as I once was. And that depression comes from guys like Rax. He’s not the first to rag on me, and I’m sure he won’t be the last.
Lifers hate seeing other people succeed. Try to build something or make something of themselves. He must have gotten word that I’ll be getting my degree in a few days, and has come to mess with me.
His little minions hang in the background, and I notice the library is eerily silent. As in, no one is in here but the five of us.
“Sorry about that, Rax. Let me just clean that up.”
I stand and then bend to retrieve the, at least seven, textbooks he’s scattered to the floor. But before I can reach the first one, a sneaker crushes my hand.
I want to twist in pain, but fight the urge to. Giving them what they want will only make this worse.
“Think you’re so fucking smart, you stupid little bitch? Want to show us all up? Don’t give me lip like that. I know what fucking sarcasm sounds like.” Rax whispers in my ear like some macho man.
I have to fight the urge to roll my eyes. Guys like this were wimps, too soft for the outside world and so they had to assert their dominance in an environment like this.
“Didn’t mean anything by it, I’m just trying to study for my finals.”
That answer doesn’t satisfy them, because I get one of his minion’s foot to my stomach.
He kicks the wind out of me, and the pain is blinding because I think for a second I might blackout.
“Awww, the little white boy can’t take us messing with him. It’s just a little kick, bitch. Give him another.”
I know this one is coming, so I tense my body. The blow hurts twice as hard. Fear personifies everything in here. If you let yourself feel it, everything will be twice as bad.
And that’s exactly what they’re doing to me.
They jump me all at once, pummeling my face and my stomach and my legs. I think Rax breaks one of my fingers on my writing hands, and that makes me howl.
Not because of the pain, but because I have finals in three days and I won’t be able to take the test.
They get bored with me after a while, and wander out of the library.
My body is in agony, and I don’t have the energy to pull myself up. I’ll have to lay here until someone finds me, bruised and bleeding on the library carpet. I pray to God they come soon.
It’s taking a long time for someone to find me. I know this because the blood is clotting, drying into the carpet.
And I’m hallucinating. I see Charlotte bending down and kissing each one of my broken body parts. I can feel her soft lips caressing me. I want to tell her, to talk to her about the ugliness that goes on here. But she doesn’t want to hear it. She never wants to hear it.
In the end, it took someone two hours to discover me unconscious in the library.
And I had to postpone my college finals and graduation by three months to let my hand heal so I could properly hold a pen.
14
Charlotte
One Year Ago
T ucker doesn’t know that I’ve been seeing a therapist. I don’t know what he would say if he knew, and if he knew why, it would only make him feel more guilty.
Even though I fell in love with, and trust implicitly, the man who kidnapped me … I was still kidnapped. There are still times I’ll freeze up in a bank or a restaurant or any kind of retail store when a large man walks in. I have to check around me, grip the can of mace in my purse and try to control the beast of anxiety that creeps up my spine.
My therapist says it’s because I was traumatized during my kidnapping, even if it wasn’t by Tucker.
“The winter cold, the coyote attack, and then Tucker going to prison. It isn’t so much that the man who took you hurt you, but how he took you. It led to you ending up in the hospital, and him in jail. You may love him, but you’re still traumatized by events that took place.”
I nod, picking at the whole in my jeans. Part of me doesn’t want to do this anymore, doesn’t think it’s working. But I can’t cower into the
Lifers hate seeing other people succeed. Try to build something or make something of themselves. He must have gotten word that I’ll be getting my degree in a few days, and has come to mess with me.
His little minions hang in the background, and I notice the library is eerily silent. As in, no one is in here but the five of us.
“Sorry about that, Rax. Let me just clean that up.”
I stand and then bend to retrieve the, at least seven, textbooks he’s scattered to the floor. But before I can reach the first one, a sneaker crushes my hand.
I want to twist in pain, but fight the urge to. Giving them what they want will only make this worse.
“Think you’re so fucking smart, you stupid little bitch? Want to show us all up? Don’t give me lip like that. I know what fucking sarcasm sounds like.” Rax whispers in my ear like some macho man.
I have to fight the urge to roll my eyes. Guys like this were wimps, too soft for the outside world and so they had to assert their dominance in an environment like this.
“Didn’t mean anything by it, I’m just trying to study for my finals.”
That answer doesn’t satisfy them, because I get one of his minion’s foot to my stomach.
He kicks the wind out of me, and the pain is blinding because I think for a second I might blackout.
“Awww, the little white boy can’t take us messing with him. It’s just a little kick, bitch. Give him another.”
I know this one is coming, so I tense my body. The blow hurts twice as hard. Fear personifies everything in here. If you let yourself feel it, everything will be twice as bad.
And that’s exactly what they’re doing to me.
They jump me all at once, pummeling my face and my stomach and my legs. I think Rax breaks one of my fingers on my writing hands, and that makes me howl.
Not because of the pain, but because I have finals in three days and I won’t be able to take the test.
They get bored with me after a while, and wander out of the library.
My body is in agony, and I don’t have the energy to pull myself up. I’ll have to lay here until someone finds me, bruised and bleeding on the library carpet. I pray to God they come soon.
It’s taking a long time for someone to find me. I know this because the blood is clotting, drying into the carpet.
And I’m hallucinating. I see Charlotte bending down and kissing each one of my broken body parts. I can feel her soft lips caressing me. I want to tell her, to talk to her about the ugliness that goes on here. But she doesn’t want to hear it. She never wants to hear it.
In the end, it took someone two hours to discover me unconscious in the library.
And I had to postpone my college finals and graduation by three months to let my hand heal so I could properly hold a pen.
14
Charlotte
One Year Ago
T ucker doesn’t know that I’ve been seeing a therapist. I don’t know what he would say if he knew, and if he knew why, it would only make him feel more guilty.
Even though I fell in love with, and trust implicitly, the man who kidnapped me … I was still kidnapped. There are still times I’ll freeze up in a bank or a restaurant or any kind of retail store when a large man walks in. I have to check around me, grip the can of mace in my purse and try to control the beast of anxiety that creeps up my spine.
My therapist says it’s because I was traumatized during my kidnapping, even if it wasn’t by Tucker.
“The winter cold, the coyote attack, and then Tucker going to prison. It isn’t so much that the man who took you hurt you, but how he took you. It led to you ending up in the hospital, and him in jail. You may love him, but you’re still traumatized by events that took place.”
I nod, picking at the whole in my jeans. Part of me doesn’t want to do this anymore, doesn’t think it’s working. But I can’t cower into the
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