Trigger warning: chapter contains violence.
I met Jordan when I was twelve, when my parents sent me to a summer youth camp. It didn't seem to be a really conservative church camp, it was mostly just getting some pre-teens to have some fun, so I didn't mind. It was honestly pretty great.
Jordan and I were in the same room together, with two other girls who were more interested in playing never have I ever and truth or dare than actually participating in the camp activities. Jordan and I though, we both put our hands up for everything. We went rock climbing, and abseiling, and went on hikes, and did pretty much every activity that was offered to us. I mostly did them all to hang out with her.
We were fast friends, and we made each other laugh so hard, each with our crazy preteen humour. Hanging out with her was the most fun I had ever had.
Then, the second last night before we had to go home, neither of us could get to sleep, so in the quiet of night, I climbed up the creaking ladder of the bunk bed to her bed, and we whispered to each other for hours. We talked about everything. I told her about my parents, and how controlling they sometimes got. She told me about how her parents were the opposite, loving and supportive of her every single mood. She told me she could rob a bank and her dad would still pat her on the back and congratulate her for not getting caught.
I even told her how sometimes, if my parents were really mad at me, they would punish me. I was embarrassed even then, thinking I was such a baby because they spanked me like one. She got serious then, and told me that it was wrong for them to ever lay their hands on me.
Then she found my hand in the dark, and after a few moments of silence, she leaned in and kissed me.
It felt so wrong yet so right, and when we pulled away, I started to cry. She tried to comfort me, to tell me she was sorry, but I just silently climbed out of her bed and back into my own.
I didn't sleep at all that night.
The next day, we barely spoke, and though we shared our emails, Instagram accounts, and phone numbers, I told myself I never wanted to see or talk to her again. Even so, thoughts of that kiss, the rush of warmth inside me, and the taste of her lips on mine, they lingered in my mind for weeks afterwards.
I didn't tell my parents at first, not knowing what to think of it. Yet, once I came to the conclusion it meant nothing, telling myself I had made a mistake and that I could be forgiven, I told them what happened.
That was one of the worse beatings I had ever been given.
Yet it was not as bad as his punishment that day.
He hit me. Over and over and over again. He used his fist for a while, then he pulled off his belt. By the time he was done with that my voice had gone hoarse from screaming, and I was shaking with pain. Yet even that didn't satisfy him.
So he whipped me.
The last thing I remember before I passed out from the pain, was his shockingly calm voice, telling me, "You did this to yourself, my rose."
Then nothing.
When I woke up, I was numb, covered in welts, bruises and cuts, lying back in the pale grey bedroom.
I could hardly move. I couldn't even summon the strength to open my mouth and scream. Not that it mattered. Not that it made a difference. No one would save me anyway.
So I just laid there and cried, letting the pain overwhelm me, and I thought about Jordan. I thought about my friends. I thought about my home, and I thought about Jordan's home. I let myself escape.
Her home was more of a home than mine was. Her parents treated me as if I was their own daughter, and though Jordan's family with four other siblings was far from relaxing, it felt like the kind of normalcy I could never find in my own home.
Jordan's parents were foster carers, and after Jordan's birth mother died in a car accident when she was six, Jordan found her way into their home. She and her biological little brother, Ben, were adopted a year into their fostering, joining the already big family to make it even bigger.
I sometimes wished that by some miracle they had adopted me, too. That somehow, my parents had realised they never wanted a child to begin with, and had given me up to live with their family.
I knew it was an impossible dream, but having a family that actually cared about me would have been nice.
Once again, I wondered if they were looking for me. My parents. Jordan. Her family. How many people were involved? Did they even care?
There was no way of knowing, and I hated that. I could maybe try to send them a message again, but I was sure that Blake would step up the security now that I had gotten so close. Not to mention I didn't know if I even wanted to try. I knew if he found out I would be beat again, and I wasn't sure I was ready for that.
Maybe, at least just for a little bit, I needed to do as I was told. He docile for him. Trick him into thinking he could trust me, then take an opportunity when it arose.
When I was fifteen, the school held a session on daterape, and what to do if it looks like a guy wants to force you into something. The teacher taught us the strategy of what to do if 'no' doesn't work, is to say 'yes' and do a 180. Say you agreed, and you did want to, but you needed to go to the bathroom first, maybe to freshen yourself up, or to get ready. Tell him what he wanted to hear, then trick him, and run away when you got the chance.
As I laid there, burning with pain, I knew that was what I had to do. What other choice did I have?
So when I heard footsteps coming towards my door, I clenched my eyes shut and prepared myself.