October 21, 2015
I’ve been here three days...
The first day, I begged, pleaded, got down on my knees. He just laughed. I cowered, and desperately tried to stay awake, too afraid to let sleep take over. Not sure what was going to happen to me. I knew he wouldn’t kill me, if he wanted to, he would’ve already. At least I had that much going for me. Not that it was much, but it was something.
The second day, not much had changed. I was still wearing the clothes from the other day. An old worn pair of jeans and barely there camisole. He hadn’t come to my room, instead leaving me to my own devices. There wasn’t a lot in this room, and what was here was nailed down, bolted and firmly in place. No windows, just a bed, the door had a special keypad on it and locked from the outside and inside. Securing me here, no way out. There was a small bathroom attached with the necessities and nothing else.
That bastard betrayed me! Nothing but a two-timing, low-life, piece of shit thug who wins little naive girls trust (aka - me) and fucking... I can’t even speak the word, let alone write it. I can’t, I won’t accept it. This cannot be my fate, my destiny. Gramps always told me I was put here for a purpose. I was meant for something great. I wasn’t born to die, I believed Gramps when he said I had a purpose here, I just had to find it.
Isaiah, beautiful as he is, he’s the Devil. I knew it as soon as I set eyes on him but I didn’t listen to myself. How many others has he picked up? Convinced them they were his one and only? Who has he whispered sweet, beautiful things to me only to find out they meant nothing? Has he done the same exact things to them as he did to me? He played my body and mind like a skilled musician, only to drop and break me. Like it was nothing. It meant nothing to him. Not one thing.
He said not to take it personal, it was just his job. He had to do it to survive, he said or he himself would get killed. Like I believed him. If these past three days have taught me anything, it’s that he enjoys it. He thrives on it, does this to just get his kicks and get off. He has no soul, he has no real purpose except to kidnap and torture. WHEN, not if, WHEN he dies, because I will kill him, his spot in hell is accepted, secured and reserved. No one like him would ever be allowed to enter Heaven.
...if there was such a thing. Is there even really a Hell? Surely there is, how could such evil people exist if there wasn’t? But what about our Heavenly Father up above? What of him? If he was real, why would he let this happen to me or to anyone in general? Never really been big on faith or religion, but being in this situation makes me wonder. If I prayed would He listen? Or is it all going to be up to me to get out of here?
So far Isaiah hasn’t done anything drastic towards me, even when I spit in his face, he kept his calm. For the most part, he backhanded me across the face so hard my teeth rattled. I’m assuming I have a nasty bruise, but I wouldn’t know. I don’t even have a mirror to look in. He could’ve done a lot worse, but whatever he has planned for me he kept his anger minimal. I have an idea of what his plan is and if this is reality, I don’t want to be here. I have to find a way out. Soon.
- Ramses xoxo
October 23, 2015
It’s been five long days. I couldn’t write yesterday, I was barely able to move. Isaiah came in my room yesterday. He bound my wrists together with rope and tied the other end to a metal hoop hanging from the ceiling. My feet barely reached the floor as I struggled to gain some type of footing, managing to stand on my tip toes. My muscles screamed in agony as he left me hanging there for, I’m not sure how long it was, as it seemed like days. My shoulders still hurt. He promised me he would hurt me, his lips pressed against my ear. His breath making me shiver in revolt. I hate him. I’ve never hated anyone more than him.
I wish I could have a nice hot greasy burger, but no. Pea soup. I will now forever hate pea soup, a shame because I actually used to like it. That's what Isaiah has been leaving me with for five days straight. I refuse to eat it. I’m starving but I won’t give in. He said he’d strap me down and pour it down my throat if I didn’t eat today. That's what he told me as he held me down and fucked me. After he finished, he left, not a backwards glance to the tears streaming down my face. He won’t break me, I refuse to let him. He said he needed me strong and fit so he could sell me off like a sheep plucked from its flock. I’d rather die. I’m sure anyone else would feel the same.
He’s right about one thing, I do have to stay strong, for myself. If I weaken and let him win, I’ll never make it out of here in one piece.
He’s got me locked in this little room, no windows, no television, nothing. I wish I had something. The silence is deafening. I miss the sound of the traffic, from outside my bedroom window. The one thing that used to piss me off, I miss. Will I ever be able to hear it again? I miss the sound of the sweet pitter-patter of rain hitting the roof. If I think really hard I can almost hear it in my mind. Is it possible I’ve already forgotten? Grilled cheese, beer, the warm sun beating down on my face as I walk to work.
Has anyone noticed I’m gone? Probably not. True, I did keep to myself way to much. My one friend, Kole, moved away a few months ago and our relationship pretty much stopped after that. Besides a few text messages a week, she wouldn’t notice I was gone. Parents gave me up as a baby, never even knew them. Shame. Maybe they would’ve noticed I was missing if only they kept me. No one has ever truly wanted me. Something I try not to dwell on.
I’m nothing more than a captive in a pretty cage. That's all I’ll ever be. I can’t even bathe by myself, he does it himself. I’m nothing but compliant at his requests, because I know the wrath he’ll bring down upon me if I don’t listen. I don’t take his threat lightly about strapping me down and pouring the soup down my throat. I know he’ll do it, he’s true to his word. Let him, I can fight him slowly, let my mind play games just as strong as he does. When he does come in my room to bathe, he runs the hot water just right. The lavender scented water meant to make me relax, he won’t drug me if I listen. Just thinking about it makes my skin crawl.
He thinks my body is his, maybe it once was, but it never will be again. He can use it all he wants, but my mind remains to me.
October 27, 2015
I hate him. I want nothing more than to wrap my hands around his throat and watch the life die in his eyes. I’m laying on my stomach writing this. Last night was bad. These walls are paper thin and as I lay in bed, I heard screaming. Not good screaming either, it sounded like someone was being tortured. Hurt and agony is all I hear pouring through these walls. I can’t stand it, I tried covering my ears with the pillow but the screams still leaked through. I jumped out of bed and starting kicking my bedroom door.
I screamed Isaiah's name for over an hour, until my throat was hoarse and stung with pain, until I could scream no more. I beat my hands down on my cell door until I could no longer. Just as I was about to give up, the door to my room slammed open. He stood there standing in my doorway, his hands clenched into fists, pure rage etched on his face. I scrambled back as fast as I could, backing into the wall.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Who the fuck do you think you are using my name? What did I tell you? I told to keep your pretty mouth shut, didn’t I? Bad girls don’t get rewarded, they get taught a lesson, and you’re about to learn.”
He taught me alright. He yanked me up from the floor by my hair and pushed me on the bed face down. I thought the worst was over, I was wrong. The roaring in my ears threatened to deafen me, and through it all, I heard a sound I never thought I’d hear in my life. My fingers tightened in the sheets, jaw clenched as I prepared for what was about to come. He kept me in anticipation, nothing but the sound of his heavy breathing for company.
Then he struck with his leather belt, the flimsy nightgown he had given me not helping much to soften the blows.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. He could’ve stopped there, but the bastard was making me count. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. He enjoys this, enjoys hurting me. Eleven. Twelve. I couldn’t help but scream. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. He laughed. I cried.