by Dani René
Since I was only a child, every bruise I had made sense and caused no concern. Who would have imagined the truth? But, as I had learned the day the brothers burned me with a heated spoon, the boys’ cravings were deepening. The electrocution was only a precursor of what else was to be inflicted on me.
As my dad continued to roar, “What the fuck is wrong with you kids?” finally understanding my wounds were not of my own doing, Jarod poured a bottle of motor oil on the floor. Right behind my dad.
My heart raced. I tried to open my mouth, but I was in some sort of shock. Not a word could pass my lips.
Like a well-trained pack of wolves, the four evil boys flanked my father from a slight distance, two on each side, and stalked forward. One, or even all four, were not enough to take my father down, so they got creative. They closed in to cause Daddy concern.
In disbelief at the aggression, my father yanked me from the table. My partially limp body hung from his chest and embrace, and he took a couple of steps backward. It didn’t take long for the trap to work. A heavy foot flew out from under my dad, and he fell back, hitting his head on the concrete floor with a gruesome thud. I didn’t have to see to understand what damage had been done. The final exhale from the chest I was laying on, and the arms releasing me to lifelessly fall to the wet ground, told me everything. Daddy was gone.
I couldn’t move. Absolute disbelief had me frozen in place, on top of a dead body that once was dear to a little girl. Daddies are heroes. They are formidable. Nothing can hurt them. Mine, now dead, made the brothers the most dangerous beings on earth.
Sure not to step in the pool of oil, the boys slowly grouped together to see my unresponsive expression. Implausibly, they seemed disappointed to not get more of a reaction from me. I heard, “Why isn’t she screaming?”
I couldn’t even move as Damien squatted into my line of sight. Sinister blue eyes glared. “Want the same for your mom?”
My mother’s smile, innocent of the madness, ignited in my fragile mind. The horror of something grave happening to her must have been noticeable in my eyes. Surrounding breaths sped up as they fed on my terror.
I looked to Jarod, but he was smiling, not reacting like a son who had just lost a father. A tear slipped from me and dripped to my Daddy’s now quiet chest. I would mourn him, alone.
“Good,” answered Damien before he stood and said, “Crow and I will go home. We weren’t here. Got it? Crow and I will do the same for you after we take my dad down.” Then he instructed my brothers on how to react during the upcoming 911 phone call they were to make. They all schemed the perfect responses for the officers and any witnesses, my brothers crying over Daddy’s “accident.”
I didn’t continue to cry. I didn’t move. I just watched as Daddy’s blood mixed with the dark oil. A misfortunate lesson was concreted that day. Speak… and die.
I collapse to the bed in horror. Memories are now flooding my mind like a wave with no moon, giving gravity to the water. No fear can withhold the truth this time.
After Daddy’s death, a cycle began. The four boys seemed to be chasing a first high like a Meth addict. My mother was too sad and under pressure to notice. She was now the sole provider, working two jobs and still financially struggling. My reclusive behavior was blamed on the tragic loss of a father figure.
Years began to pass from one tormented moment to the next. I was always in survival mode. I went to school and kept my grades up so as not to draw any attention to myself. I was quiet to the point that most never even noticed me. Teachers always called on the loud kids in my class.
I was left in a life of solitude, even when surrounded by others.
As I got older, so did my sadists. As their bodies started to have sexual cravings, these longings mixed with their sadistic behaviors. This made my early teenage years horrendous. I was instructed to hide all marks from my mother, her safety becoming the only thing I felt I had control over. I offered my body to protect hers.
After seeing my blood drip from my mouth the night my dad was killed, knives had become a favored type of torture. Starting with little cuts, they grew into something much more sinister. The unnatural brotherhood had done research on their evil desires and learned they were truly sadists at heart. Instead of being ashamed of this vile fact, they celebrated. I was a labeled conquest by yet another scar. To not be easily recognized as the letter S, representing sadism, the symbol was cut in a stretched manner down my forearm so I would never forget who I secretly belonged to.
Long sleeves became my best friend.
The shirts for warmth actually helped me ignore my rotten predicament.
At the boys’ ages of fifteen and sixteen, erections would occur as my skin was being damaged. Their puberty had been in full swing long before their sexual interests in me, but they had girlfriends to satisfy simpler sensual cravings. That eventually changed. Normal sexual relationships soon didn’t suffice.
One night, Damien rubbed his clothed crotch while Jake sliced my inner thigh. I was in shorts, on my bathroom floor. They never cut me on carpet, not after making that mistake a few years prior. My mother had asked questions about the stain. I reminded her of my fictional clumsiness, saving her life once again.
When Jarod noticed the groping, he laughed. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Sorry, dude. Kimberly is out of town, so I have no one to fuck while thinking of these cuts.” He gestured to me as if I were a nuisance. “Look. We don’t even have to hold her down anymore. She’s getting boring.”
Becoming so accustomed to the abuse, I had learned to discipline my pain. A simple cut was nothing anymore. I didn’t cry or struggle, just laid there and let them slice away.
Jake, still with a blade in his hand, snarled at me. “He’s right, you fucking boring whore.”
