Page 30 of The Tourist

I’m trapped, helpless, and alone.

I wake up with a start, my heart pounding and sweat drenching the sheets. I look around the room, disoriented, but the familiar sight of Betty curled up beside me brings a small measure of comfort.

I can’t go back to sleep, so I turn on the lights, and getting up, I take a seat at the desk. The article I’ve been working on sits unfinished on my laptop, and I feel a sudden urge to complete it. Writing has always been my refuge. It’s my way of making sense of the chaos.

I continue to write about my experiences, describing what I’ve endured and how it feels to be back, trying to rebuild my life. I write about the relatives of those still in captivity who are waiting for news, not knowing if their loved ones are safe. I pour my heart into the words, hoping they will make a difference, hoping they will bring some measure of understanding.

Hours pass, and the words flow easily. When I finally finish, I read through the article, feeling a strange mix of relief and sorrow. Tomorrow morning, I will send it to the editor of the magazine I worked for in London. I’m hoping it will be published so it can help someone else.

I climb back into bed, curling up beside Betty, and I feel a glimmer of hope. Maybe, just maybe, things will get better. For now, I’ll hold on to the small comforts—the warmth of the cat beside me, and the knowledge that I’ve taken another step toward healing. Maybe I’ll feel whole again, one day.

As I lie there, exhausted, I begin to relax, and it doesn’t take long before the cat’s purring lulls me back to a dreamless sleep.

CHAPTER20

Diego

It’s been three weeks since I sent Chloe away, and every day without her has been a struggle.

I’m currently sitting at my desk, staring at blurred and meaningless numbers on the computer screen in front of me. Today has been long and fruitless, filled with endless dead ends and unhelpful leads. Serena’s trail has gone cold again.

I’m trying to spend some time focusing on my normal business activities. However, why I thought reviewing the organization’s financial analysis would stop me thinking about Chloe and wondering how she’s doing, I don’t know.

My phone buzzes on the desk, and I glance at the notification. It’s an alert, highlighting a newly published magazine article from London. Chloe’s name catches my eye, and my heart skips a beat. She’s finished her story.

I click on the link, and while the page loads, I lean back in my chair, preparing myself for whatever she’s written.

The headline reads: "Surviving the Shadows: One Woman’s Story of Captivity and the Aftermath."

I take a deep breath and begin to read.

Surviving the Shadows: One Woman’s Story of Captivity and the Aftermath

By Chloe Benson

The horrors of being sold as a slave are something no one should ever have to endure. The pain, the fear, and the helplessness become your constant companions.

For months, I was held captive, drugged, beaten, and violated by men who saw me as nothing more than an object to be used and discarded.

I was injected with heroin to keep me docile and ensure I couldn’t fight back. At first, the drugs were a relief because they allowed me to escape the nightmare, if only for a little while. But the real horror began when the effects of the drugs wore off, and I was left to confront the full extent of my reality.

Every touch felt like a burn, every moment an eternity of suffering. They passed me between them, and each violation etched a permanent scar on my soul. I was trapped in my own body, screaming in a place no one could hear.

In those moments, the drugs became both my refuge and my prison. The numbness they provided was a small mercy, allowing me to detach from the pain, the humiliation, and sense of worthlessness. But the price of that detachment was high. Each injection chipped away at my sense of self, and each dose made it harder to remember who I was before the nightmare began.

When I was finally rescued, I thought the worst was over. But the truth is, the aftermath can be just as harrowing. Detoxing from drugs is an incredibly painful experience. Then, when your mind is clear, come the memories, the nightmares, and the constant feeling of dirtiness. They all linger, making it hard to move on.

The world I returned to was overwhelming, particularly at first. It was filled with people who could never understand the depths of my despair or the weight of the trauma I was carrying with me. I even found it hard to speak to my parents.

The road to my recovery has been long and fraught with challenges. Simple tasks that once seemed mundane now trigger memories of my captivity. A sound, a smell, or a touch can bring the past rushing back with a force that leaves me breathless and trembling.

The journey to reclaim my body, my mind, and my life is a daily battle, and even though it’s getting easier, I know I will be fighting it forever.

Sadly, I am not alone. There are countless others out there waiting to be saved, still hoping for a miracle. They continue to suffer, not only from the kind of trauma I went through, but also from the torment of war, domestic violence, and poor mental health. Their relatives and friends are caught in a limbo of uncertainty, wondering if their loved one will survive. The pain of not knowing is a unique form of torture, one that gnaws at the soul and leaves a gaping wound that can never fully heal.

To those of you still waiting, still hoping, please don’t give up. Keep fighting, keep searching, and keep believing. Together, we can overcome the shadows that seek to consume us. You are not alone.

For those of you who are lost, who feel like the darkness will never end, there is help. Reach out, talk to someone, and take the first step towards healing. You are not alone.

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