. Not until I'm asleep. Not since last time.

I can only see his blue eye as it follows every curve of my body. I can feel the blood inside me boil. I want to hit him. He will not have me again. I want to stretch that scar I left on his face. Broaden it to his neck. Slice him until he feels the way he made me feel. Every inch exposed. Every breath heaving with disgust. He brought me here. He stole me away in the night.

Perhaps his eye will pop like a grape when I shove my thumb through it. Maybe he will scream like I did the night he snatched me from my bed. My parents passed out from a night of drinking. To boozed up to hear my cries.

He tried to make me love him. Tried to force himself into my soul, but he never will. He will never find his way in.

Burns. The rope has left me scarred. Dry. My mouth with a gag jabbed into it. Dead. What he will be if he ever touches me again.

Never close your eyes, never turn your back. Always be prepared to run. The words run through my mind like a mantra. Something my mother used to say when she would do her yoga while watching the cable. Her back turned to me as my father closed the door.

Soft. My old sheets. Rape. What he did to me night after night. Silent. How my mother stayed.

I don't remember the first time it happened, but I do remember the last. It was the night He came and took me away. At first, I thought he was a hero, a policeman. I was wrong. He only wanted me the same way my father wanted me.

Hope. Something I lost long ago.

Tears. Wet blobs streaming down my face. Cramped. The box he shoved me in. He has company again. He does this at least once a week, I think. I have lost track of the time and hours spent hidden away. I am to remain silent. To not say a word, or even think. This is routine. He will show the others. I am his own private girl.

If his friends were to learn of my existence, they would want to trade me around. It would be all my fault. I watch through the crack in the box and closet door as he parades them through the showing room. Girl after girl. All decked out in their bare skin. Nothing left to the imagination.

Lucky. What I supposedly am. I wish he would let me out of this box. I would show him how grateful I am. One broken wine glass to the throat would tell him the truth. I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.

The bidding starts. I have never met these girls, so I don't know how they feel about this. Perhaps they like it, but I doubt it. Their faces tell the story of shame and fear. No pleasure is present anywhere except on the buyer's eyes. They can't wait to go home and try out their new toys.

One day I will make them all pay. 

When they are all gone, he rolls me out of the closet and into the showing room. It is my turn to put on a show.

Bare. What he makes me. Shackled. What he does to my hands and feet. Nowhere to run. No way to fight. He wants me to dance for him. To make him happy. He has waited all night for this. I can see it on his face. His hands are ready. No choice, but to dance.

Bright. The lights on the ceiling. I can't look at him. Reflection. Mine on his irises. The chains jingle as I move my body back and forth to the invisible rhythm. Time moves at a nonexistent speed. Sweat rolls down my skin. I can't stop. If I stop, then he will hurt me. I must dance until he is finished.

Hard. The floor beneath my bare feet. Cries. Sounds from the room next to this one. The unsold ones are getting shoved back into their cages. A night of punishment for them. They weren't perfect enough and now they must pay since no one else did. Hate. What I feel.