“Whore,” Jarod said to himself before glancing over his shoulder. “I bet you raping her will get a rile out of her.”
My gasp was all they needed. The hungry wolves came back to life in that mere second. Like vultures to a carcass, they dove in. Except, I wasn’t a dead, leftover piece of meat. I was alive and wanted to stay intact, not be ripped apart. So, I fought. Even though it fed my attackers, I battled with all I had. Hands grabbed at me, so I bit and hit and screamed as I was dragged out of the bathroom by my ankles. I swung madly as clothes were ripped from my body. The carpet burned my skin as I jerked and struggled to get free from the insane ones threatening to overtake me.
I was no match to the still-growing young men, but I was proud of not going down without being heard and felt. A few teeth marks, punches, and kicks landed before I was finally restrained.
Jarod instructed, “Condom up. I don’t want her pregnant,” as Damien removed his clothing in an eager hurry.
I, a female, was their ideal victim.
My fear, my pain, was their fuel.
I was terrified.
I fed them much.
The physical rape was only by one that night, but the mental rape was by them all. Sobbing in pain and heartbreak, I had to bear witness to more of my vital fluids bringing them joy. Virginal blood leaked from within me. The sacred liquid was touched and stolen by the onlookers. My two brothers and Crow reached between my legs after my spent rapist fell to the side, panting due to his elated state.
In shock, like I had felt on the night my father was murdered, I laid there, motionless. Used, body and soul, unaware my menstrual cycle would now become a special treat for my abusers. They felt they got to witness my stolen virginity on a monthly basis. I would be raped then tampered with as if only an object for their entertainment.
Soon, just like the cuts, the rapes lost their effect on me. The emotional shutdown took time since my own brothers joining in my terror was so unforgiving for me. They had done countless horrendous acts against me, but their sexual assaults were the most damaging to my mental health. Eventually, that shock was also something I learned to numb out.
When the terrorists’ boredom set in again
, due to my lack of “proper” reactions, the sadistic beings became inventive. They had to find something my body needed and would demand, no matter how much I tried to block out their atrocious crimes.
Air became their weapon.
Chapter 4
Sugar and Kisses
They weren’t illusions at all.
They were memories.
Maybe that is the case for all of us.
We’re not mad. We’re simply… destroyed.
“Wake up, Lacey,” cooed one of my assailants. “There’s more fun to have.”
On my bedroom floor, my eyes fluttered open to report to my brain what predicament I was waking to. I had just passed out due to a plastic bag over my head. It was beyond terrifying. It was against nature. Not being able to breathe is against the one rule all humans must follow.
My foggy eyes widened in terror because I could see and feel that I was being held down on my bedroom floor, while Damien, now naked, climbed on top of my face. With a bent leg on each side of my head, he put his weight over my mouth to smother me with his testicles.
I had no control over my exertions, nor did I have control over the rest of the brothers holding me down until I slipped into unconsciousness again…
It isn’t me that belongs in an institute; it is the sadists who found immense pleasure in my profound suffering. Lying down, I throw my face into my pillow, hoping to repress ghastly memories, but it doesn’t work. My mind spits out more memories like a raging waterfall.
Even though I didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of seeing me scared while I was asphyxiated, there was no hiding the truth. My lungs begged for oxygen. My eyes screamed for mercy that would never come. And my tears screamed about how my enemy was in charge, once again.
My only reprieve would be when the younger of my attackers were finally off to join Damien, who was already in college. This was an opportunity for me to embark on a journey called high school. Newfound space wasn’t easily appreciated because it was so foreign to me. Without terror around every corner, I was almost at a loss. I had to convince myself to venture out of my norm and enjoy moments that were actually uninterrupted by trepidation. I had to start seeing hidden beauties, such as taking a shower without the fear of it being brutally invaded. During the week, when all the brothers were away, I started to allow my footfalls to actually make noise. To find my sanity again, I had to stop searching the shadows for danger.
I had to take a chance…
Standing on the sidewalk, getting ready to catch my school bus and head home, I was fifteen and a freshman. A teenager, happily running toward me, grabbed my full attention. He told me, “I couldn’t help but notice how beautiful you are.”
“Oh, God.” I sit up in bed, hugging my pillow and curling over my lap, trying to find comfort that I’m starting to understand won’t ever come.
Blue river eyes—
Chest seizing, my eyes race to my bedroom’s window, desperate to see this young man in real life, but he’s not here yet, and my memories now seem unstoppable.
Compared to what my life had been full of—beastly mistreatment—seeing this guy’s raw innocence was like pumping pure sunshine into my veins. Unlike any young man I had known, he wasn’t surrounded by sinister darkness. After the decrepit behavior I had been dealing with all my life, I couldn’t help but smile in amazement. I had been ignored by all except my abusers. Now, here was this miracle. “Who are you?”
Precious dimples deepened. “Willing to find out?”
He was full of vitality, so unlike myself, and I inhaled his natural drug, immediately becoming addicted. “I think I am.” I held out my hand. “I’m Lacey.” I was nervous yet elated for my first friendship.
Beaming as if I were a dream come true for him, he accepted my hand for a shake. “I’m Tate.” As we held hands, both not seeming to want to let go of the other, he added, “Isn’t high school great?”
