Page 50 of Grace

“To thank him for his help.”

“Who the fuck are you that everyone’s got a hard-on for you? You aren’t even that pretty,” she said with a derisive smile. “You know what I think? That you played the innocent girl for everyone, but deep down you were just waiting for someone to fuck you hard. Then when that happens, you run to Mommy, crying.”

“This is not true, Nikky.”

“You know what, Grace? I don’t give a shit. Our parents are dead because of you. And we were forced to come here, to this run-down farmhouse. Here is a piece of advice for you: don’t come near me and don’t say a word about how I live my life, because if you cross me… Mom and Dad are no longer here to protect you.”

She leaned closer and tossed her burning cigarette into my glass. It fizzled out in the tea.

Tears pooled in my eyes. I watched with trembling lips as the ash settled at the bottom of the glass.

I felt humiliated. I wanted to flip the table, but I stopped myself. I shut my tension inside and ran out to the empty courtyard. I needed some air.

Think about the bad things, Grace. Think about the bad things. The thought went through my head on repeat.

Nikky was wrong. She hadn’t been there. I wasn’t that kind of girl—or was I? I broke out in tears, because I didn’t know anymore. I didn’t know anymore who I had been back then—and who I was in that moment.

I put my hands on the sides of my head and crouched down. I swayed back and forth while I looked for answers in the dark, thick labyrinth of my mind.

He manipulated me.

Chase had manipulated me. I suffered from Stockholm syndrome. All the academic literature indicated that helpless people occasionally begin to feel affection for their torturers or captors. This is strange—if we’re being rational, we’d think that victims should hate their abusers. Usually, this is the case, but sometimes, if the captive experiences a little attention or superficial kindness from their captor, they can develop Stockholm syndrome.

I wasn’t a whore, I was sick.

Remember, Grace! Make yourself remember that Chase was a monster! Remember!

A memory from 2003

Three years after kidnapping—I was 18

“I’m sorry, Grace. You hear me? I’m sorry!” Chase put his palms on the sides of my face and shook me to see if I could hear him. I could, but I was sobbing hard. I couldn’t believe how much blood could pour from someone’s nose. I was crouching next to the wall, naked.

My whole body was numb and throbbing with pain, and my wounds stung.

Chase leaned his forehead against mine. The red river coming from my nose—my blood, diluted by my tears and snot—burned along my hot face.

I was trembling from the shock, sobbing, sniffling, and breathing heavily as if I were having a panic attack.

“Grace, look into my eyes!”

I looked into his eyes—they were teary, full of regret and pity.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“I know,” I stuttered. “I know,” I said again, this time a bit more easily.

Chase took me into his arms and rocked me until I cried myself to sleep.

When I woke up, I saw that my blood—and some other bodily fluids—had crusted onto my skin. My body was numb, and my skin itched. I pushed the thin, square-patterned blanket off me carefully, then walked into the living room, naked.

Cool air flowed in from the doorway, which made me shiver—still, it felt good against my hot skin. My nipples hardened.

When Chase entered, he looked me up and down angrily. I cast my eyes down—I knew it was impossible to flee.

“I’ll prepare your bathwater. Come on.” He offered me his hand.

I put my hand in his palm. His fingers were shaking, just like mine. Pain struck me with every step, like an electric shock.