by Sarah Bale
“I learned early on to stay out of his way. My mom took a lot of the beatings, but when she was out or too high to care that he was hitting her, he’d take his anger out on me.”
There was always a reason. He was hitting me because I’d left a toy out. The cigarette burns on my leg would remind me to pick up my dirty laundry. The kick to my side was because dinner wasn’t ready when he got home, even though I was only five. Burning my toys until I had nothing left would teach me not to cry when he hit me. It went on and on.
I can remember when I started school. I was terrified the teacher would hit me if I didn’t understand something. At recess, I would stick to myself. I was afraid that if I were to somehow get in an altercation with another student, they would tell my parents, and I would pay. Of course, this method also had repercussions. Once, my first-grade teacher sent a letter home expressing concern at my withdrawal from others. My father said I was trying to get him in trouble. Kicked me so hard he broke a rib. That’s when I learned no one was going to help me.
“I was eight when he raped me for the first time.” My stomach roils, but I keep talking. “He was high on something and came into my room. I wish I could say that was the only time it happened. It wasn’t.”
The lump in my throat is so big that I have to pause and take in a deep, calming breath. There’s no turning back now. I’m about to tell them the worst parts of me and pray they still love me.
“The older I got, the worse it got, and no one was there to help me.”
Saint asks, “Did your mother know what he was doing?”
I nod. “She pretended like nothing was happening, but she knew.”
“Fuck,” he breathes out.
“Sometimes he’d go off on benders and would be gone for weeks at a time. It was always a relief, but then he’d come back, and I’d know it was only a matter of time before he’d hurt me again.”
I shake my head as I remember the soft whistle he’d let out as he came for me. Almost something a person would use to call a dog without scaring it. The older I got, the more I came to fear that small sound.
“I ran away for the first time when I was ten. Went to a classmate’s house. I learned real quick what he would do to punish me after that.”
Razor asks, “What did he do?”
“He killed her dog. Sent me over with a special treat to give it. Little did I know it was poisoned.” I brush a tear from my cheek. “No one blamed me, of course. Said it must have been a bad batch at the processing plant. But I knew.”
It was a message to what he could do to me, too. If I tried to run, he would kill me. I never really thought about it until now, but maybe that’s why I never left the area after I thought he was dead. He was still controlling me from the grave, or so I thought at the time.
“When I was twelve, he started hanging around a rough crowd. They were getting high on some major drugs. The parties they’d have were always a danger to me and I learned to live with a new kind of fear.”
I knew the new group of men who were always at our house were bad even before one of them came to my bedroom one night. I tried to fight him off, but couldn’t. The next day, when my father found out, he was mad at me, like I had wanted what’d happened. Said he could make sure I had plenty of dick, since I was a whore.
“My father brought a new drug home around this time. It reminded me of meth, but the way they acted on it was nothing I’d ever seen before.” I pause. “My mom was hooked. My father, well, he decided to play his card when he saw what she’d do to get high.”
King rasps out, “What was it?”
“He wanted total access to me. She moved into my room and I had to stay with him in their room.” I brush away the tears streaming down my cheeks. “No matter how hard I fought, he always won. Said he liked breaking me.”
I prayed for death every fucking night.
I wanted to die.
I needed help.
I wished he would die and rot in hell.
“I begged my mom to help me get away. She was fucked-up and out of her mind. Told me I was old enough. That some girls my age were married off, sometimes even to their cousins. Said I ought to be glad he cared enough to even want me around.”
Sometimes, when I think about her, it’s like I’m watching a train wreck. There’s nothing I can do to stop what’s about to happen, and part of me relishes in the destruction that ended her life.
“She was high all the time. Her teeth fell out, and sometimes she didn’t even know who I was. One night she stumbled into their bedroom and saw us. I hoped she was coming to save me. Instead, she said she was sorry and left.” I swallow. “Unsurprisingly, I ended up getting pregnant. I didn’t know until it was too late, but I’m not sure it would have made a difference. I was living in hell and nothing, or no one, was going to save me.”
My body hurt all the time. I assumed it was from all the perverse things he did to me, but one morning I woke up and knew that something was terribly wrong. There was too much blood when I used the bathroom.
“One day I got sick—sicker than I’d ever been in my life. I went to school and ended up passing out in class. When they couldn’t get me to come to, they called an ambulance. If they hadn’t, I would have died because my parents weren’t going to risk sending me to a hospital where questions could be asked.”
I begin to pace, needing to move.
“I’d lost the baby at some point. That’s why I was so sick – because I had an infection from having an incomplete miscarriage. They rushed me into surgery to do a D&C, but not before telling my father that I was pregnant.” I close my eyes. “I knew I was going to pay when I got home. I thought about telling the nurses what was happening to me, but who would believe me? I saw the way they looked at me. Like I was trash. Like I deserved what happened.”
I overheard them whispering about how handsome my father was. How the poor man had to deal with an unruly teenager like me. Yeah, there was not going to be any help from them. And I didn’t have anyone else to advocate for me. Perks of living in a small town, right?
