“Fuck you,” I growled again before I turned and fled, running into my room across the narrow hall and slamming the door behind me. I turned the lock and threw myself onto the narrow bed, my heart pounding, the roaring in my ears making it so I heard nothing else.
I stared at my door handle for a long time, waiting for it to start to shake, for him to pound on my door and demand I let him in. He’d done it before. Countless times. When I was smaller he’d grab me by the neck and lead me back into the room, forcing me into the chair.
Forcing me to watch.
Everything inside of me burned and I grabbed my pillow, clutching it tight. I hated him. I hated my mother for leaving me with him. Why didn’t she take me? Tears stung the corners of my eyes and I blinked them away, refusing to cry. I’d cried enough. It was finally time to toughen up. I was too old for the crybaby shit.
Three more years. I had three more years of school and then I’d graduate and run. If I couldn’t get into college, I’d go straight into the military. The navy. Something like that. Anything to escape. I wasn’t scared of anything out there.
I was too damn scared of what could become of me if I stayed in here.
I lay on my bed clutching the pillow to me for a long time, my body tense, my muscles so rigid they ached when I tried to move. Finally I closed my eyes, letting the exhaustion slowly take me over.
He never came to my door.
That was the last time he asked me to watch.
Are you going to watch?
I stare at the text message from my sister, my fingers hesitating above the keys. How should I answer? If she tries to invite herself over, I’m going to have to turn her down. I don’t want her with me tonight. I don’t want anyone with me.
Are you?
I send the message and wait for her reply. I’m hiding out, scared of the media’s reaction. Tonight, after the show airs, my life has the potential to change completely. It’ll be a repeat of what happened before, when we turned everyone away, when we told them we didn’t want to talk. That we refused to talk.
In the years since, there have been so many theories about what happened to me. I was a runaway. I asked for it. I wanted to be with him. I wanted to be his sex slave. I was desperate to escape my strict parents. I hated my life. I was a sullen preteen looking for fun. I was a fucking whore who deserved everything that happened to me. I was a dirty cunt who liked to suck dick.
Every single one of those horrible lies had been said about me, spread all over the Web. There are videos on YouTube devoted to my supposed lies. I watched one once and then immediately threw up afterward. I can still remember what the video said.
Temptress. Whore. She enticed him by dressing provocatively. Fucked him because she wanted it. Remained silent after she was rescued because she was guilty. She had secrets to hide. She was a drug addict. A slut. The bitch whore girlfriend of his son and they shared her between them.
Because I survived, for some reason, I’ve been blamed. I asked for it. For a serial killer to abduct me in broad daylight and keep me captive like his own personal plaything.
My phone dings and I check the message from Brenna.
I really don’t want to watch it. I heard enough the day you did the interview.
Wasn’t that the truth? I’m about to respond to her when another text comes through.
Mom called and asked if we should all be together tonight. I said I would check with you first.
Um, no. I don’t want to be with Mom. She’ll cry and try and comfort me and I’m over it. I said my piece. But I do want to watch it. Alone. I want to see how they portray me. Lisa swore up and down that it would be a positive piece. That it wouldn’t make me look bad; I was a victim.
I corrected her and said I’m not a victim. I’m a survivor. Big difference.
Huge.
I want to watch it alone. Tell Mom thanks but I need to see it by myself.
I send the text before I can second-guess my decision and wait for her reply.
My parents never moved. Mom is still in the house I grew up in and Brenna isn’t too far away, living in an apartment with her boyfriend, Mike. She’s a third-grade teacher at the same elementary school we attended. It still blows my mind—my impatient, mean-as-crap older sister teaches a bunch of eight-year-olds every day and loves it.
I moved on purpose. I’m an hour south of where I grew up, in a very small town not far from where the kidnapping happened. I live in the middle point and why this reassures me, I don’t know, but I don’t like to question my motives too closely.
Considering everything going on, I’m in hiding right now. I’ve taken all the extra steps to not be found and I like it that way. I prefer it. What with the News in Current commercials in constant rotation, highlighting that moment when I’m shown a letter he sent me that I didn’t know about—thanks, Mom, for keeping that particular secret from me—and the look of sheer panic on my face right before they go to his mug shot, I’m glad I took those precautions.
That’s the moment I hated the most during the interview. Well, that and one other, where I had to vehemently defend the boy who saved me from a monster.
Who saved me from his dad.
My cellphone rings, startling me, and I nearly drop it from my fingers. I glance at the screen and see it’s Mom.
Great.
“Darling, are you sure you want to be alone tonight?” She sounds worried. I can hear it, practically feel the emotion vibrating in her voice. “What if you become terribly upset? I don’t think this is something you should experience by yourself. We want to be with you.” And by we she means her and Brenna.