heartbreaker
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May I hold your hand?
It’s been so long since I’ve touched someone who offers kindness instead of pain. Your hand is warm. Soft.
Please forgive me if I squeeze too hard. It’s nice, even for a little while, to connect with a human being who gives a damn.
I know you have questions.
But it’s probably better if you just let me tell you everything I can. It’s weird. Talking, I mean. I haven’t had a real conversation in … well, I don’t know how long I’ve been in this basement.
Peter. Yes. That’s the name he told me, too. We dated for about six months. I was wildly in love with him. He seemed so … perfect. Like a handsome hero who’d stepped off the pages of a romance novel.
I guess that’s how naive I was. So starved for affection and intimacy, I fell for his pretty words and slick veneer.
You know what I mean?
Of course, you do.
Peter told me he had something special planned for Valentine’s Day. I thought he was going to ask me to marry him. I’d even bought some bridal magazines, thinking we would soon be planning our wedding together.
We went dancing. Made love under the stars. Then we went to his place. Music. Laughter. Wine.
I felt strange after one glass of merlot. Absolutely giddy after the second. The world spun and burst into bright colors.
It never occurred to me that he’d drugged the wine.
Peter said it was time for the surprise. My heart leapt. I thought he’d show me a ring. Pop the question.
Instead, he took me down here, stripped me naked, and chained my ankles to the wall. By the time he made me his prisoner, I was too out of it to put up a fight. It felt like a nightmare.
And it was.
An endless waking nightmare.
It’s Valentine’s Day again? So, it’s been a year?
It feels like a hundred years. I wish it had been possible to escape.
In the early days, I screamed until I lost my voice. Broke my fingernails trying to pry off the manacles. Begged for my freedom while he taunted me.
What? Yeah, it really does smell awful down here. I’d say you get used to that spoiled garbage stench, but I never did. Not really.
The floors are filthy. Bugs are everywhere. They crawl on me and get in my hair. I’ve fended off the occasional rat, too.
It’s always dark. I used to be able to tell the difference between night and day. See this wall? Near the top is a small rectangular window. The sun would shine through it and chase away some of the shadows.
But now it’s covered with a black garbage bag and duct tape. Once Peter realized I had a tiny bit of warmth and light to enjoy, he took it away.
I stopped praying a long time ago.
If men like Peter exist, then trust me, God does not.
I don’t have clothes. Not anymore. I’m lucky I got a blanket. He used to take it away.
Why? To punish me.
He hated when I fought him. He’d scream: Don’t disrespect me, you whore.
He used his words like knives — slicing away at my soul until I felt like a raw, pulsing lump of nerves. Hurting my body wasn’t enough. He fucked with my mind, too.
I hate to admit it, but I was surprised how much humiliation I was willing to endure to have the smallest comfort. I started keeping my mouth shut because I’d rather have the blanket, you know?
He feeds me once a day. Usually a bologna sandwich and a glass of milk. Sometimes, the meal’s drugged. GHB, I think.
Yeah. The date rape drug.
I almost never remember what happens, but afterwards … I wish for my own death. Especially when my body aches from the burns and cuts and bruises.
I’m not a person. Just a plaything.
But I’m not fun for him anymore. So, he’ll throw me away — like he did the others.
He loves to break his toys.
You’ll see.
I’m sorry. So sorry.
But you’ll see.
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