“When I got home from the hospital, he struck me, calling me all sorts of names. But then my mother hit me, too. Beat me with the buckle of a belt. Said I was a whore for sleeping around at my age, even though she fucking knew what had happened to me. The only blessing that came from it was that my mother moved back into her bedroom and I had my own room to hide in.”
They both avoided me for the next few days. I passed my mom in the hallway one evening. For a split second I thought I saw remorse in her face when she saw the bruise spanning my cheek. She cupped it and then told me I was going back to school in the morning because they were calling and asking too many questions. That I was supposed to lie and say a jealous boyfriend had beat me up when he found out I was cheating.
The looks I got at school were a fucking nightmare. People openly pointed and talked. Then word got around that I was a whore. One of the other student’s parent worked at the hospital and mentioned that I’d had a miscarriage. There was no stopping the rumor mill after that. Guys looked at me with heat in their eyes, thinking I was easy. Girls looks at me with hate, thinking I was going to take their boyfriends. All while I was still trying to process how I felt about losing a baby that I didn’t even know about until it was already gone.
“One week after the miscarriage, I came home from school. I knew my father was gone and thought I’d be safe for a bit. The door to their room was closed, so I didn’t bother to check on my mom. Maybe if I had-” I rush on, “I tried to take a nap, but the smoke alarm in the hallway kept chirping. When I went into her room, her mattress was engulfed in flames and she didn’t wake up when I yelled her name. By the time the fire department got there, it was too late.”
They couldn’t get ahold of my father and talked about sending me to a foster home. At the last minute, he finally answered and said he’d be there. He could have won an Oscar for the performance he gave when he found out she was dead. He rushed i
n, crying out where’s my daughter. Is she safe? The DHS workers ate it up. I knew it was a fucking act.
The owner of the duplex put us in a vacant house while ours was repaired. That same fucking night my father came into my room, telling me I was the lady of the house now, and that meant I needed to be ready for him at all times.
“Time went on and no one seemed to notice that I was fading away. My grades were horrible. I was acting out. The only thing I wasn’t doing was drugs, but that’s because I’d seen what they could do to a person.”
The rumor mill wasn’t kind to me. It went from me being a whore to being the whore who’d lost her mother. Guys started coming around to comfort me, asking for sexual favors in return. And I let them. I mean, I was already being used for my body at home. Why not at school? And why not when I had a choice about who I slept with? It was a dangerous game that I got sucked into.
I’d give blowjobs in the bathrooms. Do anal in the gym. And let groups of guys have their way with me at the same time behind the bleachers. The only positive thing that came from this was that I actually started to like sex versus enduring it. It became freeing—being able to choose who I had sex with. It was my body and if I said no, they would respect me and leave, even if they were pissed. The downfall was that my father thought I enjoyed what was happening with him. And no matter how much you say no, sometimes your body doesn’t get the same message.
“When I was fifteen my father moved his thugs in with us. They were working on something new to sell and wanted to be able to work without interruption. I’d never seen them so focused. They didn’t even try to mess with me as much.”
But it still happened. The leader of the thugs liked me and took me to bed every night. My father tried to call him on it once and he beat the shit out of my father for questioning him. I didn’t like him, but it was better being at his side than on my own, so I played up to him so he’d want to keep me around. This meant skipping school to the point that I couldn’t go back without having to repeat the same grade again.
They worked day and night until finally they got it right. My father came into my room and woke up his friend. They went to the living room and then a commotion ensued. I knew better than to go out, but when a gun went off, my curiosity got the best of me. There, in the living room, was the leader of the thugs, and my protector, dead on the floor. My father stood above him, an evil look on his face.
“They finally got the formula right and said they were going to try it out on me. I’d seen what it had done to the mice they were testing on and didn’t want anything to do with it.”
But my father didn’t give me a choice. He launched right over the body lying on the floor and attacked me. In the process, I fell into the end table. Something cracked in my arm and I knew it was broken. But I was done being the victim. So, I fought him harder than I’ve ever fought before.
I made it to my room, thinking he would just stop. He didn’t, and came at me again. My body was screaming for me to stop – to give in – but I couldn’t. He grabbed my injured arm. When I cried out, he knew he’d won. He twisted my arm so far back that I nearly passed out from the pain. I must have fallen to the floor, because when I opened my eyes he was standing above me, breathing hard.
I cradled my arm to my chest, but nothing helped the dull throb. He grabbed hold of me and shoved a syringe right into my injured arm. I cried out and then I felt…strange. He laughed, saying the drugs would make it so easy for me. That I wouldn’t even know what was happening to me.
The next time he came at me, I couldn’t do anything to stop him. But I felt every fucking moment of it. I wanted to scream out and tell him to stop as he rutted on top of me. I thought he was done. He wasn’t. He came back with the other thugs and let them have a round with me. Inside, I screamed the whole time to the point that my throat actually ached. Outward, I never made a fucking sound.
“He used it on me and said it worked just the way it was supposed to. What they didn’t know was that it was also highly addictive.”