His hand felt like some sort of anchor to a whole new world. One where life wasn’t irreversibly regrettable, but I eventually released his warmth. “I’m still getting adjusted, but yes. I think it will be awesome.”
Studying me, he spoke in awe, “Your hair is even more beautiful up close.”
The compliment had me peering down, bashfully, my fingers nervously tugging on the blonde strands hanging over my shoulder. I could barely utter, “Thank you.”
He chuckled at my response. “Do you actually not know you’re a pretty girl?”
A what? I gazed back up at him. A pretty girl? I, in all my years, never considered what I looked like to others. Due to my past, any mirror was an enemy. It showed only the sad reflection of a lost child that grew into a disturbed young woman. So, I couldn’t fight the grand smile that took over the face he was complimenting.
Faking falling back two steps, Tate grabbed his chest as if I was attempting to steal his heart. “Damn. And you just got prettier.”
That caused me to laugh, which caused me to jolt in surprise. I hadn’t done such a thing since before my father died. Covering my mouth, I could feel the blood draining from my face. I even felt faint.
Tate rushed forward and whispered, “You good?”
I blinked to clear my mind of horrid thoughts and made up an excuse. “I think I am, uh… just hungry.”
“Hungry?” Tate chuckled with surprise. “A pretty girl that admits they eat?” His comment confused me, but he added, “Tell me you like milkshakes because I happen to believe sugar solves everything.”
I had no idea what sugar could do for broken spirits, but Tate sure made it tempting to find out. Biting my bottom lip, I pondered how to answer. How weird would I sound if I admitted I’d never had one? My mom couldn’t afford to take us out to eat nor stock our refrigerator with ice cream. So, I shrugged.
Tate wiggled his eyebrows. “Are you trying to be mysterious?”
His joking tendencies were both confusing and enchanting. It was quickly becoming clear that I lacked proper social skills to understand his humor, but his captivating smile set me at ease. “Will you surprise me with your favorite flavor?”
With the brothers gone and Mom at work, I was free for this adventure. Driving in a little beat-up blue four-door car, I sat in the passenger seat, dumbfounded by how loud it was. Either Tate’s muffler was faulty or didn’t exist at all.
In anxious hands, I held a “surprise” milkshake that I wasn’t allowed to taste yet. Tate swore it was better after melting for a few moments.
Tate turned his steering wheel and spoke, but I couldn’t hear him over his car’s roar, so I yelled, “What?”
He took a deep breath, then shouted, “How’d you get that scar?”
His eyes were studying the left side of my neck. I quickly covered it with my hair and yelled, “Accident.”
Tate nodded them mouthed something.
“Huh?” I pointed to my ear then giggled.
Fighting laughter, Tate hollered, “I said, have you ever been to Loli Park?”
I hadn’t, but that’s not what had me laughing for the second time in years. “I think you just damaged your vocal cords!”
Now, he was laughing, too. I couldn’t hear the laughter, of course, but I could see it. He playfully screamed, “Are you raggin’ on my wheels?”
“The wheels aren’t what’s so noisy!” I held my belly through free laughter.
Whatever I said, for some reason, he found it hysterical, which became contagious to the point we both laughed all the way to the abandoned park.
The rusty swings and slides were a symbol of what I once wished to be; discarded and left alone. But now, after meeting Tate, happily subdued through laughter, I wondered what else I had been missing.
Sitting on the ancient merry-go-round, I folded my legs to get comfortable. Sitting beside me, Tate used his feet to propel us slowly in circles. Metal on metal squeaked as he told me, “Okay. Now you may try to guess the flavor.”
I took a timid draw on my straw... then smiled at the
wonderful taste. Blended banana and vanilla ice cream slid down my throat. “Oh my gosh. This is so good.” I quickly took another sip.
Proudly, Tate gave me the most charming, genuine smile with an adorable light-hearted shrug. “See? Tate is wise.” Then he sucked down some of his milkshake.
As if we had been best friends all our lives, we talked and talked. By the time we were done with the milkshakes, I felt like a true teenager—or, at least, what I had imagined a teenager to be like. That’s why, when my long sleeve slipped up my arm, my heart plummeted. I didn’t want Tate to see my damaged limb.
Seeming as if lost in thought, Tate’s head tilted after I re-covered my horrid S scar. Then, slowly, his eyes rose to study the scar on the side of my neck. I tried to cover that scar again, but he immediately grabbed my wrist and yanked up my sleeve to examine.
The newfound sunshine in my veins instantly melted into fire-filled fear that burned me from the inside out. Never having spoken of my battle wounds, I tried to yank away.
The beautiful glow in Tate’s eyes evaporated all at once. His bottom eyelids began to tremble as if the nerves there had been set on fire. He growled, “How did you get these?”
“Wh-What?” I had never shown anyone or confessed to the scar. “I, uh, hurt myself.”
“Oh yeah?” he snapped. “I bet every injury is on your left side because you’re right-handed.”
My mouth gaped open. I had never realized that the brothers purposely did that, so it was easier to explain my “self-inflicted” injuries. “Hey, how do you know they are all on the left—”
