1. Carter #2
The real war is happening internally, the first battle being launched directly across from me, but I’m the product of him, and he should be afraid of the strength I possess.
The rest of the ride is silent, and I let my mind wander, thinking maybe he’s taking the time to process my request, or conjuring all the ways it’d be deemed acceptable to murder your own daughter, but for now, I’m just thankful that our conversation is over.
When Tyson and Jasper called me those names, it was out of love and came from a place of deep emotional bonds between the three of us, but now, hearing the words come from someone else’s lips, I feel sick to my stomach.
It’s one thing to be told you made a mistake, or chose the wrong person to hand your heart to, but being called filthy names to justify the hatred of something so beautiful and pure is a blow I wasn’t prepared to withstand.
After what feels like an eternity, our plane finally lands, and we’re free to de-board, the warm California air immediately enveloping me in familiarity.
All I want to do is climb into my bed, in my childhood home, and hide from the rest of the world in an attempt to block out the sadness radiating down to my bones.
“Take her. All orders will come from me,” my father says, and when I spin around to see who he’s referring to, I’m grabbed by two men, my arms pinned behind my back.
“Dad! What are you doing?” I scream, my body dragged away from him without another word.
I'm taken to a black car parked alongside his, but even while I claw and scratch, beg and barter, he stands with his arms at his sides, lips pursed in a straight line, and judging by his body language, fighting this is nothing but a lost cause.
I’ve had two lockdowns in my life, one as a teenager when I failed to collect money from all the men who owed us, and the second time was after I lost my virginity.
Back then, I survived the harsh conditions, a lesson in tough love as my father liked to call them, but I have a feeling this time is going to be much worse.
It’d take an army to break me, but without Tyson and Jasper, I’m already shattered into pieces.
Nervously, I tug at the sleeves of my shirt, hoping to cover my wrists as I walk into the office, never letting anyone see what he did to me, and the drastic torture I endured.
The first two times I was on lockdown, while it only lasted a few days, a sense of strength came from it, attributing to the badass attitude I acquired, but this recent stint made the previous times seem like a fucking vacation.
As punishment for everything that happened in Jersey, my father kept me locked in the basement of our home for thirty-six days, only letting me go once he thought I’d learned my lesson, and of course, found a man to take my hand in marriage.
I’m nothing but a prop now, reduced to being a trophy on someone’s arm, but if I show my teeth or fight back in the slightest, I know I’ll just find myself back in the same place.
Instead, I keep my head low, follow orders, and I don’t dare speak about New Jersey, or mention my boys, learning very quickly that my father will punish me for even muttering their names.
The desperate pleas I made for information about them only earned me more time locked up, and normally, I’d find ways to fight back, but all the power that once lived in my veins is gone – just like them.
On the outside, I pretend they never existed, as if my time on the East Coast was nothing but a dream, but on the inside, I feel my connection to them slowly dissipating, the memories we made beginning to fade with each passing day.
At night, when the nightmares plague me until I can’t possibly sleep, I try to remember what they felt like, how the touch of their skin would litter my delicate frame with goosebumps, their rough hands caressing my body in the softest of ways.
At night, when the moon calls out to me, I try to remember what they taste like, the ways in which Jasper would ravage me like his last meal, or how tender Tyson would be, his kisses always gentle and sweet, just like him.
At night, when the darkness threatens to swallow me whole, I try to remember the color of their eyes, their scents, or the sound of their voices, but no matter what my brain conjures up, I can feel the tether to them slipping through my fingers.
My father thinks he broke me, but in all honesty, I’ve just stopped caring if I live or die.
Nothing is the way it was supposed to be, and once I proved myself to be compliant, I was given an office job in one of our mid-level legitimate businesses, as a secretary to my future husband.
It’s demeaning, being given tasks just so this man I’ve been promised to can keep a close eye on me, but I’m a shell of a human, going through the motions day after day.
The details of my mission were kept on a need-to-know basis, as well as my subsequent imprisonment, but I’m basically a ghost, nobody choosing to engage with me, and I don’t mind it whatsoever.
When I speak, sometimes I scare myself, forgetting the sound of my own voice as I try to go days without talking to another human being, instead, choosing to live within the confines of my depleting memories, destroyed fantasies, and desiccated dreams.