Page 127 of Destined for the Devil
“Sit.” He pointed to the chair, and I did—I followed all instructions without question. But when John read out what I had to say, blood flowed through me again, filled with anger and defiance.
“No.” I almost swallowed the answer, but he heard it. “I’m not going to say that.”
John didn’t react. He repeated the text, as if he didn’t hear me the first time, but my answer didn’t change.
Sohechanged. Slowly, deliberately, he approached me and stopped right behind.
“Bend over,” he commanded.
My blood ran cold. I stayed rigid in the chair…but that was a mistake. Something whooshed behind me, and pain seared my upper back, blinding me.
Iscreamed.It seeped into every part of my body, and I jolted offthe chair, falling onto my knees, unable to take a breath. Disoriented, I gasped for air, but then it sounded again.
“Stop!” I begged on my knees, the pain rendering me blind once more.
“We can do this all day, Isla. I have lots of time. Sit down and repeat after me.”
And then I saw it. He came to stand in front of me again, a short, black whip in his hand. The pain zinged harder once the understanding settled in my mind.
Tears burst down my cheeks, the bitterness overtaking all of me. I climbed back on the chair, and he read the text again, standing my phone up on the table, ready to record the video.
I’d fumble the words—he would crack the whip on my back. I’d sob between takes—he would crack the whip on my back. I’d skip what he wanted to hear—he would crack the whip on my back.
I writhed and screamed on the stone floor, begging God to end my life. There was nothing comparable to this. It burned, it stung, it pierced my skin and all my insides. My body contorted with every whip, but it didn’t dampen the pain. Didn’t dampen the agony.
I finally conceded, unable to take anymore. I said all the words that were needed.
“Let’s go.” John spoke simply and waited for me to crawl out of the room. I lifted myself up with the help of a wall and walked back to my prison cell, ready to die, but right before John left the room, the phone rang.
It wasRoman.It was the love of my life. But with a dark grin, John held the phone tightly in his hand and slowly backed away and out of the room, shutting it right in my face.
Deep red gashes now adorned my back. It wasn’t raw; it was just painful enough to breathe. The skin was barely cracked, but it was the right amount of damage to leave marks.
I’d stand naked in front of the mirror for hours, crying from pain, from humiliation, from his psychological torture. Would these scars ever vanish?
But that’s not what hurt the most. The fear of losing Roman—of him trading his life for mine—overpowered all the physical pain, leaving deep scars on my heart.
John didn’t come for me after that. He left me in the room for days? Weeks? Months? I didn’t know.
I’d stay on the bed, on my stomach, half naked, staring into the corner of the wall. The Italian lady would come in, drop off food and clothes, and apply some kind of ointment on my back.
Day and night.
Day and night.
Day and night.
It was all the same. No more videos, no more calls to Roman, no more visits from John. Just an empty room.
John wanted only one thing—to torture me. To break me down, empty my soul, and destroy my willpower. And he was succeeding.
But one bright morning I opened my eyes to see breakfast and my own clothes and shoes neatly waiting for me on the floor at the foot of the bed.
Slowly and quietly, I ate and pulled on my clothes, patiently waiting for what the day would bring. My stomach flipped, and my heart thudded in my throat, but I ignored it all. Because I was now meek and obedient, ready to do whatever was needed for Roman to be safe.
If John wanted to whip me again, I was ready for it. If I had to make a thousand more videos, I was ready for it. If John was planning to transport me somewhere else—I was ready for it.Ready for anything to keep Roman safe.
And John arrived. I sat on the edge of the bed, in my own jeans andsoft cashmere sweater, ready to hear the next instructions.
