Chapter 26 I’m Not Going Anywhere #3
Then I wanted to know how bad it had been that my rapist felt that sick and sorry for me.
How bad had it been that I didn’t remember even a second of it.
Quickly, I stabbed him while he was at his weakest by whispering, “Trust me. If I am to blame for her death, then she should thank me as much as I should thank you. The thing you will never understand, Sir, is that no ten-year-old would want to live through what you put me through.”
Slowly, his gaze climbed back up to my eyes, and I lifted my chin.
He threw my arm, unbalancing me as he shouted, “Hands and knees!”
The angry bull had returned.
I gasped and dropped to the floor without thinking.
The movement shot pain to the deepest muscles in my butt.
A wail coursed through me. I had no strength.
Within a second, I stopped staring at the carpet while sobbing and panting, gripping the soft threads in my fist. I was back on the stage, footfalls on the wooden floor getting closer and closer, louder and louder, my heart thumping in my ears. Suddenly the whoosh broke silence.
“Ahhhhh!” I screamed, shaking, and shut my eyes as tight as possible, cringing away from the paddle that was about to hit me.
“Nooooo! Please! Please. Please don’t hit me.
Please. I’m sorry.” The black spots dissolved, giving way to the soft threads of the carpet stuck to my sweaty hand as I yanked at it more and more.
Oh-too slowly, it brought me back to the room.
I’m safe. I’m safe. No paddle here. I’m safe.
I gasped for air. Fat drops of sweat fell from my forehead to the carpet.
I didn’t need much of another reminder of how terrible he could be, not that day.
But how shocking that his command already had this much power over me.
God, if he could get me this pathetic in two days, what could he accomplish in five?
Or in a month? I couldn’t help wincing and shaking my head at the thought.
The only reason I didn’t throw up was because I had no food in my system.
I lifted my gaze to him. He studied me without a drop of empathy in his eyes, in fact, they carried anger.
“Goddammit, Magdalena.” He shook his head.
“That mouth of yours is gonna get us both killed.” I couldn’t even remember what we had been talking about.
My mind was fried. My insolent but true words took their time snapping back to my mind.
How would he punish my defiance? Too many possibilities crossed my mind, each dialing up my horror.
Tears trailed down my nose and cheeks while I kept my head low, my eyes to the ground.
This time, I wasn’t acting.
I just wish he could … love me. The thought surprised me.
But why did I need that from him? It wasn’t like I was in love with him.
That would’ve been absurd. No. It wasn’t that I loved him, I was just wanting some sympathy.
How could he be just fine selling me? He owed me so much more than that. He owed me my sanity.
He sighed. And from the corner of my eye, I watched him walk up to a small golden bar on wheels and serve himself a glass full of a brown drink. He drank it all down.
“Get into bed, Magdalena. You need to rest.” There was no aggression in his words. It wasn’t an order either. After grabbing himself the drink, he walked up to the window, leaned one arm on the glass, overlooking the world below him as if he owned it. “We’re both tired,” he added.
“I would appreciate a shower … alone … Sir.”
“Fine.” The annoyance rang clear in his tone.
“And—”
He turned his face toward me. “What? Out with it. Don’t bother acting like some innocent, timid, obedient slave, Little One. It comes off too fake for me since I know better now.”
It was another stabbing, another twisting of the knife from him.
Sir didn’t love me, he hated me. I nodded once and kept my eyes to the carpet.
His words shouldn’t have bothered me because I hated him.
All he’d ever done was hurt me or watch someone do it.
Why would I expect anything else? I hated him, yet his words hurt my worthless stupid heart. Why?
My pride didn’t let me pronounce the words.
I’d grown up in the richest society on earth, gone to the best schools, and managed to always be at the top of my class.
Never did I think I’d end up begging for food.
But achievements, class, and blood lines have never been dependable predictors of a woman’s future.
They’ve never mattered. “I haven’t eaten in two days. May I—”
“Fine. I’ll order food. You can eat after the shower, and then get your bleeding ass straight to bed,” he commanded as I walked to the bathroom.
“Yes, Sir.”
Inside, I locked the door and turned on the vent so I felt as if I truly had a semblance of privacy.
