The night was calm and the moonlight dim. The air felt nippy and damp, as the sudden shower of rain had washed the streets clean. “My new shoes are screwed,” I mutter under my breath. So, what if they are fake Louis Vuitton loafers, I simply refuse to enter my 15th birthday without a designer accessory (or a replica of it). Trying to get in rhythm with the new Daft Punk track blasting through my headphones, I quicken my pace. I was about to cross the street when I notice a middle-aged, hefty man a little further down the road. I chuckle to myself thinking that I am not the only weird one to party till 4 AM. Windsor is a safe place and I have lived here for most of my life so fear or anxiety were out of question. So with five tequila shots in me and the gray winter night around me, I kept walking with a spring in my step.
As I am walking faster and faster, I realize the man behind me is emulating my speed. When he is just about a foot away from me, the fear kicks in. “Hello, my dear,” he says in a heavy Middle Eastern accent. I ignore it and walk faster with my head down and my jacket tightened around my chest. “You are very good looking,” he says and I still neglect him, hoping he would get my disinterest in whatever that he has to offer. There are a few cars whizzing past by and I wonder if its safe to hitch hike with a stranger or is it better to walk straight up with this weirdo following me. I could not make up my mind and I suddenly turn around to give him my sharp, almost-manly, angry look and that is all I remember from that night from years back.
My 15th birthday as a free bird and my sixth anniversary as a sex slave seemed like parts of two different worlds. This monster brought me cakes every year to celebrate my abduction anniversary and he raped me a little gently on these nights. The wounds on my body seemed to have gotten the point that there is no help coming and had stopped hurting since many years ago. My dusty, old room on the first floor of that horror house with a mattress as thin as a paper and the leaking toilet felt like a luxury suite. It was a refreshing respite from my first four years of my abduction, which I had spent in the basement. Tied to rusty chains like a dog and stripped of my clothes and humility for years together. I had learnt early on that screaming and shouting just got him more excited and the rape wilder so silence was my only companion in this hellhole.
The bastard used to play little games with me, which was his greatest amusement. He would leave a cell phone behind or the door unbolted to test if I would try to contact anyone or escape and as soon as I tried, I was beaten up like an animal. So, now when you ask me why didn’t I try to get help, think about all the times I was beaten up and spat on and let your imagination run as gory as it can. But, God has been my shepherd throughout and he helped me escape on one sunny day. But, I could not get over the torture. It played with my mind in different ways. I tried hard to find a way to leave the memories behind but slowly and steadily I made up my mind to follow his path and replay his horror on his kin. Not as revenge, mind you. But, as a thankful gesture to make me who I am today.
And, look at us today. After 17 years I have you, Ayesha. In my home, in my territory where your father and my tormentor cannot reach us. And look, I have made this place exactly according to your father’s décor tastes. Do you see those metal chains? I bought them just for you, darling. Do you see that bucket, there? That is your toilet for a few years now. Your father will be so proud of me. And I feel so good to reach his standards of torture. You will not be raped Ayesha but you will be destroyed, bit-by-bit. I will rob your soul just the way your father stole mine, to complete this circle of torture and terror.
“PLEASE, LET ME GO, MR. JONES. YOU NEED MENTAL HELP!!!”
Scream. Scream louder my child. It is the only music to my ears from today.