2005 Grace #6
“Yeah,” she continued, licking her red lips with her pink tongue, “you are playing the innocent girl, but you aren’t.
Maybe that cop believes you, but I don’t.
” She shook her head. “Mr. Miller came up to me once and told me how he’d seen you kissing Chase Baker on the schoolyard—and how you didn’t seem to have been forced into it.
” She lit a cigarette. “He asked me to keep my eye on you because you didn’t want him to tell our parents about this.
I agreed because if Chase had gotten caught, we’d all have been in trouble. ”
“You got it wrong. Chase was…” I looked deep into her eyes. “Chase was protecting me.”
Nikky laughed, sneering.
“That kiss wasn’t what you think. You’ve also heard the rumors about Mr. Miller, and so did Mom.
” My voice cracked. Nikky’s eyes flashed with hate.
“I talked to her about this. She told me she’d also heard a thing or two, and that I should immediately tell her if anything happened.
I’m not bullshitting you, Nikky. I swear to you this is what happened. ”
“And when you walked up to his van alone? Why did you want to meet him?”
“To thank him for his help.”
“Who the fuck are you that everyone’s got a hard-on for you?
You aren’t even that pretty,” she said with a derisive smile.
“You know what I think? That you played the innocent girl for everyone, but deep down you were just waiting for someone to fuck you hard. Then when that happens, you run to Mommy, crying.”
“This is not true, Nikky.”
“You know what, Grace? I don’t give a shit.
Our parents are dead because of you. And we were forced to come here, to this run-down farmhouse.
Here is a piece of advice for you: don’t come near me and don’t say a word about how I live my life, because if you cross me…
Mom and Dad are no longer here to protect you. ”
She leaned closer and tossed her burning cigarette into my glass. It fizzled out in the tea.
Tears pooled in my eyes. I watched with trembling lips as the ash settled at the bottom of the glass.
I felt humiliated. I wanted to flip the table, but I stopped myself. I shut my tension inside and ran out to the empty courtyard. I needed some air.
Think about the bad things, Grace. Think about the bad things. The thought went through my head on repeat.
Nikky was wrong. She hadn’t been there. I wasn’t that kind of girl—or was I? I broke out in tears, because I didn’t know anymore. I didn’t know anymore who I had been back then—and who I was in that moment.
I put my hands on the sides of my head and crouched down. I swayed back and forth while I looked for answers in the dark, thick labyrinth of my mind.
He manipulated me.
Chase had manipulated me. I suffered from Stockholm syndrome.
All the academic literature indicated that helpless people occasionally begin to feel affection for their torturers or captors.
This is strange—if we’re being rational, we’d think that victims should hate their abusers.
Usually, this is the case, but sometimes, if the captive experiences a little attention or superficial kindness from their captor, they can develop Stockholm syndrome.
I wasn’t a whore, I was sick.
Remember, Grace! Make yourself remember that Chase was a monster! Remember!
A memory from 2003
Three years after kidnapping—I was 18
“I’m sorry, Grace. You hear me? I’m sorry!” Chase put his palms on the sides of my face and shook me to see if I could hear him. I could, but I was sobbing hard. I couldn’t believe how much blood could pour from someone’s nose. I was crouching next to the wall, naked.
My whole body was numb and throbbing with pain, and my wounds stung.
Chase leaned his forehead against mine. The red river coming from my nose—my blood, diluted by my tears and snot—burned along my hot face.
I was trembling from the shock, sobbing, sniffling, and breathing heavily as if I were having a panic attack.
“Grace, look into my eyes!”
I looked into his eyes—they were teary, full of regret and pity.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“I know,” I stuttered. “I know,” I said again, this time a bit more easily.
Chase took me into his arms and rocked me until I cried myself to sleep.
When I woke up, I saw that my blood—and some other bodily fluids—had crusted onto my skin. My body was numb, and my skin itched. I pushed the thin, square-patterned blanket off me carefully, then walked into the living room, naked.
Cool air flowed in from the doorway, which made me shiver—still, it felt good against my hot skin. My nipples hardened.
When Chase entered, he looked me up and down angrily. I cast my eyes down—I knew it was impossible to flee.
“I’ll prepare your bathwater. Come on.” He offered me his hand.
