Page 18 of Amethyst

But he left many scars on my soul.

You will learn to love your body again, all the therapists said.

I’m not sure I ever loved my body. I never gave it much thought. But I look at it now, with objective eyes.

My face is oval-shaped, though my chin is slightly prominent. My cheekbones are high. My eyes are large and deep-set, and I’ve always liked the color.

I don’t anymore. They are why I was Amethyst on the island, and I will always associate them with the torture I received.

Except I can’t do that. I will change my attitude. I must look forward, not backward. That is the crux of my therapy.

I can’t change what happened to me. But I can be thankful for my survival, thankful for my rescue, and I can move forward and leave it in the past where it belongs.

I’ve come a long way for sure. We were all close to suicidal after our rescue. But our counselors helped us, our doctors helped us, and more importantly, a lot of us helped each other.

Several of the women went to New York to live in housing paid for by the Wolfe family, but I chose to come home. Home to Gahanna, Ohio, home to my parents.

I needed something familiar.

And Max.

I came home to Max.

But now that seems to be ruined as well.

I let my gaze wander to my breasts. My C cups made me popular on the island, so I grew to hate them. In high school, I liked my breasts. I liked the attention they got me.

My belly is a little rounder now. We weren’t starved on the island. We had to stay in shape, because the men who came to the island relished the hunt. Most of them wanted what they calledworthy prey.

We were fed a lot of protein and a lot of carbohydrates, but the amount of exercise we got from running kept our bellies flat.

The roundness isn’t unattractive. I like it because it’s different. I know now that I’m getting enough to eat and that any exercise I get is my choice.

My legs look the same. Perhaps even more shapely than they were before due to the muscles I built up on the island.

My feet, size ten, always too big for my five-foot-six frame, no longer bother me.

There are other things to be bothered about.

Will any man ever want to touch me again?

My therapist here at home, Dr. Michaels, says it will come in time. That I’m not broken beyond repair.

That I’m not—

I jerk backward at a knock on the door and then grab my robe from a chair and cover myself.

“Who is it?”

“It’s just me,” Mom says. “Max is here. He’d like to talk to you.”

Max.

Max, the one person, besides Mom and Dad, who I truly wanted to see.

Until he gave me the amethyst.

“Okay,” I say. “I’m in my robe. Let me put on some clothes and I’ll be right down.”

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