It started on his bedroom floor.
He bound my hands and feet with duct tape and hog-tied them behind my back. A four inch strip covered my mouth, preventing my screams from escaping. I can only imagine how wide-eyed I was, trying to beg him to stop.
He stood over me, the bright rays of the sun pouring in the window behind him. His silhouette was never darker.
His arms raised above his head slowly, as if he was readying for the perfect tee-off. The crowbar he gripped came swinging down. I remember it all in slow-motion, his arms lowering, the long, heavy metal coming towards my head.
I tried to scream. I tried to move. There was nothing I could do. So I waited for my face to be cracked wide open.
He stopped the crowbar with such precision, just an inch in front of my eyes.
My body convulsed and tears began to spew from my ducts.
He began laughing as he fell to the floor.
"It's only a game. Really, I am just playing a game. I wasn't going to hurt you."
I had just turned 15. I wish I could say that I ended our relationship there. I wish I had known that the abuse and torture would not stop. I did not find the courage to escape him until 3 years later.
It's almost 10 years since that first incident.
People think I am normal.
I am not.
I work, I function, I pay my bills, I get groceries. But I'm just a robot.
I have nightmares. I suffer the abuse again and again. Some days, I can only bring myself to leave my house to go right to work and right back home again. To go into public requires doses of Xanax. Otherwise, I am overcome with panic attacks.
I wish this were just a story.
I once found the courage to escape; if only I could find the courage
to live again.