I put my hand in his palm. His fingers were shaking, just like mine. Pain struck me with every step, like an electric shock.
While Chase was preparing the bathwater, I stopped in front of the mirror and took a look at my face.
It was disgusting and dirty. My nose wasn’t broken, but it was swollen.
My eyes were puffy. My skin was bruised all over.
I ran my eyes over my body. The ropes had left burning marks where their rough fibers had chafed against my porcelain skin.
I knew the warm water would sting against my skin, but I wanted to get clean. I stepped into the enameled bathtub and slowly lowered my body into the steaming, scented water. The mirror was covered with a thin layer of moisture, and the air was heavy.
Chase pulled an old wooden stool next to the bathtub and sat down.
He dipped the small sponge into the hot water, then drew it down the deep valley between my breasts.
For a second, I held my breath, then inhaled deeply.
My breasts lifted, and my heart fluttered like a bird in a cage.
Chase traced delicate circles around the cones of my sensitive nipples, then led the sponge down my flat, trembling belly.
I was watching him as he was cleaning my body. I watched him rub his own perverted filth off me. I watched… but didn’t say anything.
He cleaned my face and hair carefully, then wrapped me in a clean towel. I didn’t speak because speaking would only have made my heart ache even more. I just endured his gentle touches in silence.
After bathing me, he led me to the living room, where he dressed me: he gave me a shirt that hung down to my knees and slid my black cotton panties up my legs.
I sat down on the couch while he was warming up the soup. I was staring at the door, the locks, and the bolts.
He put the steaming soup on the small table in front of me, but I was lost in contemplating my prison.
The worn sofa sank next to me. I looked at Chase, who wanted to take care of me. I was hungry, my stomach rumbled—but my throat was dry. It was burning, so I couldn’t force down a bite.
I stood up, walked into the bloody, dirty, dark room, and closed the door behind me—but before I entered, I cast a withering, contemptuous look at the man who had been keeping me imprisoned and abusing me for years.
I wanted to be alone and cry.
If someone loves you, they don’t hurt you. If someone hurts you, they don’t love you.
If someone begs you for forgiveness after they have beaten welts into your skin—they are manipulating you. Because whenever he beat me, he left presents in my room afterward. A chocolate, a flower, a plush teddy bear…
I destroyed them, just like Chase was destroying me. I didn’t eat the chocolate—I left it there until hairy mold grew on it. I tore the flower to pieces and tore the head off the teddy bear.
However, the next time he gave me a present I could not hurt: a tiny ginger kitten, meowing in a brown cardboard box.
I couldn’t hurt her because she reminded me of my own sorry life: she had also been torn away from her mother and siblings. She was lonely too.
I named her Poppy.
August 2007
For weeks, all I could think about was what Nikky had said to me. In those moments, I relived our first kiss and our passionate lovemaking with Chase. But then… there was also the abuse. The first time he raped me, the time he pulled my teeth out, the time he killed Poppy in cold blood…
A memory from 2004
Four years after kidnapping—I was 19
I was playing with Poppy in the living room when he staggered in through the door as if he were completely wasted.
I watched, wide-eyed, as he could barely take two steps from the pain.
His T-shirt was torn and bloody. He furrowed his brow angrily, then stumbled into the bathroom.
I put Poppy down on the floor and walked after him.
The door wasn’t fully closed—I put my palm on the hardboard, then pulled it back.
My heart was beating in my throat. I hesitated.
Then, finally, when I heard such painful hissing and breathing that it made my heart twist, I opened the door.
I was instantly horrified when I saw him. His torso was covered in ugly bruises, and there was a huge, red, swollen, sensitive area on his ribcage. He wiped the blood trickling from his mouth with the back of his hand.
“What happened to you?” My heart was in my throat because I didn’t know which version of Chase I was talking to.
“My older brother,” he moaned, then spat bloody saliva into the sink.
“You have an older brother?”
“Yes.”
“And does he know about me being here?”
He fought through the pain wracking his body, stepped in front of me, and grabbed my throat.
“He won’t save you, if that’s what you’re curious about,” he growled in my face.
Fear made adrenaline surge through my body.
“If you aren’t really worried about me, stop this act and leave me the fuck alone!
” he hissed. His grip on my throat relaxed.
When he took his hand away, I rubbed my reddened skin.