Imade the beautiful, Imade the flawless, Imade the intelligent, Imade the most wanted. Those were words that usually came after anyone said my name or spoke about me. Words of praise and admiration. I miss those words because the only words that come after my name nowadays are “Imade the trapped, Imade the helpless, Imade the victim.”

The darkness that my eyes have grown so accustomed to surrounds me and I feel around for anything that will make me feel grounded. So I would know I’m not floating in outer space and to certify that this isn’t a nightmare of some sort. I’ve lost count of the days and I don’t even bother with time anymore. Life inside this dank, smelly room hasn’t been life; it has just been existing. I can’t remember the last time I had the luxury of having a bath, feeling the warm water caress and run down my body and rid me of dirt and sweat. I miss the soft bed I used to lie on that usually takes me to my happy place; I miss my freedom. The smell of urine and stale air envelopes me and I can no longer tell if it’s me or the room that stinks so.
I lost my sense of being awhile ago when I discovered it was easier to drift off and know that no one would find me and that my captor would never set me free. I hear heavy footsteps grow louder and closer by the second and a male voice slurring “Imade the beautiful, Imade the flawless, Imade the intelligent, Imade the most wanted.” The last part sounds so lustful and dirty so I cringe after hearing that. The door opens and light fills the dark room; my eyes readjust and see his silhouette standing there with a sardonic smile on his face and I cower. I know what is about to happen so I prepare myself for it. I don’t fight him anymore because I learnt it ends faster that way and he won’t be forced to hit me, and even if he does it won’t be anything serious. I prepare my mind and I dream about what my life used to be, about what my life could’ve looked like. I block out what is happening and let my mind wander as my body goes limp by the first touch. Dreaming is beginning to hurt because it reminds me of what I will most probably never have and tears escape from my eyes, and just as he is done with his business he leans into my ear and sneers “Imade the trapped, Imade the helpless, Imade the victim.” I close my eyes and take the fetal position so he wouldn’t see me cry because I swore to never let him see me cry, to never let him know he got to me, and to never give him the satisfaction of breaking me.


7 thoughts on “Imade.

    1. Lol its supposed to be a series about abuse victims but I’m not sure I’ll continue the story. It is absolutely fiction. Thank you sooo much for contributing.

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