I've said a number of times that it is difficult for me to describe parts of my old life.
Imagine your worst nightmare.
Go ahead, do it.
Now, imagine it continuing for twenty-four hours every day, without interruption.
Imagine that nightmare continuing every day of every week for well over five years without a single break.
I didn't have to imagine it. I lived it; that was my life. I hated it. It was hell on earth, and that doesn't even begin to describe it.
I was the sexual plaything and helpless slave to a misogynistic asshole who had the ability to control minds. Despite the occasional orgasm, it was still sheer hell. Thanks to that damned freak, I lost many years of my life.
There was no time off. No hope of escape.
So yes, those years were traumatic and they still are even for me to think of them. For that reason, I won't write about it now. I feel that I would go mad if I tried.
Frank wouldn't have minded if I told anybody. He actually liked to gloat about it, so he told me in explicit detail what he did to me. There wasn't anything I could do about it. He sealed some of my memories afterward to the point that I'm not exactly sure what my life was before Frank came into the picture. To this day, those memories are still sealed off from me, and I don't know if I had a family--a mother, a father, a brother, or a sister. I don't know why he chose me, and I'll never know. Instead, it seems that "In the beginning, there was Frank."
By the way, Frank is not his real name, but it will do for the purposes of this story.
Frank controlled my mind, my body, and my soul. I was simply his captive audience, his plaything. He made me do many despicable things.
In the end, Frank's very power got the best of him. He suffered a stroke. He was in tremendous pain and he needed a doctor, but I was the only person around. As he suffered, I watched, amazed. I had come to think of that asshole as indestructible, and there he was, fallen to the floor as his left side went immobile. I felt a jumble of thoughts enter my brain as he lashed out in agony, and I found myself frozen for about fifteen minutes until the mental attack subsided. I should have called for an ambulance, but I couldn't. I was physically unable to contact the police or any emergency services; he never wanted me running to the authorities. That is what eventually killed him.
Although I could not do anything to help Frank, I still found myself doing my chores and tending to his care as much as I could. I fed the mother fucker for three days as he suffered there. I even called him that. I never was able to even think that before, but now I could call him "mother fucker" to his face. He didn't react, though. He was too caught up in his own world to seem to care.
Still, I cleaned up the mess Frank's body made from his inability to get up off the floor. He wasn't able to speak aside from incomprehensible noises. For some reason, he wasn't able to communicate with me telepathically the way he occasionally did before he was struck. Meanwhile, I kept the house spotless. I felt his hold over me decrease as I continued my chores, but I did them anyway, more out of habit rather than of his weakening artificial control over me.
On the third day, I felt an even worse jumble of thoughts in my head. Frank was once again lashing out. It seemed like it was forever this time, but it finally faded. When I was able to move, I looked at Frank's body. He had breathed his last breath.
With Frank's death came freedom. Nearly all of Frank's hold on me seemed to die with his body. While he was dying, I had three days to plan for this eventuality, hardly daring to hope that I might become free of his grasp. As soon as the asshole passed away, I went to the telephone and called 9-1-1 emergency. I made myself sound worried and inconsolable. "I found Frank laying on the floor. He's not breathing! Please come at once!"
Frank was brought to the hospital, but the EMT guys that came knew the score immediately. They took him, of course, but he was declared dead on arrival. The final verdict was a cerebral hemorrhage brought on by an untreated stroke.
I answered questions from the EMTs, the medical staff at the hospital, and the police. I practiced my story for three days, while Frank writhed in agony. I told everybody I went away for a few days, and saw Frank lying there when I came back. I didn't know C.P.R., so I couldn't do anything. (One of the EMTs told me that C.P.R. wouldn't have helped in Frank's case. I knew that, but I pretended to be grateful that my lack of knowledge didn't kill Frank.) In a panic, I called for help, and while I waited, I cleaned him up as best as I could. