Chapter 4 #3
What I hated most about him was that he never hurt me.
Never laid a hand on me or raised his voice.
He was always calm and even-tempered, even when I once slammed my scrambled eggs into his face.
He only looked at me with a dark, strict expression.
My heart raced, and I thought he would hit me—but he didn’t.
All it took was that look he gave me to never do that again.
Even though I tossed the food he had cooked me in his face, he just went back to the kitchen and got me another plate.
He put it in front of me, and in that moment, his kindness almost made me cry.
“Why?” I asked him, sobbing.
He didn’t reply. My tears fell into my eggs. I wolfed down the warm, delicious meal with the fresh, soft bread. I was hungry, exhausted, and completely lost—and confused by the isolation and his behavior. I really missed my freedom and family.
In addition, I had to endure that he was there with me when I was bathing or sitting on the toilet. It was hard to overcome my modesty. Still, I didn’t understand why he was watching me while I was washing—whenever I scanned the bathroom or the open-plan kitchen, I never saw anything I could use.
November.
The cold grew more and more unbearable down there, underground.
Chase got me a thicker blanket and a heater, but the cold seeping from the walls still made it feel like I was in the Arctic, in a tent with no heat.
I got sick. I had a high fever that no medicine could bring down.
I suffered for days, crying for my mom. My limbs hurt as if an invisible force were trying to tear them from my body.
Chase stayed beside me, caring for me, staying awake—even though I told him to leave me the hell alone. He was persistent. And when at a certain point my physical suffering caused him too much emotional pain, he stormed out.
When he got home, he burst into my room, bringing the cold, fresh air from outside with him. He wasted no time: he ripped the blanket off me—and my pants. I was so sick I didn’t have the strength to protest.
He took something in his mouth, then a thick liquid splashed through the air, and I felt a sharp sting above my butt. The injection site swelled, and my skin itched, but the next day I felt much better. My fever subsided and didn’t return, my limbs no longer hurt, and my appetite came back.
I don’t know what kind of medicine had been in that vial—capable of healing me overnight—but I was sure he hadn’t bought it at a pharmacy.
So, the thing I hated most about him was that he never hurt me.
Until the night that made me change my mind forever.
That night, a different person came through that door. Chase looked like a lunatic: his face cold and emotionless, his eyes cold and confused.
My survival instinct kicked in. I felt that the man in the room with me was not the man who had kissed me first, or the one who had cared for me when I was sick.
I jumped out of bed and fled into the corner of the room.
Chase started walking toward me.
“Chase, please, don’t!”
I raised my arms in front of me and flailed weakly, my body numb with fear.
Chase grabbed me and lifted me up. I kicked wildly, my legs kicking in the air, without success.
He tossed me onto the bed with a quick, effortless movement.
My body bounced on the spring mattress. My hair stuck to my wet face. I sobbed with my mouth open.
“Chase, I don’t want this! Please, don’t!”
He took off his T-shirt, pushed his pants down, and moved his body over mine.
I kept hitting his chest weakly, and when he completely overpowered me, I bit into his shoulder.
Warm, metallic-tasting blood filled my mouth.
Dark drops ran down his arm. He grabbed my hair and yanked my head back.
His muscular legs pinned mine, and he raised my arms above my head, holding them in place.
“Please, don’t!” I tried to wriggle free… And his fist slammed in my head, making my cheekbone crack and my head swim. And making me lose faith in him.
He grabbed my jaw with strong fingers and forced my mouth open.
I gasped for breath, my heart racing, my body slick with sweat.
“If you don’t stop this nonsense, I’ll rip out your tongue!” he shouted. His thick, warm saliva splashed across my face, eyes, and lips.
“No, please!” I begged, crying, trembling, broken.
I don’t remember when he got the dental pliers in his hand.
He caught one of my molars with them. I made inarticulate sounds—babbling nonsense that yearned for freedom and wanted to avoid pain.
In that moment, I wouldn’t even have cared if he had raped me.
But he didn’t. His eyes were a dark whirlpool of wildness and confusion.
A lock of his hair hung in front of his sweat-soaked forehead.
My body tensed under his. An icy chill ran through me, then… fire engulfed me.
Myriad tiny lights danced before my eyes as pain exploded inside me like fireworks. The inside of my mouth and my skin burned, my veins ablaze with dark fire.
My heart raced, slamming against my ribcage as hot tears streamed down my face. I was screaming. Thick, dark, metallic-tasting blood filled my mouth. Blood formed foaming bubbles on my lips, popped and ran down my chin.
He lifted the pliers with my bloody tooth, without remorse or pity.
My jaw hurt like hell.
I cried, choking on my blood, coughing it up. All my senses were dominated by blood, its rich, metallic taste filling my mouth.