Tuesday, April 24, 2012

Stockholm Syndrome

“You can use the pool whenever you feel like it and relax in the sun to dry off but do not burn Slave. Remember, if you burn yourself you're burning my property and I'll have to punish you for it. There is sun-cream in the bathroom -- use it."

"Yes Master" Jess felt a bizarre moment of warmth at the thought that he cared so much. Cared enough to punish her??!! Was she going crazy?" –MelloT

I don’t think I could have worded things better if I tried about how simple and confusing and complex it is all rolled into one when you realize you have no escape, no rights, and no identity outside of the person you are required to call “Master”.

We moved a lot. Nothing ever felt like home and when we had a home of our own I did everything I could to try and cheer it up, make it more friendly, hide the pain and sorrow. Painted the kids rooms in colors that matched but the patterns were distinctly different. The nursery even had our hand prints on the walls in other colors of paint. It hid the pain and it kept me busy. The living room was a dark burgundy. This is where most of the things happened in that house. It seemed a good fit to have it stained the color of dried blood. I tried to brighten the kitchen up with the most beautiful shade of purplish blue. The natural light from the three large windows surrounding the dining table played off that color and made it homey and inviting. Too bad what looked like a home was a prison, my cell, a torture chamber, all rolled into one cute little house in a cute little neighbourhood with a cute old man neighbour.

Our bedroom. I know I painted it when pregnant with the last baby. I remember picking out colors and trying to find something bright but not garish. The bedroom was in the basement, with a long skinny vertical window it was a small room but had a walk in closet large enough to hold the dressers. I spent a lot of time in that room, pregnant, nursing, tied up, tormented and raped. Maybe that’s why I don’t remember the color. Too much pain, too much trauma, too much of anything really. I can’t even remember what the floor was made of, a throw rug maybe? Funny how now that I think about it I can’t remember the room in which holds the most pain. I wouldn’t doubt if whoever sleeps in there now hears my screams echoing from the walls. I haven’t a doubt that my energy and pain is trapped in that house the way it is me. I think the both of us, the house and I, are equally haunted by everything that happened to me within its walls.

I remember walking into the bedroom after months of not being allowed into it and finding it set up like a dungeon. The bed was ordained by a strong steel headboard and footboard that I had never seen before. Cuffs were attached, although I didn’t dare touch knowing this was set up like this for me. The TV was no longer in there at the end of the bed. Instead it was in the unfinished half of the basement along with some other things that were not necessary within the confines of a dungeon. I knew I had been disobedient. I hadn’t been allowed downstairs in months. I had been granted a thin mattress to sleep on in the living room on the floor, normally with handcuffs firmly in place. Hiatts. I will never forget the branding on them or their distinct black color against my pale white skin. I was rarely allowed to go outside and never unsupervised.

The last several months of my captivity I remained in the living room, unless I had to use the washroom, even bathing was supervised, and I was to cook and prepare food for the children and for him. I remember when he threw the mattress down on the floor in the living room for me. I thought we were going to watch a movie or something and sleep upstairs. This became my new hell. I will never forget the clicking of the handcuffs as he counted each click so they were perfectly even on each wrist. He looked me in the eyes and for some reason I looked back at him, defiant yet scared. He said “you have been a bitch, bitches are dogs, and dogs do not get furniture, they sleep on the floor”. I had nothing to say in protest. I had nothing to say at all. He granted me my favorite blankets and several pillows which I was most grateful for. He told me that when I was obedient and could follow the rules and quit acting like a bitch I could rejoin him in the bedroom. Until then, I was in the living room.

A few days later the computer was relocated from a desk in the unused nursery to a spot on the TV stand, where I could use it freely without using furniture. A webcam was turned on and several people including my ex watched it, or could watch it, at any given time. Many nights the phone would ring and I would have to get up without disturbing the baby, while shackled just to answer the phone and it would be a Master on the other end letting me know he is watching me and that I wasn’t quick enough or I had slept too late, or I was to get up and do things. If I didn’t obey the commands of these men my captor would be told and I would be punished swiftly and without remorse right there in the living room.

I never did get brought down to the bedroom turned dungeon. I had needed something from the closet for the baby when I decided to go through the door and into the room for the first time in months. I was shocked. My heart stopped for what felt like forever and after a close examination and a dreadful fear of being caught I stumbled back out of the room, forgetting what I was doing in the first place and praying that I would never see the inside of that room again. My prayers were to be answered a few short weeks later.

No comments:

Post a Comment