I think about you when he fucks me.
I think about all the times you told me you’d be the only man who would ever fuck me.
You swore you meant what you said. You promised me, and I believed you.
Now—it’s no longer true.
He’s fucked me even though I didn’t want him to. I don’t want him to. I don’t ever want him to again. Yet, he does. All. The. Damn. Time. He fucks me again and again. My mouth. My pussy. My ass. Because he can. He fucks me because you aren’t here to stop him.
And I’m scared to death you won’t ever be here to stop him. That you’ll never find me, and he’ll fuck me until he kills me. But I can’t think about that, or I won’t be able to keep going. Right now thinking about you is the ONLY thing keeping me going.
I think about my mom a lot too. She would be so furious at me for using the “f word” as she would whisper the profanity while pressing her hand to her chest in shame. Unwilling to actually utter the expletive or speak in a normal tone while cursing. Writing the obscenity in this notebook I found on the housekeeper’s desk is almost as bad as swearing out loud. Almost as terrible as stealing the binder from the busy woman while she was occupied with vacuuming the living room. But I couldn’t help myself. I need something to keep from going any crazier than I already have.
With either offense, if my mother knew, I’d for sure get a teaspoon of vinegar squirted in my mouth and a hard smack on the bottom. Just like when I was a little girl. I’m never too old for her to remind me that, “I’m still her child and need to act like I’ve got some sense.”
You always laughed when she said that.
I miss your laugh.
I miss you.
I swear I’m trying hard to be brave. I really am. But it gets harder every day forcing myself not to give up. Not to just give in and accept being here with him is my fate.
Forever.
Without you.
Or my mom.
Good thing she’s not here to know what I do. Or, I guess more accurately, what I’ve been forced to do. Good thing she’s safe. I know you’re still protecting her. I know you won’t let anything happen to her. Because you know how much I love her. I hope you know how much I love her.
I hope you know how much I love you.
I hope you know that I don’t blame you. Even though I know you blame yourself.
Anyway, I don’t have any choice. I have to write “fuck” because I can’t call what he does to me making love. No, it’s not making love at all. Not like you. Not like when I was with you. You were always so gentle. Which surprised me the first time we were together, as big and strong and powerful as you are. I shouldn’t have been surprised though. You always treated me like I was made of glass. Or a fragile flower that you thought you would crush the delicate petals if you were too rough. Your huge hands were always soft when you touched me. Always making sure I was ready for you. You were careful and cautious so I wouldn’t be frightened.
I never was.
Not once. Not ever when we were together. You made me feel safe. You made me feel loved.
Not like him.
He just throws me down, rips off what little clothes he allows me to wear, and does whatever he wants. He doesn’t care that I’m scared. He doesn’t care that I don’t want him. He doesn’t care that I’m sore and raw and spent. He doesn’t care about anything but himself.
And hurting me to punish you.
The worst part is him grunting and panting in my ear. I hate that sound. I hate his hot breath blowing on my neck more than any other noise I hear in this prison he keeps me in. Actually, that’s a lie. The worst part is his hand wrapped tight around my throat. Squeezing me breathless and holding me immobile. Almost suffocating me with his heavy body while he pounds into me over and over until he finally finishes and rolls off.
Maybe it’s twisted, but sometimes I try to pretend I’m with you. I close my eyes and go as deep into my mind as I can. Far away from him and what he’s doing to me. I imagine I smell your sexy cologne, rich with leather and spices, in the crook of your shoulder and the faint scent of cigars lingering on your skin—the naughty habit I know you try to hide from me but I still catch you anyway. I taste your favorite vermouth on your tongue. Feel your long fingers clutching my leg to keep me close. As if I would want to be anywhere but under you.
Of course, my fantasizing never works.
My imagination isn’t that good I guess.
At least now I’m allowed to take a shower as soon as he’s done. He trusts me—or has “trained” me as he likes to call it—not to try and run away anymore. Which I do realize, after all my futile attempts to escape his captivity, is pointless. He won’t ever let me get away. He told me he’d kill me first and I believe him. God, after what he’s done to me, do I believe him.
When I get the opportunity, I bathe for as long as possible. Scrubbing him and his disgusting hands and his groaning breath and his musky scent and his sticky cum off me the best I can. The bathroom is the only place I get to be alone. The only time I don’t have to see his hideous face. Without him or his terrifying men or the prying cameras watching me. He knows what I’m doing and why I take so long but I don’t care. I deserve to have some privacy. Even if it’s only for a few minutes. Even if he slaps the hell out of me for defying him. Sometimes he punishes me. Sometimes he doesn’t. Today he didn’t. So it’s a good day.
As much as it can be good when you’re trapped with a monster.