Chapter Five

Diana

IT IS EASY to keep track of days; I can still see the light through the boards on the window. I know it will be nearly three years soon since I have been held captive, since my mother died, since my life became whittled down to this quagmire of pain and depravity.

Since I became a child sex slave.

You hear about these sorts of horror stories on the internet, or in movies. You never think you will be in one, and have the starring role no less.

I stopped begging God to kill me. Either He isn't real or He has no intention of allowing my suffering to cease. Even if I went to Hell, no way would it be half as vicious as my living reality.

I just want it all to stop.

As I muse, the door opens. I don't flinch anymore. Let whatever may come just kill me quicker.

Mike tosses an apple and a bottle of water at me; both fall to the floor by the bed. "Finish those and wash your fucking stench. Tonight's going to be a big one."

I don't respond, and usually he doesn't care. Today, it's different.

"Don't you want to know why, cunt?"

I don't even dignify him with a shake of my head.

"Tomorrow's your birthday. You're gonna be an adult. And that means most of the clients who pay for you won't anymore. They don't have any interest in grown ass women."

That makes me start, and he chuckles at the reaction. It's my birthday? I note the passage of time, not the dates.

"So get ready. Tonight is the last hurrah." With that, he leaves.

What does he mean by a last hurrah?

Is he finally going to fucking end my miserable existence? Or will he just find new clients who don't mind someone over eighteen?

Will I ever be free?

I can barely hear Mike on the phone all afternoon, talking to a lot of people.

What if he sells me? He's done that, he told me. But this new person could be worse. But I could also escape easier.

Worrying about it won't help. Just deal with it as it comes, my conscience scolds.

Later that night, I hear voices. A lot of voices. All men from the sound of it, though I know it's not unusual for a woman or two to come see me. But … that's a lot of people.

I feel dread settle into my stomach, my nervous system recognizing the danger before my brain will ever acknowledge it. The less I address it, the less it can traumatize me.

The door to my bedroom opens, and Mike stands there, a clear path outside right in front of me, but I am far too cowed to take it.

"Come on, bitch," he practically barks. "This room is too small. Get out there."

Is this a trick? No, it can't be. There are people out in the living room, after all. Tentatively, I stand, holding my breath as I walk past him. I expect him to grab me by the hair and beat me for daring to leave the bedroom, but he doesn't. He shuts that door and follows me into the living room where ten … eleven … twelve men stand around. Some have bottles of beer like this is a party.

"All right!" Mike calls from behind me, voice loud above the din, and I flinch. "It is eight in the evening. We have until midnight for her to still be to your specific tastes. All former rules I had in place are out the window. Do what you want, how you want, where you want with this cunt. You paid well to let your darkest selves out; get your money's worth."

He shoves me forward into the waiting arms of the first man. I think I recognize him; I think I recognize a few of them. Honestly, it's been a blur and my brain has rejected or compartmentalized most of it.

The man grins wickedly and the next thing I know, my cheek stings and my head whips so fast, I may have whiplash from his punch.

The music turns up, a severely loud bass that is likely to cover up any sounds that get made. The neighbors won't call the cops for a party with music, but they might for a gangrape.

Might .

The man tosses me onto the floor and more hands grab at me, holding me aloft, legs spread, as a cock pierces my unprepared pussy. That's the only time I usually scream, the pain is too bad with that first thrust before my body adjusts and tears come to my eyes quickly.

Tonight, I think that will be the least of my pain.

I can't fully detail it all; all I can recall is fiery pain, cocks over and over in every hole. They force me to vomit and then go back to throatfucking me, calling me a fat pig, a whore, disgusting, not even worthy of their cum.

When the first cock penetrates my ass, I feel something tear and start to cry. Blood drips down my thighs but they don't care, they laugh as they trade off between them, sometimes two cocks at once.

I want to die.

And then the beatings start. My ribs take the worst of it, and something snaps, sharp pain making me gasp as I lose air for a moment.

My nose shatters from a boot to the face, and things start to get hazy.

Laughter can barely be heard above the loud bass bumping from the speakers, but I can see the crazed joy on their faces, and it hits me.

I really am going to die.

None of these men would care if I died now; they'd keep fucking my body as long as it was still warm and pliant.

Four hours must pass, but I spend the last of it in a haze of pain. Nose, ribs, I think maybe my cheekbone: all broken. Asshole torn and bleeding. Maybe my pussy too, I don't know.

The last thing I remember hearing is Mike saying, "Time's almost up, finish up and we can dump the body."

The darkness is fading. There's a hazy gray light, and I feel like I'm floating.

"Mom? Dad?"