It took a few days before the withdrawals kicked in. I was hot and cold at the same time. The throbbing in my broken arm was nothing compared to the way my heart raced in my chest. When he came to my room I begged for help. I had no idea what was happening, but he did.
“He knew I was addicted, so he shot me up almost every day. I was so far gone that I didn’t even care that I was being used and passed around. The only thought that consumed me was getting my next hit.”
Thinking back on those times makes me sick. I wasn’t in my right mind and I try to remember that. Like, the girl who begged for those things isn’t the same person as me, though I know she still lives deep down inside of me somewhere. When I think about her, my heart breaks.
“I don’t remember much during that timeframe. Bits and pieces have come back to me over the years. I know my father tried to sell the drug on the streets but received too many complaints because it left the person addicted.” I snort. “So they tweaked the formula, and gave me the old shit.”
Our house was a carousel of men coming and going, with me right there in the middle and my father taking payments from the men as they used me. At one point, I stopped bothering to dress and walked around naked. Hell, I wasn’t showering, even after being used over and over. I didn’t care. I just wanted to die.
“I do have one vivid memory. This guy showed up to the house during a party. All I remember are his eyes. They were ice blue, and I felt like he was staring into my soul. Freaked the shit out of me. I guess it was probably the drugs that made me feel that way.” I shake my head. “He came to my room and tried to help me. Said he could get me away from there. Asked if I was kidnapped or if anyone was looking for me. My father came in and kicked him out before I could even answer.”
Something changed in my little world after that. Maybe I was building a tolerance to the drugs at that point, or maybe my brain was trying to keep me alive, but I started to fight the men who raped me and the drugs didn’t keep me as silent as they would like. My arm was rebroken after one of the guys got too rough with me. I was so damn frail and weak.
And then I started going through withdrawals from the drugs. That’s when things really spiraled out of control.
“I’m not sure what happened during this time, but one night a group of men in FBI vests burst through our door. My father’s men shot first, and the Feds fired back.”
The living room lit up like the Fourth of July as I sat up in bed. People screamed, but I was too high to care. Someone yelled for my father to surrender. There was a single gunshot and then silence. That’s how I remember it. I’ve been told that things went down slightly differently.
“A man came into the room and saw me on the mattress. I…I wasn’t in good shape. I remember bits and pieces of riding in an ambulance to the hospital. There was so much pain. And then there was nothing.” I press my hand over my chest—over my scar. “I technically died in the ER. Come to find out I would have died either way. My father starved me toward the end and my body wasn’t strong enough to handle the withdrawals from the drugs. On top of that, I had an infection from all the dirty needles they used on me.”
My recovery was slow and painful. There were so many days I wished I had just died. It would have been easier.
“One day a man comes into my hospital room. He was the one who saved me.”
“Agent Hill,” Bash says, surprising me.
“Yeah. I asked if my father was dead and he said that my father was gone.”
King spits out, “Too bad the fuckers didn’t make sure he was dead. After what he did to you-”
“I truly think Agent Hill believed my father was dead. But we all know that’s not the case. He’s out there, and he’s coming for me. The thing that kills me is that I don’t know why.” I look each of them in the eyes. “Why am I so fucking important to him? Does he want to get to me so he can finish the job and kill me?”
I know they don’t have any answers, but it fee
ls damn good just saying the words out loud.
King lets out an anguished breath. “Liv, I can’t even begin to imagine what you went through before you met us. I am so fucking sorry that no one was there for you. That no one could see what was happening.”
Razor nods. “May each and every one of the fuckers who hurt you rot in hell. God help them if I ever find them.”
“Liv-” Bash can’t even finish speaking, as he buries his face in his hands as he cries.
He whispers my name over and over, as if he’s trying to save me right then and there.
My sweet Liv. She didn’t deserve that. My sweet Liv.
Saint looks me straight in the eyes. “You are the strongest woman I’ve ever met, Olivia Mayhem. I swear to god that we’re going to get through this together, and you will never have to worry about him hurting you again.”
Somewhere, the little girl deep inside of me is sobbing. She has people who care about her now and that’s something that can’t be taken away from her.
I wipe my tears on the back of my hand. Telling them about my past was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done in my life, but I did it, and they still love me. In this moment, I know that I’ve won. My father didn’t break me and these four men are proof of that.
“I didn’t want to tell you about my past, but Dr. Cross has really helped me. It’s still not something that I think I want to talk about very often. I just need you all to know what I went through. My childhood sculpted the way I’ve acted as an adult. It’s why I worked on the fantasy website. It’s why I didn’t want a relationship. And it’s why I didn’t want kids.”
I meet King’s gaze. He gives me a nod and I inhale.
“That’s all changed since I met the four of you. I know we haven’t known each other for very long in the grand scheme of things and I know I’ve probably been more trouble than I’m worth, but I love the four of you. You each make me want to be in a relationship. You make me want love. And you make me want a family.” My hand rests on my stomach. “I know this has got to be the worst timing in the fucking world, but I’m pregnant.”
