Frame Story

My Story

The therapist cleared her throat, drawing my attention back to her. I squirmed awkwardly, refusing to make eye contact, staring at the wallpaper until the design started to blend together, and melt.

“Are you ready to talk about it?” She asked, breath smelling like mint, and I looked back at her, my eyes blank.

I didn’t speak, though. I never did. Ever since I escaped I haven’t been able to talk to anyone. I was afraid that once I did, I would be back there. Like this was all a fragile dream and as soon as I spoke, it would break. I would wake up back in that filthy place, lice crawling through my eyebrows and hair, mold surrounding where I was shackled to the wall.

I was broken and I knew it. Everyone around me knew it too. I couldn’t be saved. Not after being trapped in the man’s basement for almost five years.
~~

You always hear stories about a person being kidnapped for so long that everyone had just given up and assumed they were dead, only to finally be found and come back to an elated family and old friends.

Not me, though. I had no one. I came home to a drunk dad and dead mom. The only story of what happened was told to me by neighbors, my father passed out most nights and gone the rest. Soon after I went missing, my father turned to alcohol, and placed the blame on my mom. He became abusive, his shouts heard by the entire neighborhood night after night. I guess my mom just couldn't take it anymore. The yelling. The cuts. The bruises. But most of all, she couldn't stand the guilt. The emptiness in her life that was once filled with happiness, brought by her only child.

No one could save her either. Like mother like daughter.

But even the victims’ who did have someone to come home too, they were different. Used. Broken. Scarred. Just like me. And even the most grateful parents couldn’t understand the trauma. No one ever could unless they’d been through a similar experience.

My therapist always asked me the same question. ‘Are you ready to talk about it?’ And to be honest, I was starting to think that I never would be ready. Until the day that I was.
~~~~~
I guess I'll start from the beginning… I first saw him at the pizza parlor. Some nights, when I stayed at school late, my mom would have me go in and order a pepperoni.

The only information I knew about him was picked up from streetside gossip. He was new to town, and was running from his past.

But I guess everyone has a past to run from.

Nobody knew what he was running from. He didn't talk much. But everyone saw the way his eyes lingered on young girls for just a second too long. But this was a small town. The crime rate here was almost nonexistent. Nobody saw him as a real risk.

That was the problem, I guess. Everybody saw the signs, but they just assumed nothing would come of it. But I experienced first hand what this man was capable of.

Mom took an extra shift, and my dad was away on a business meeting. Maybe that's why he blamed her… She was supposed to protect me when he was away. I don't think his blame is what broke her, though. I think her self blame is what killed her in the end.

Guilt is like a disease. It eats away at you until there's nothing left to eat…

Anyways, why she did what she did was irrelevant. Because that's not what my story is about. My story is much darker.

The pizza parlor is where it started, and everytime he was the cashier I stumbled over my words, his icy blue stare making me uneasy. I didn't like the way his eyes drifted over to me as I waited for the pizza, or how he'd find every excuse possible to touch me. I was 17. Just a kid. He was in his thirties. I knew it was wrong, but I didn't know what to do about it.