CHAPTER 15
Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.
Violent shivers take over my body as I hold myself close, desperately trying to keep warm. My teeth chatter to the point of pain, and no matter how much I try, I can’t make them stop.
My clothes are wet from the ground, my hair is matted with mud, and the chill has more than soaked through to my bones. It’s been two nights and I can honestly say that I’d take the lifetime of bullshit in the foster system over the two nights I’ve spent here.
I haven’t slept. Not because sleep is for the weak, but because finding it is impossible.
The heavy banging of metal sounds all through the night, girls screaming and being abused, and then there’s the fear that rests heavily against my chest. I just want to go home. I want to sleep in my own shitty bed and see familiar faces.
The darkness is crippling me, and for the first time in my life, I know that if I have to suffer through another night here, I’ll be wishing for death.
I can’t do it.
All night, I played scenarios over in my head, trying to figure out a way that I could finish myself, but all I have are my own two hands. I’ve never felt this kind of desperation before, this fear, and agony. I wouldn’t wish this upon my worst enemy.
For the hundredth time in two days, the tears begin streaming down my face. I’ve never felt this low, so alone, and frightened. Every last ounce of energy is drained from my body, but I think that’s what they want. They want me complacent, they want me to give in, to cave and allow them to play whatever sick, twisted games they’ve been dying to play, the kind of games their wives and children would never appreciate or approve of.
Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.
I’m going to become someone’s dirty, secret little whore, and every day for the rest of my life, I’m going to beg for death, but it’ll never come. I’ll never get out of here, never be free.
I was supposed to be turning eighteen in two months, I was supposed to be given my life back to do whatever I want with it. I was so close.
The sound of the heavy metal lock sliding out of place has become all too familiar over the last two days that my head doesn’t even snap up anymore. I’ve completely given up. My hope is gone and I don’t even bother fighting back, or maybe it’s just my lack of energy after being bound for two days straight.
My wrists and ankles bleed, and I silently beg that I’ll get a nasty infection that might be just enough to do the job.
There’s another loud bang before I sense men walking into my dark cell, shining a blinding light in my eyes. The light travels up and down my body before the men come at me. I hear the metallic slide of a switchblade and I try to scream, but I don't have the energy left to make a sound.
The knife slices straight through the bonds at my wrist, cutting up my skin in the process. My arms fall, and my muscles ache from being held so tightly in the same position. A surge of hope fires through me. Are these my rescuers?
“Help. Please help,” I whisper, my voice hoarse from screaming.
Not a sound comes from them as the knife slices through the bonds at my ankles. My whole body is sprawled across the floor and it takes me a second to gain control of my tired muscles. I try to move when a hand grips my upper arm and yanks me to my feet.
One man holds me up, and just when I think we’re about to get out of here, the light drops over my body, and the other guy begins grabbing my clothes, pulling and tugging them, tearing the fabric until there’s not a damn thing left. “No,” I scream, fearing this is it. From here on out, I’ll forever be ruined, scarred and unable to be the girl that I used to be.
I’m completely stripped naked with not an ounce of energy to do anything about it. My hair is pulled at, my skin bruised and tortured, the jewelry ripped from my body. My brass knuckles are stolen and just when the humiliation sweeps through me, a cold bucket of water is thrown over me and my body is violently scrubbed clean.
“Stop touching me,” I sob, the desperate shivers making it nearly impossible to make out a damn word that comes tearing out of my mouth. They grip my hair, rubbing at the matted mud before ripping a comb through it, tearing out chunks as they go. “Stop. Please, stop. Let me go home. I want to go home.”