Abandoned

I sit alone and I wait. The silence is deafening. The blackness is total. The fear, my fear, suffocates me. I can actually taste it. The salty, gaulding bile rises in the back of my throat and I gag on the futility of it all. How could I, of all people, have ended up like this? 

I pride myself on being self-sufficient. I have never needed anybody. Not until now. Now, I would give my right arm for one of my big brothers or my ex-husband to walk through the door. I would kiss the feet of my worst enemy were she to get me out of here. 

But that was not to be the case. I don’t know how long I’ve been here, but it’s been a while. My hair is a good two inches longer than when I arrived. That same ex-husband would love it. He always griped when I cut my hair. Now, I wish I was bald. The lice wouldn’t have as much to chew on.

In some ways I’m glad I can’t see myself. From what I can guess, my body is a total mess, and the smell, well I don’t even like to think about that. The dirt and excrement covering my body stink to high heaven, but the rats don’t seem to mind. Every now and then one will take a nibble. 

I have infection somewhere. I can smell it. Rotting flesh. I can’t find it though, with my hands tied behind my back. I can’t even feel my hands anymore. And my legs, well, that was a whole other story.

I don’t think whoever dropped me in here wanted it to happen. My screams and the snaps of breaking bone seemed to have shocked him. I don’t know what he expected. You drop a bound woman down and thirty foot hole and something is going to break. He did splint them for me. Not that it did much good. Still hurt like hell for a while. Not so much anymore.

Nothing hurts now. I don’t know whether it’s lack of food or just body parts dying, and I don’t really care. It’s nice not to be in constant pain. I know, pain means my body is still fighting, but my mind can only stand so much fight. I’m tired.

I try to sleep, but it doesn’t work. The rats keep me awake. I lay here and I listen to them coming. I can keep them away by screaming or jerking as much as possible, but eventually exhaustion takes over and I’ll pass out. I wake up and feel them. My shrieks force them away again but it’s too late. I think that’s where the infection came from.

I still have no idea why he took me. I asked, at first, but soon learned it was a hopeless case. He wasn’t going to tell me. All he would do was mumble something about uppity women thinking he was stupid. “I’ll show you stupid,” he would yell every time he slapped me, or he’d ask, “Who’s stupid now?” while he was bucking on top of me. 

I’ve never met the man before in my life but that didn’t seem to matter. He still hated me. You want to hear the sick part? I wish he would come back. 

I wanted him to stay away at first. I would scream and curse at him every chance I got. I told him I would rather starve than have him touch me again. I spoke in big words to make him feel as stupid as he said women thought him to be. I made him furious. I did a good job. 

Too good.

He hasn’t been back in a long time. My stomach quit rumbling a while back. Now, it’s just a gnawing pain that won’t go away. I’ve had dry heaves and the passing out spells are coming closer together. I would eat the rats, but I can’t catch one in my mouth. I’ve tried.

I wonder if anyone misses me. My family probably hasn’t even noticed I’m gone yet. I only talk to them a couple times a year. I guess maybe my clients wonder where I went, but freelance designers aren’t always the most reliable so I’m sure they just hired someone else when I failed to show up. The bill collectors are probably more worried about me than anyone else.

It turns out independence isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, and I’m not as independent as I thought I was. I’m lonely. I miss talking with people. I miss my family. I miss my life. I miss a lot of things.

“Wake up!” 

I can’t believe it. He’s back! I must have passed out again and didn’t hear him come in. 

He has coffee. I can smell it. I miss coffee.

He also has a bag. I don’t know what’s in it, but it smells delicious. I miss food.

He has a bucket and rag. Soapy water! I miss taking a shower.

He has the knife. He pushes it into my throat as he rapes me so I won’t resist. He doesn’t need the knife anymore. 

“Did you miss me?” he asks.

“Yes,” I whisper back.

I miss a lot of things.

Friends and Strangers

Sometimes you think you know people, but then you find out you were terribly wrong. That everything you thought you knew was a lie. When it happens, your whole world is turned upside down, and, since the very friends you counted on are the ones who caused the problem, you have nowhere to turn. 

It was a cold November night when my preconceptions were shattered. All of us, Cheryl, Tracy, Shelly, Melba and me were dressed to the nines and ready to hit the town. We’d been going out every Friday night for years, each woman taking turns picking the spot. That night, Tracy picked The Purple Peacock. The name suggested a fun, colorful experience, but instead brought a nightmare from which none of us fully awoke.

The trouble started when Cheryl hooked up with a man on the dance floor. She threw herself all over him, and nothing we said could stop her. All of us tried to warn her of the dangers in going home with a man you just met, but she was adamant that he was harmless. Turned out, he was far from it. Two hours after she left, Cheryl stumbled back into the club, dress torn, makeup smeared and tears running down her cheeks. We all gathered around her and demanded to know what had happened. When she told us Prince Charming had forced himself on her, I can hardly say I was surprised, but Tracy’s rebuke was uncalled for and cruel. She practically told Cheryl it was her fault she was raped. 

Melba wanted Cheryl to go straight to the police. Cheryl refused, insistent that she was fine and didn’t want to make a big deal out of her stupidity. I thought the stupidest thing was to refuse to go to the authorities and told her so. In hindsight, I realize she was just lashing out from grief and pain, but at the time, Cheryl hurt me beyond words when she slapped me and told me to mind my own damn business, that until I had been raped, I didn’t have any right to tell her anything. I had never seen that side of Cheryl, and didn’t care to witness it again. I’ve stayed out of her business ever since.

Tracy left, disgusted with the whole situation, instead of trying to help Cheryl, she just threw in the towel. Shelly was no help at all because the whole incident brought back memories of her own attack as a teenager. She simply shrunk into herself and said she couldn’t talk about it. Melba left with Tracy when she couldn’t talk Cheryl into going to the police, and, although I was still there, Cheryl didn’t want anything to do with me. In the span of a few hours, our friendships went down the drain.

Kill Me Quietly

Sharon watched the man as he pulled his pants down. She screamed on the inside, but not a sound escaped into the house. 

“You enjoying the show?” he asked and ran the tip of his finger down her cheek. 

“Yes,” Sharon whispered. Anything to keep him focused on her and as quiet as possible. She couldn’t bear the thought of her children seeing anything that was about to happen.

The man finished undressing, folded his clothes neatly and laid them on the dresser. Sharon just wanted him to hurry, but it looked like he was into taking his time. She only hoped he was finished before the children woke up.

When he was finally going at it, the man started talking. Sharon couldn’t have that so she kissed him, deeply and passionately. This only excited him more and he finished quickly.

“You’re a surprise,” he informed her as he was dressing. “I’m going to hate killing you. I’d much rather come back for another visit.”

Sharon blanched. She never thought about him killing her, especially if she cooperated. A sound from down the hall caught her attention and she turned to the man who now held a knife.

“Please kill me quietly,” she begged.