Chapter 6

Iwake up screaming, thrashing about. "No stop. Please don't. I will do what you ask. You're hurting me." I vaguely hear someone shushing me, tightening their hold on me filling me with a sense of safety. I go in and out of nightmares, my mind a constant beating drum of the torture and horror I sustained. I can feel something in mar and for a minute, a sense of relief hits me thinking I am finally getting what I am craving. But then last night hit me. It takes all the memory I have to recall it is not the needle that gave me my dependency.

"Piccola, I am here. I am here and you are safe. Follow my voice. Open your eyes," the deep soothing voice says. I know I probably should, but I don't want to open them and find it has all been a dream and I am right back in that dark, dank place. "Come on, baby. Look at me with those beautiful eyes." Fingers caress my face and I lean into it. I can't tell you the last time someone touched me with care, even before I was taken. My family are not the people who love you or show you affection. Their sons are bred to take their place when they die, carry their names, and breed more boys. Their daughters, well, I told you this.

Finally my eyes begin to open slightly, and I see that I am in a different room than before. It dawns on me that I don't know how long I have been asleep. My body is still at war and only one thing will end the feud it is going through. I jump out of bed, panic stricken, and I am sure crazed looking.

"I need a needle. I know you have something, right? Don't all traffickers carry drugs on them?" I lunge at him trying to rip his pants open. He tries to get me to calm down and I am not sure what happens, but I hear him curse before he wraps his arms around me.

"It's going to be okay, Satine. Just let it subside. You don't need that shit, baby. They just trained you into thinking you do." I hear his words and logically I know he is right, but my body doesn't care. I need only one thing. "Close your eyes, baby. Stop trying to fight me." Am I? I don't know how long it will take, but finally my mind begins to calm down. My body hasn't but I am controlling that with breathing, listening to his voice. When my heart begins to slow down, he lifts my head and looks at me.

"Ah there she is," the voice says. He continues to hold me, and I don't want it to end. If I open my eyes he has no more reason to hold me. "I won't let go until you tell me you are alright." Hmm. Maybe I won't tell him that then. My stomach picks this moment to growl. "You had me worried there for a moment." I look at him quizzically, because I know he is not referring to my nightmare or my state of being right now. "You have been asleep twelve hours, angel." Is he serious? That is almost a whole day. My stomach makes itself known at this moment. "I see you are hungry, Piccola. Would you like to try to eat?" I am about to say no when the growling gets louder, and he curses and chuckles at the same time. "It seems your stomach has spoken for you. Inside or on the veranda?"

I try to speak, but my throat feels clogged and dry. My mouth opens and closes in a moment of futility. "You need water, little one. I am sorry. Here you go." He brings the glass to my lips, and I suck it down like I haven't had it in weeks. I guess I haven't. "Slow down baby. I don't want you to choke." he removes the glass from my parched lips. "Alright, try to talk now."

I open my mouth and a squeak comes out. I try once more, and a raspy voice emerges. "Thank you," is the first thing I say.

"For what?" I look at him like he is crazy. Is he serious? Not only did he save my life, but he held me through the most awful nightmare.

"For everything. Especially for holding me." He mumbles something about having it his way and never letting go. Before I can ask what he means, he gets up taking his heat and safety with him and looks at me.

"I am going to get you chicken soup. Inside or outside?" I look at the glass door which I didn"t notice before. I realize we are on a beach. What I wouldn't give to smell the ocean.

"Outside," I answer him, anxious to feel the wind on my irritated skin. I begin scratching my arms, a compulsive action I can't seem to stop ever since they gave my first hit and then withheld it from me. He has a look of concern, but says nothing.

"Perfect. I will be back." He walks out the door and I get up and go to the ladies room. I look at myself in the mirror and I see a shell of who I was. They succeeded in breaking me, especially when they began putting needles in my arm. I don't think I will ever get back to myself.

Feeling the sadness and hopelessness coming back, I snatch the IV from my arm, never mind the blood dripping from it now. I open the outside door and walk like the dead to the water. I am supposed to feel the sun, allow its radiant rays to rejuvenate me, but instead all I see is a way out.

My feet move without provocation like weightless things that can carry me to peace. Of course my brain knows I am in the water, but the synapses in it no longer register that I am a person.

For weeks I was told I was nothing, a piece of pussy to be used and tossed away like trash. They taunted me about the type of man who would buy a virgin. About how evil he would be and how he would use me and pass me to his friends. I wished for death, and here it is at my feet, literally.

I feel the cold water at my knees. Do I stop? No. I keep going. I feel it when it is at my waist. Do I pull back and try to save myself? Of course not. I register that it is now up to my chest, masking the ever-present need for a fix. This should alert me, wake me up, but it does the opposite. It makes me feel calm and deserving of finality.

The water is over my head now. I don't bother trying to come up. I simply stay under until my last breath takes me. Then I feel it. Something strangely resembling salvation. But then, suddenly I am being pulled from the water, the voice of my unwanted hero cursing me and pleading with me to be okay. I hear his words, but I don't let them sink in.

"Jesus, Piccola. What have you done? Why would you do this? Please be alright." That's funny because I don't think I will ever be okay again. "Shit, baby. Breathe for me." I hear him but I also see a chance to be free from this pain. I have no will to live and you need will, don't you? His hands push on my chest and the end I was seeking is no longer within my reach. My lungs begin to expand, and water is coughed up repetitiously, until I begin wheezing. "Thank fuck. I thought I'd lost you." I should be grateful, right? Instead I am crying, hitting him, cursing him for bringing me back.

"Why didn't you let me die? I have nothing. I am nothing. You should have let me be free." I scream at him before coughing and running out of breath. He looks at me with so much compassion and something else I am not ready to dissect.

"Oh little one, you are already someone to me." That makes me cry harder. Shivering, I bury my face into his chest and sob for the girl who was a prisoner but was also vibrant and free. I cry for the girl who is now lost and fragile.

He takes me into the room and lays me on the bed before walking away. He comes back with a handful of blankets, a pair of sweatpants, a shirt and socks. "Come Piccola, let's get you dry and warm."

His hands don't hesitate when he strips the clothes from my body, and I am bared to him. I see his jaw clench, but his eyes stay on my face. I lift my arms when requested, he allows me to put on my own panties, which I have no idea where they came from. I watch this six-foot man care for me like one would a sick lover and I can't help but be grateful, but also want to beg him to do it forever.

Once I am dry he rings out my hair and puts it in a ponytail. "I'm sorry," I tell him filled with shame. Here he is risking his life to save me, and I just tried to kill myself. That is the epitome of selfishness.

"I know, baby. Just don't do anything like that again, okay? You damn near gave me a heart attack." He puts his hand over his heart and pretends to pass out. It elicits a giggle from me. I am so shocked by it that my hands fly to my mouth. Laughing at anything is something I haven't done in a long time. Will it ever be normal again?