"Honey, don't try to move or talk too soon." It's a woman's voice, low with a soothing but stern tone.

My eyes open more, and I'm not dead. I'm in … an infirmary? The light hurts my head; my whole body aches somewhere beneath the floaty feeling.

Turning my head, I see a beautiful woman, maybe in her mid-twenties, with long black hair and equally dark eyes.

"Where… Who…"

She shushes me sharply this time, not mean but more like a sister.

"My name's Vera. I run this blood bank. I happened to be taking a walk last night and found you. Do you remember anything?" the woman asks tentatively.

I do. Of course I do.

"Please…" My voice is raw from screaming last night. "He can't find me. He thinks I'm dead. If I'm alive he'll finish the job."

Vera nods as if she understands. "You're not the first woman I've found like this. I am sure you sadly won't be the last. But rest now. Your nose wasn't broken, but you're pretty bruised in the face. Your ribs will take time to finish setting, but we managed to snap them back into place.

"When you wake up, we will plan the rest of your life, your freedom."

It turns out Vera is just basically a good Samaritan who has helped people for all reasons. I don't really know. Once she took me to a women's shelter and the older lady there praised her, she vanished. I had so many questions, but no way to reach her.

"She's like Batman," the woman, Hattie, comments. "Saves men, women, children, animals, and then vanishes into the night as if she was never here."

"She shouldn't have saved me," I admit quietly.

"Why not, honey?"

"I can't survive this world. I'm too broken. I've been too broken for a long time."

Hattie kneels down so she's at eye-level with me. "Broken things can be fixed. We will fill those cracks with gold."

I don't think it's gold, per se, but the shelter sets me up with a counselor who, after realizing I will not speak of anything in detail, switches her focus to me being well enough to live on my own, to not succumb to flashbacks.

Other women at the shelter teach me basic cooking skills, and how to work most appliances. Mom had taught me, but things have changed since she did so on our old, outdated things.

"Why the Hell does a fridge need to talk?" I ask, and the other women find me hilarious.

"Better than a man talking," one of them comments, and the others all agree.

What if they knew women hurt me too? That it's not just men who do unspeakable acts?

My ribs heal. My mind doesn't, but my soul begins to do … something. Call it hardening.

Mike wanted me dead. He expected me to have no life after he took away my childhood. For the first time since I was thirteen, I didn't do what he wanted.

I survived.

I wanted to die, but I didn't.

So now I have to live, if only to spite him.

The shelter has a network of apartments who will rent via cash payment and to women who have no credit and are looking to hide from abusers or have fallen on hard times. This landlord is new to the network and he doesn't question me when I say I don't even have a job yet.

"Rent is due on the first. You get three days' grace period," Rick tells me. "I'm sure it will all work out."

I spent three months at the shelter, and now I have my own place. It's tiny, and dingy, but it's mine. Mine to decorate, mine to live in, mine to be safe in.

When the women see the movers out — all furniture is donated secondhand, but I don't mind — I burst into relieved tears.

Is this my life? Really? Truly?

Did I go from three years of total horror, preceded by two years of abuse, to actual freedom?

It seems too good to be true.

Of course, things that seem too good to be true often are.

I cannot find a job. At all. Not a single place has hired me or called me back. Some wanted me to be bilingual, others didn't trust that I don't know my own social security number. And the list goes on.

The night before the first of the month hits, I make a decision after over a week of intense internal deliberation with my conscience.

I have to use what I have to make money. The one thing I'm good at. The only thing I'm good at.

The realization I have to be my own pimp, sell myself to earn my freedom, causes me to break down once more in tears. I cry for so long I pass out, salt tracks drying on my face.

Reality fucking sucks, and freedom is an illusion. We are all bound to something, usually money and debt. For some it's a soul-sucking desk job. For others like me, it's selling away my very soul along with my body.

I apparently was so exhausted I don't hear anyone enter my apartment. I'm blissfully ignorant until a weight settles on my mattress and my eyes open automatically, thinking it's Mike.

And honestly, what is the difference that it's not?

Rick kneels over me, his cock out of his pants, rage in his eyes. The same sort of anger and insanity I saw in every man Mike sent to hurt me.

"No." It's not a plea. It's a command. "You're supposed to be here for women who need help!"

He slaps me. "Dumb whore. I let cunts like you in because it's so easy to fuck your lying, lazy, sloppy pussies and who are you going to report me to? You're no one. Nothing. You have nothing. They'd laugh you out of the police station but probably not before using you too."

He paws at my oversized shirt and it tears at the collar. He's like an animal as he forces me down, forces my legs open. "This is what happens to whores who don't pay their rent on the first. You get three days of this until it's paid.

"After that, you're my property to sell."