Page 2 of Massacre
During the day, I would wander the streets, sometimes finding odd jobs to earn a few dollars. I’d take any work I could get; my pride had been left behind in that house with my father. At night, I’d curl up in whatever shelter I could find, dreaming of a different life. A life where I was more than just a survivor, where I could be strong, like Helen Keller, and advocate for myself and others like me.
As the months passed, I became tougher, both physically and mentally. The life I had left behind seemed like a distantmemory, and the girl I once was felt like a stranger. I knew that my father’s friends were still out there, but I also knew that they wouldn’t recognize the woman I had become. Hell, I barely recognized myself most days.
I had made a few friends on the streets. Kids like me, hiding from the life they escaped. Everyone had a story, yet most were the same.
Abuse didn’t give a damn what age you were.
Eventually, I met Dan.
Dan had a way with words, and at first, I believed his promises of a better life. For three years, he showered me with that life. He showed me a life I never knew existed. Filled with good food, expensive clothes, and love. At least, what I thought was love. But what the hell did I know about love? As time went on, it became clear he was no different from my father. Years of showing me off to his friends was nothing more than a prelude to his intentions. I was nothing more than a commodity to him, and when I refused to be sold to the highest bidder, he turned violent.
I should have known better; I should have trusted my instincts. But after a lifetime of servitude, abuse, and betrayal, it was hard to recognize that I deserved better.
So, once again, I found myself being used to satisfy the needs of men. Not just any men either; my abusers included businessmen, high society men, men of worth. Not the dregs of society. Men from all walks and stations enjoyed my company. Some were nice, while most just wanted to nut and get on with their lives, or a reprieve from their wives. I hated those men the most because the second the door was closed, they removed their masks of indifference and showed me their true colors, the true depth of their immorality, and it was sickening.
No matter what I did, I kept trading one hell for another.
But no matter how I looked at it, a gilded cage was still a cage.
Still, it was far better than the exploitation I saw on the streets. Boys and girls, it didn’t matter the age, were used and abused by those old enough to be their parents, and yet no one did anything about it. It was almost as if what happened on the streets didn’t matter because the people on the streets were less in some way.
At least on the streets, I knew where I stood. In this new world Dan brought me into, the Devil wore expensive tailored suits and drove Rolls-Royces. Labels meant nothing when I owned a closet full of them. Jewelry was pretty to look at, but it didn’t keep me warm at night and the decadent food—I’d still be happy with a burger from McDonald’s. Growing up, I had nothing, and now that I had everything, I wanted substance. I needed to know that there was more to life than the perversions of men.
Over the years, I learned to trust my instincts, knowing that my survival depended on it. During the long, lonely nights as I lay there while some man rutted over me, I often thought of Helen Keller and wondered if she had ever felt as alone and scared as I did. Did she ever crave a life without the pain and suffering, desperate to find some semblance of morality and substance that made life worth living?
I knew that one day I would find a life worth living. I didn’t know when, but I knew someday everything would be different.
It had to be.
“Bethany, pack a bag. You are leaving,” Dan said, walking into my room.
“Why?”
Before I could ask anything more, Dan backhanded me across the face. “What did I say about questioning me?”
Cupping my cheek, I whispered, “You know what’s best.”
“That’s right.” He smiled warmly. “Now, do as you are told. I have found you a new home. One of your regulars has requestedyou for himself, and he’s offered to pay me handsomely for you,” he simply said, as if I were a regular business arrangement.
“Can I ask which one?” I said softly, dropping my eyes in submission, which I knew would please him greatly.
“The gentleman with the gentle nature, Mr. Sebastian Capribella. He is taking you on a grand adventure to Louisiana.”
One thing about Dan, he lied through his motherfucking teeth.
I now knew there were stages of hell. Each darker and more depraved than the last. And hell was Louisiana. More specifically, the rotting plantation I found myself in after Dan sold me.
Gentile my ass.
Mr. Sebastian Capribella was a sadistic motherfucker who didn’t have a single drop of kindness in his body. His only thrill was watching me bleed.
The rotting plantation house was nestled deep in the Louisiana swamps—a fitting setting for the twisted games that Mr. Sebastian Capribella enjoyed. As I stepped out of the car that had brought me to this new hell, I felt a sense of dread wash over me. The air was thick and heavy, carrying the weight of a thousand unspoken sins.
Mr. Capribella greeted me with a sinister smile, his eyes glinting with a mixture of excitement and cruelty. “Welcome, my dear. I’ve been eagerly awaiting your arrival.” His voice was smooth and low, like velvet hiding a razor-sharp blade.
That night, I learned the true extent of his depravity. In a hidden dungeon beneath the mansion, he kept his toys—instruments of pain and pleasure that he used to satisfyhis twisted desires. I became his favorite plaything, enduring unimaginable torment as he pushed my body and mind to their limits. But with each scream that echoed through the dungeon, my resolve only strengthened. I knew I had to escape, but Mr. Capribella was always one step ahead. He had eyes and ears everywhere, and the swamp surrounding the plantation was a treacherous maze.
Days turned into weeks, then months; nevertheless, I remained trapped in this new hell. Mr. Capribella’s depravity knew no bounds, and he took great pleasure in breaking me, body and soul. But something inside me refused to yield completely. I clung to the memory of Helen Keller, drawing strength from her resilience and advocacy. I knew that if she could overcome her challenges and make a difference in the world, then perhaps there was hope for me yet.
