The story begins here.
“Hi, my name is ___, I was abducted, tortured and raped multiple times for weeks. No one knew where I was. My parents told me they searched for me; my case was still open but there was very little they could do. This man had kept me far away from the city, in an isolated place; at his farm, I think. Finally, when I got the chance; I killed him and saved myself. Dialled 911 and was found. I tried to kill myself when I was in the hospital. The nurse who was with me asked me how I could do that? She could not believe that after surviving the assault, after saving myself, I would give up and try to commit suicide. I could not explain it to her. I was not killing myself; I was killing my rapist. I was stuck in a sort of loop. Even after being free, even after being safe, it was as if he was still a part of me. I started having nightmares. The hospital staff tied me down, which worsened things. When I jabbed a scissor in my neck, I was actually visualising slashing the throat of my rapist”
He heard her speak out loud about the demons of her life. He could never do that. He had been in and out of this place so many times; but, being here did not really help. He did not believe in therapy - solo or group. He was mainly here for the medication. The numbness, which took away all the memories - painful ones, embarrassing ones and the guilt-ridden ones.
She did not stop there, she went on to describe everything in detail – the nightmare of her captivity, what she went through and finally how she managed to slash the throat of her rapist. She even described her suicide attempt while she was in the hospital, in detail. He heard whispered reactions from those sitting close to him; she must have heard them, too; because she stopped talking and the colour drained from her face. The doctor shifted in his chair, too. Everyone was visibly uncomfortable. Not because of her story, no one here really cared what had happened to her; that was his opinion, anyways. No, people were uncomfortable because she had described in detail how she had tried to kill herself; something many of the members of the group had tried to do. The description was intoxicating, delicious for their troubled minds. Each person visualised, he knew, themselves in her place - holding the scissors, their hand coming towards their neck in one quick motion; the sharp pain as the tip of the scissors pierced the skin and the tingling sensation as the blood tricked out of the wound.
He knew it because that’s what he did. He visualised doing it and he felt euphoric.
He had tried a couple of times to end his life. This girl was nothing like him or like some of the other patients. She had not given up on life. She was brave, she had fought her demons; and in the process, she had suffered mental distress because of which she was here. Each patient had his/her own story to tell. He had his own, too, but he was not as willing as the girl to share the gory details.
Had it been the girl’s suicide attempt, it would have been a painful way to end life. He was glad, in a way, that the perpetrator had suffered such gruesome death. The bastard deserved it. The girl did not deserve being here.
He hated himself so much that he wanted the gruesome death for himself. He could try that, he thought. The girl was saved because she was in the hospital, he would try it when he was alone. Where no one could save him. He believed that he was beyond saving. The doctor, however, was not ready to give up on him. Each time he suffered from depressive thoughts and admitted himself in this institution, the doctor felt all the more determined to save him.
At first, no one suspected what he was after. The medications. Soon, the doctor realised and forced him to undergo complete treatment including the therapy. After spending few days with the doctor in private therapy, the doctor recommended group therapy.
He felt a hand on his shoulder and he shuddered.
“Don’t touch me” he yelled. It was his involuntary reaction to touch.
Everyone was looking at him now, even the scissors girl. He apologised to the person sitting next to him, the one who had placed a hand over his shoulder because the doctor had been calling out his name.
It was his turn. He had to talk. The doctor had insisted that he talked today. If they knew what he had done, they’d loathe him.
“Hi, my name is _____, I was sent to the orphanage when my mother died. I was raped by the Director of the orphanage for quite some time.” He said and gave a nod. That’s it. That’s all they were going to get from him.
The doctor was not satisfied. He tapped his pencil on the clipboard he had on his lap and looked straight into his eyes. He sighed.
“When I lived with my mother and my step-father; my step-father sexually abused me. My mother saved me and fought with the man. Not, punches and kicks kind of fight, she fought him in the court of law. The man was punished for what he did to me. I became a known case of abuse because of the articles printed in the newspapers. When my mother died, I was sent to this orphanage, and the Director thought it was okay to sexually abuse me because I had been through it already. The Director found reasons to punish me. He had innovative ways to ‘handle’ the situation. He asked me to strip and would spank me. He touched me – you know, down there. He bit me and burned me with cigarettes. I complained to one of the staff members I trusted and I was punished for that. The guy I had confided in, told the Director, who raped me and then handed me over to the guy who had betrayed my trust. He raped me as well. I tried to run; but I was sent back to the orphanage. I told the police officer what was happening to me in the orphanage. He accompanied me to the orphanage; I thought he would arrest the Director. I was sent to my room. I stood at the door and watched the men talk. Then, the Director looked at me and smiled. The police officer approached me and pushed me inside the room and stepped in. He closed the door of my room, removed his belt and unzipped his uniform trousers and asked me kneel and go down on him. I did. That was the first time I was asked to do something instead of something being done to me.
I suppose the officer shared his pleasurable experience with the Director because after the officer left, the Director entered my room and unzipped. That day I gave him the first blow job out of the many that followed. The truth was, I was okay doing it, because it meant my body was not being assaulted.
