Page 53 of Chad's Chase
Please don’t say you know who I am. Please don’t say you know who I am. Please don’t say you know who I am. It will change everything.
A long stretch of silence, then, “Only that I need to protect you.”
At that totally unexpected answer, I glanced over to the doorway at him. “Protectme? From what?”
Uncrossing his arms, Chad rubbed his eyes and straightened up. “Look, I’m too tired to get into that right now. I’ve had enough shit for one night. It’s late and I need to recharge. I suggest you shower and get some rest, too.” He turned to leave, then paused to toss over his shoulder, “And don’t bother trying to escape. You won’t succeed.”
Long after he was gone, I watched the empty doorway. Confused. My whole life just felt like one long, never-ending game, and I kept losing with each misjudged move. Sometimes I wondered what the whole point of my existence was. Why I was even alive.
As my eyes roamed around the room, I could admit to one thing: I was happy to behere. To be Chad’s captive, or chess piece, or whatever.
Back at Hugo’s restaurant, when Chad told me he would be taking me with him, I’d been too much in pain to jump up and down at the announcement, because those words were gold. It was as if it was what I’d wanted all along and never even realized. Why did Chad “taking me with him” thrill me so much, I had no idea. All I knew was that something in my stomach fluttered at the prospect. And now, here I was, in a commodious room decorated specifically for me.
And I felt something.
A good something.
A great something.
A path-breaking, future-changing something.
Flopping back onto the bed, I stared up at the ceiling, and grinned.
Seven years ago…
Somewhere in Russia
Saturdays.
The girl hated Saturdays.
Saturday was payday for Mr. D. The loathsome day of the week when she had to strip down, bend over, and let Mr. D cash in.
Paying for services she never asked for. She never asked to be taught how to fight. She never asked to be taught how to fire a gun, or how to throw knives. She never asked to be taught any of the vile, vicious things she now mastered.
She only asked to be freed. And that was what shedidn’tget.
Although she had graduated from the dark and musty 10x12 room to her own studio apartment on the heavily guarded compound, she was still a prisoner. Over the past three years, her cooperation and good behavior had gotten her extensions of freedom. She could now walk the courtyard and read in the gardens. She could talk to other inhabitants in the block she lived in—who, to her great surprise, werehappyto be in that dreadful place. Not once had the girl ever heard them whine or complain about being abused or ill-treated. They all trained together and had fun. The girl trained alone with Mr. D. They all had everything they wanted. The girl had to earn her luxury each month. Which led her to believe maltreatments were being extended to her only, for a reason unknown to her.
Someone was vindictively making her pay for a crime she didn’t commit.
However, she never shared her ignominies, and she never asked questions. The last thing she wanted was to make her captor angry, upon which he would no doubt toss her back in the darkness. No thanks. She liked her new studio apartment very much.
It was nice, with a big, comfortable bed, a television, a bookshelf, and even a stove to cook her own hot meals.
She’d learned that, at this place, obedience made her life a lot easier. So, she behaved, kept her mouth shut, and was rewarded each month.
But Saturdays, she dreaded them.
Every single Saturday for the past three years, Mr. D came for his payment. She would stay up all night on Fridays, shivering, crying, just thinking about the imminent horrors of the approaching day.
Sitting at the edge of the bed in her apartment, with her legs squeezed tightly shut, and her trembling hands clutching the sheets, the girl waited for the knock at her room door.
And then it came.
Heart thudding in her chest, she got up and took shaky steps toward the door. One would think that after three years, she would’ve gotten inured to this by now. Except she hasn’t. Each and every time, she feared. Each and every time she trembled. And each and every time he rammed into her from behind, she would wish him dead in her head.
Over and over and over, she would wish him dead. Because what he did to her it hurt. What he forced inside her was huge. It tore her open, made her stomach hurt, and left her sore the next day. He would reach his clammy hands around and squeeze her breasts until she cried out in pain. That would make him pound her harder, manic, because that pleased him. Her tears and cries of pain pleased him. Her fear made him groan in pleasure.
