Chapter 1
Chapter One
Mila
“ M ila,” a voice calls out. “Mila Santos!”
I walk up to the counter at my local CVS and watch the tired-looking pharmacist scan my prescriptions. The circles under his eyes could rival my own, and that’s saying something.
“Do you have a savings card you’d like to scan?” he asks, and I shake my head. I don’t speak much in public if I can help it. I stare at his name tag: Stefan. I don’t even know how to pronounce his name correctly, so I don’t bother to try.
I look down again as he starts placing my items in a bag.
Xanax.
Birth control.
Paxil.
Ambien.
“Do you have any questions about your medications today?”
I shake my head again, and this time, I nervously brush my thick black hair behind my ears with both hands. I tap my card against the machine, and once ‘APPROVED’ shines on the screen, I snatch my bag and make my way out of the store before he can even finish his robotic, “Have a nice day.”
I take a deep breath once the cold air hits my face.
And… this is why I’m a hacker. Not because of pharmacists, of course. But because my skills allow me to work from home. I keep to myself and prefer it that way.
It’s safer.
At thirty-three, I should have a better handle on myself, but as the bag in my hand reminds me on the walk home, I don’t.
I learned a long time ago that I can’t rely on anyone but myself. When I was 14, I ran away from the center and ended up on the streets. I hustled, and I survived. I learned how to make money, and I learned how to hide it. I live modestly now, even though I’ve got a nice little nest egg saved up. It’s a habit I picked up along the way. You never know when you’ll need a quick exit, so always have the funds to get away if you need to. Which helped so much when I needed to leave my marriage.
I pull my thin leather jacket together in the front to shield myself from the chill of the morning as I grind my teeth when the memories come flooding back.
I thought I could trust him.
I thought he was different.
I thought I could let my guard down.
The first time he made me realize that our 3 year marriage was indeed not safe was when he broke the lamp in our living room by smashing it onto the ground at my feet. I seized up in fear, and when he calmed down and apologized, I believed him. And then, I told him about the men at the center and what they did to me. At first, he held me while I cried. Apologizing profusely. Made an effort not to lose his temper. But then, it changed. He started using it against me, bringing it up in arguments and accusing me of not trusting him because of my past.
It was only 6 months after the first incident when he broke my nose and dislocated my shoulder.
I fought back and managed to knock him out with the toaster I ripped out of the wall as I ran into the kitchen, my fingers slicing against the coils as I brought it down on him. I packed a bag of my most important things: clothing, checkbook, and birth certificate. The one thing that kept me from being deported like my parents. I made a report at the police station and filed for divorce. I asked for nothing but my freedom from him, and his lawyers were more than happy to grant the change.
I haven’t seen him in 3 years, but I know he’s miserable.
I check.
I know it’s not healthy, but I do it because it makes me feel better.
I unlock the door to my apartment and throw my coat on a chair in the kitchen before putting my meds on the counter. The orange bottles look so jarring against the black-and-white tones of the room. But they are as necessary to my survival as the roof over my head, and I appreciate them more than I can put into words.
But I can’t just live off the pills, obviously.
So, how do I manage my crippling anxiety, depression, CPTSD, and borderline agoraphobia?
Well, like any sane person, I frequent sex clubs. It’s anonymous and safe. I don’t have to get to know anyone; I don’t have to open up or let my guard down. The clubs have security, so I know I’m protected. I can just go, fuck, and leave. I can use my body to try and forget what happened to me, to try and erase the feel of their hands on me. And to balance it out, I attend a Sexual Abuse Survivors support group each week. It’s the only time I feel comfortable enough to open up to anyone or hold a conversation.
We’re all survivors, so we understand each other. We share our stories, our struggles, and our triumphs. It’s the only place I can be completely honest about my past without being judged or misunderstood. They get it when I say that sometimes I feel broken beyond repair, that I wish I could go back to save the little girl who endured so much and stop the young woman I was from getting married to yet another monster.
“You’re safe now, Mila,” Nancy, our group’s main therapist, says to me as we hug at the end of each meeting. Dr. Wilson always tells me that, and I nod and tell her I know.
But the truth is, I don’t feel safe.
I don’t know if I ever will.