Tired of the torture and nowhere to go; I tried to kill myself. I was saved by the Director’s wife who, luckily for me, was visiting her husband in the orphanage. She took me home with her. I was safe there because her husband spent most of his time in the orphanage amidst the young boys. I wondered whether she was aware of what he was doing there. I wanted to tell her but I feared that disclosing this kind of information about her husband would perhaps alienate her and she’d give me away, throw me back in the orphanage. She took care of me, nursed me back to health. She was like an angel amidst the hell that I had been living in. She’d play with me, tell me stories, tuck me in bed at night.”
He left it at that. He stopped talking and realized the doctor as well as the other patients were stunned. They were staring at him. He cleared his throat and a noise that sounded like a whimper escaped his lips. He felt a wetness on his cheeks and tasted salt. He was crying. Shit.
“Excuse me” he said and got up to go. The doctor called out to him but he did not stop. He walked out of the door and to his room. He ran his fingers through his hair. Shit. Shit. Shit. What was wrong with him? Why had he said so much? Whatever he had said was not the entire truth but it still surprised him that he had talked about this in a room filled with strangers. He knew everyone would now look at him with pity.
He sat on the bed and finished what he had started in the therapy. He cried.
He saw a figure in his peripheral vision. The figure stood silently at the door, watching him. He wanted to look up, and ask the person to fuck off. But he let it be. Somehow, the presence of this figure standing at a distance, without directly interfering with his life, had a calming effect on him. He wiped his tears and finally looked up. He saw the figure clearly as his blurred vision cleared. It was the scissors girl.
“Take care” she said and walked away. He wanted to stop her, wanted her to come and sit next to him. There were things he still had not shared. Some of it he wanted to share and the rest he wanted to bury inside him.
He had told the group that he had been saved by the Director’s wife; what he had not told them was that she had violated him as well.
One night, when he was getting ready for bed; she had seen him naked. She had smiled and walked away.
That night, she climbed into his bed and put her hand inside his pajamas. He had tried to shift away from her but she had whispered in his ears, “sshhh, it’s okay. Don’t move.” And he had not moved. She had then pulled down his pajamas and freed his tool. He did not want to admit but he had liked the way she touched him. She had shifted close to him and propped up on her elbow, had watching him as he moaned involuntarily. He had felt his body shudder and had come in her hand. She had smiled, kissed him good night and climbed out of the bed. She came in every night after that. One night after pleasing him, she whispered "Your turn" and made him do things to her that he was ashamed of. He thought the Director was unaware of what was happening between his wife and him but he was wrong. One night, the Director joined them in bed.
He had lost his virginity at fifteen to the Director’s wife that night while the Director watched.
During the day he did the chores. He cooked for them, cleaned their dishes, washed their dirty clothes, gave the Director’s wife a bath, scrubbed the floors and at night they raped him.
One night, as the Director and his wife lay sprawled; he had climbed out of the bed and jumped out of the window. He was caught by the bungalow’s security guard. The couple knew that he was a risk to their reputation and they could not keep him contained anymore. A phone call was made. The officer who was the first one to be served by him, arrested him for attempted sexual assault on the Director’s wife. He had been sent to juvenile prison but in the end had been tried as an adult. He was incarcerated and prison life had changed him.
“No, no. no. I cannot go there” he told himself and got up from the bed. He walked out of his room and towards the storage room where they kept the medical supplies. He should have done this before. He was going to steal the pills and get the hell out of this place. The staff was busy in the common room where most of the patients were now; spending their time doing normal things.
He sneaked into the storage room but he did not realize he had an audience. He checked the cabinets for the medication he was searching for. His gaze fell on the shiny object near one of the boxes. He picked it up. It felt cold in his hand.
“Do it” he heard a voice and he looked around. There was no one in the room.
“You know you want to do it. So, just do it” it was his own voice. The one inside his head, the ugly bastard had risen after so many days.
He tightened his grip over the scissors and walked out of the storage room and back to his room. He closed the door and locked it. They were not allowed to lock their rooms. Fuck them, he thought.
He had imagined doing this at some remote place where no one would find him but he could not control his actions anymore. He wanted it all to end. The ravenous monster of guilt was on verge of opening its mouth to consume him and he was scared.
His hand shook as he brought the scissors close to his neck. “dammit” he yelled and threw the scissors on the bed. He was trembling now. His shirt was drenched in sweat.
“Do it, be a man” he heard a voice. It was not his. It was a voice from his memory. A voice that belonged to a man who had changed his life.
“Do it, I know you want to do it.” The voice taunted. His lips trembled. He was crying. Tears mixed with sweat. He fell on his knees. His vision was blurred. He closed his eyes. When he opened them, he was in a different room. The bright and white interior of his room in the institution had transformed into dark and ugly grey interior of the laundry room in the prison. His bed had transformed into a metal table, bent over which was a boy almost his age. That boy had been tried as an adult, too.
He felt himself moving towards the boy, the man holding the boy down on the table slid down the boy's pyjamas in one swift motion to expose the boy's butt.
“Do it” he heard the voice whispering in his ear. And he did it.
That night, the abused had come the abuser.
“Fuck” he yelled and grabbed the scissors again and jabbed the pointed end in his neck before he could change his mind. He felt the warm blood trickle down his neck. He pulled the scissors out and jabbed it in the neck again. His blood mixed with his sweat and tears. His vision blurred again. He spit blood. Amidst the ringing in his ears, he heard a loud banging. He collapsed on the floor and before he closed his eyes, he saw a figure breaking open the door and rushing towards him.
“Fuck” he whispered and passed out.
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