The tears were already choking me, so I hurried to the shower and allowed the steaming hot water to wet every part of my body.
With my forehead against the tile, I finally released my sobs.
I choked on the pain. I hated him so much but not nearly enough, so all that hate boomeranged right back to me. I wanted to be home so badly.
The fact that this had been happening to other girls all my life, other ten-year-olds, and they’d gotten it worse than me.
And now a little girl died for me to exist.
I was so fucking spoiled and privileged. As bad as today was, I couldn’t imagine being paddled more than a thousand times—that’s what it was supposed to be—and then raped by more than a hundred men? How could anyone live through that? How many innocent girls had died from this?
Some of the girls in the audience were prepubescent, for Christ’s sake.
I collapsed in the tub which was almost overflowing with water. I just want my family. I just want to be home. I didn’t even want to know that things like this were being done at all. How could people be so cruel?
My humanity meant nothing. He was quickly demolishing all that was me so I could be another empty shell for him to display, and I had no choice; there was no way out.
After some time of allowing the steaming water to burn my open cuts, I could no longer stand it and stood.
A psychotic desperation to clean my body of his touch and everything he’d done to me possessed me.
I inserted soapy fingers into my disgusting pussy, needing to clean him out of me, then rinsed it out.
I scrubbed the rest of my skin roughly with soap twice but avoided my butt.
The soap accidentally trailed to my wounds.
I hissed at the acidic sting. It hurt so much I bit down on my lip in an attempt to contain the scream but failed.
As I rinsed for the third time, I still smelled like him, like cum, like all those men.
They all laughed at me for thinking I could wash them away.
I needed to wash with something stronger, to clean the shame away.
I was so pathetic with my hallucination of hidden love, pretending he could care when he didn’t care at all while slowly becoming his willing whore.
It’s okay, I just need to wash one more time.
Just one more time and he’ll be off me. They all will.
I could still smell him, so I started again. I couldn’t give up.
While leaning my forehead against the wall, I wailed and slapped at the tiles as the new layer of soap sat on my skin until I couldn’t tell what hurt more—my fingers, the bruises, my heart, or my quickly devolving mind.
He was right. I orgasmed from being raped by the very man who allowed all those people to paddle my naked ass seconds before.
It had been euphoric to feel his dick in me again after all that.
I didn’t just come, I squirted, in front of all those people who’d just used me for their amusement and pleasure.
Sick. I was sick.
Two days with the devil in this hell hole had me forgetting what really mattered. I didn’t need anything from him. What I really missed, needed, was to be home with my family—and my Killian.
Killiiiiiiiiiiiiannnnnnnnnn!
God, it hurt so much. It was all I could feel, the loneliness he’d left behind.
Allowing myself to miss Killian again was like adding hypochloride to an open cut.
It was like watching a movie full of our beautiful moments on a big screen, the way he would smile at me, and his freckles.
It all swept through my memory. He never failed to make me giggle, was so gentle, so respectful with me, never an unkind word.
I wasn’t his bitch to command; I was his queen.
Missing him ripped my heart apart until I couldn’t breathe.
That was where the real pain was: in my good memories with Killian, the only man who would’ve never treated me wrong. The loss was raw again and stabbed me over and over.
Is someone hurting you, angel?
No.
Good. But if someone ever does, you just let me know, okay? That’s what real friends do.
“Someone’s hurting me, Killian. Where are you? Where? Save me please,” I whispered, weeping.
I didn’t notice the steam had fogged the room or that my heart rate had slowed. In my dizziness, I felt closer to that day, to my Killian. “Magdalena. What’s the matter?” I turned around to see him, my Killian, and smiled. “You’ve been in here for an hour. What’s that smell?”
“Jesus fucking Christ! What did you do? Magdalena, what the fuck?” he yelled.
I didn’t have a chance to answer him because the world swerved.
I felt the fall as he hurried toward me with his arms open.
Killian would save me. He’d get me out of here.
“Chlorox, Magdalena? Seriously? Fuuckk! Did you drink it? Tell me.” He slapped me, waking me a little. “Did you drink it?”
“Don’t leave me here, Killian. H-he … hurt me. Please. I can’t take it anymore. Please … t-t-take … me with you. Take me with you.”