that
Logan would hear my panic and he’d come.
I was
wrong.
Logan never
came.
Jacob forced
me over to a dirty mattress on a rusted metal bedframe and pushed
me down. I instantly thought he was going to force himself on me,
but he didn’t take off my clothes. He pinned me down with the
weight of his knee on my stomach then calmly tied my wrists and
ankles to the bedframe.
I yanked and
pulled, trying to get free, yet knowing it was pointless. I watched
Jacob as he dragged a collapsible plastic chair behind the front of
the bed near my head then brought the bucket.
My eyes
widened with terror, uncertainty. Jacob sat, reached in the bucket,
and pulled out a soaking wet towel.
That’s when I
knew.
I knew exactly
what he was going to do. I’d seen it in the movies. Heard that it
was used to get people to talk. Torture. Unimaginable torture.
A wet towel
thrown over the victim and water poured over their face.
Drowning over
and over again.
“No!” I went
crazy. Struggling against the ropes as Jacob placed the towel over
my face. “No. No. No. No.”
He held my
head back then the water came and my words were drowned with
garbled screams.
Day 7
The door
creaked open on its heavy hinges, and then slow footsteps. Panic
and fear reared, and I tried to fade back into the mattress,
cowering.
Jacob had
blindfolded me after the waterboarding. The agony ... Panic setting
off every nerve in my body as I struggled to breath but sucked in
water instead. I tried to scream, to beg, to break free from the
bonds that latched me to the bed, but there was no escape.
I was fighting
for survival, yet losing with every water-drawn breath.
Jacob had done
it time and again, pouring water over the towel on my face. I
begged him to stop when he let me cough up water and breath for a
few minutes. I sobbed, and I promised to do anything he wanted.
He ignored my
pleas and did it again and I gagged, choked and struggled. Then
when he was done, he took off the towel and replaced it with a
blindfold.
The footsteps
drew closer.
Was Jacob
back? Was he going to torture me again? I wanted to fight, but I
knew that it only made the torture worse. So I stayed quiet and
still as the footsteps drew closer. Then I breathed in the familiar
scent of what reminded me of a fresh cut grass—Logan.
Relief. Yes, I
felt it. Maybe I shouldn’t have, but I did.
But my tears
were gone, I’m not sure where. He’d stolen them away. Him or Jacob?
I wasn’t really sure anymore, because Jacob had broken me, and
Logan had wrecked me. Tainted thoughts of Logan filled me. A hate I
had to keep hidden and controlled, because if he left me here any
longer I was going to lose whatever grasp on reality I had left.
Already I’ll never be the same girl again; I’d at least like to be
sane.
I felt the
soft brush of his fingers on my arm and recoiled. His touch
stopped, and I heard him shift as if he was hesitating. Then he
walked away. I bit my lip to stop myself from begging him to come
back, to release me, to take me out of here.
He strode
back, and this time he untied the ropes that locked my wrists and
ankles to the bed, and gently helped me sit up.
“Emily.” His
fingers traced down the side of my face then to the curve of my
neck. “You can’t fight here.”
His familiar
touch awakened my oil-drowned butterflies, and I felt sick that my
body reacted to his touch that way. I bit down hard on the inside
of my cheek until I tasted blood.
“Do you
understand why?”
“Yes.” I had
no choice. Hours I sat, blindfolded, shivering, wet, cold and alone
while I contemplated my life. Fighting them would only make it
harder on me. They wouldn’t kill me. No, instead they’d make me
suffer each and every day until I gave them what they wanted. I saw
the proof of that with those girls. There was no running and hiding
from what Logan had brought me into. There was no fighting. All I
had left was survival and hope.
“Good.” He put
his hand under
Logan would hear my panic and he’d come.
I was
wrong.
Logan never
came.
Jacob forced
me over to a dirty mattress on a rusted metal bedframe and pushed
me down. I instantly thought he was going to force himself on me,
but he didn’t take off my clothes. He pinned me down with the
weight of his knee on my stomach then calmly tied my wrists and
ankles to the bedframe.
I yanked and
pulled, trying to get free, yet knowing it was pointless. I watched
Jacob as he dragged a collapsible plastic chair behind the front of
the bed near my head then brought the bucket.
My eyes
widened with terror, uncertainty. Jacob sat, reached in the bucket,
and pulled out a soaking wet towel.
That’s when I
knew.
I knew exactly
what he was going to do. I’d seen it in the movies. Heard that it
was used to get people to talk. Torture. Unimaginable torture.
A wet towel
thrown over the victim and water poured over their face.
Drowning over
and over again.
“No!” I went
crazy. Struggling against the ropes as Jacob placed the towel over
my face. “No. No. No. No.”
He held my
head back then the water came and my words were drowned with
garbled screams.
Day 7
The door
creaked open on its heavy hinges, and then slow footsteps. Panic
and fear reared, and I tried to fade back into the mattress,
cowering.
Jacob had
blindfolded me after the waterboarding. The agony ... Panic setting
off every nerve in my body as I struggled to breath but sucked in
water instead. I tried to scream, to beg, to break free from the
bonds that latched me to the bed, but there was no escape.
I was fighting
for survival, yet losing with every water-drawn breath.
Jacob had done
it time and again, pouring water over the towel on my face. I
begged him to stop when he let me cough up water and breath for a
few minutes. I sobbed, and I promised to do anything he wanted.
He ignored my
pleas and did it again and I gagged, choked and struggled. Then
when he was done, he took off the towel and replaced it with a
blindfold.
The footsteps
drew closer.
Was Jacob
back? Was he going to torture me again? I wanted to fight, but I
knew that it only made the torture worse. So I stayed quiet and
still as the footsteps drew closer. Then I breathed in the familiar
scent of what reminded me of a fresh cut grass—Logan.
Relief. Yes, I
felt it. Maybe I shouldn’t have, but I did.
But my tears
were gone, I’m not sure where. He’d stolen them away. Him or Jacob?
I wasn’t really sure anymore, because Jacob had broken me, and
Logan had wrecked me. Tainted thoughts of Logan filled me. A hate I
had to keep hidden and controlled, because if he left me here any
longer I was going to lose whatever grasp on reality I had left.
Already I’ll never be the same girl again; I’d at least like to be
sane.
I felt the
soft brush of his fingers on my arm and recoiled. His touch
stopped, and I heard him shift as if he was hesitating. Then he
walked away. I bit my lip to stop myself from begging him to come
back, to release me, to take me out of here.
He strode
back, and this time he untied the ropes that locked my wrists and
ankles to the bed, and gently helped me sit up.
“Emily.” His
fingers traced down the side of my face then to the curve of my
neck. “You can’t fight here.”
His familiar
touch awakened my oil-drowned butterflies, and I felt sick that my
body reacted to his touch that way. I bit down hard on the inside
of my cheek until I tasted blood.
“Do you
understand why?”
“Yes.” I had
no choice. Hours I sat, blindfolded, shivering, wet, cold and alone
while I contemplated my life. Fighting them would only make it
harder on me. They wouldn’t kill me. No, instead they’d make me
suffer each and every day until I gave them what they wanted. I saw
the proof of that with those girls. There was no running and hiding
from what Logan had brought me into. There was no fighting. All I
had left was survival and hope.
“Good.” He put
his hand under
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