Eliza Brown
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I can still feel his crusty hands wrapped around my throat, his grip not faltering until he saw my lips turn a deep shade of blue.
I can still feel his hand clamped over my mouth to keep me from screaming, the distinct taste of metal on my lips from where his rings cut them.
I can still remember when he said that he'd much rather torture me than to kill me, so I could feel pain and suffer as much as he did.
I can still remember how he knew how much I hated anything related to shots, so that became his favorite thing to torture me with.
I shake my head slightly, trying to shake off the images that circle around my memory.
I open my eyes, rubbing them so the blurriness from the medicine they gave me goes away.
I grab the chart that sits at the end of my bed, dazely reading over it.
"Eliza," Meredith says, eyeing the chart in my hand. "What," she questions, not sure how to phrase what she's about to say. "happened to you? Can you tell me how this happened?"
She sees me hesitate. "It's okay. I won't tell anyone."
"This guy came into my house. He was mad at my dad for putting his restaurant out of business, so he wanted revenge. He said that if my parents didn't give me to him, he would shoot both of them. Instantly they said no, so he shot them in a blink of an eye. So he took me, andI kept begging him to kill me after he beat me unconscious for three hours when I asked him if he would let me go. When I got sick, he thought I was useless and tossed me out of the house and threw me in the streets to die." A mixture of anger and sadness comes over me when I see the look of pity in her eyes. "So when the other doctors keep saying I'm crazy and such, you and I both know that's not true, don't we.."