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.
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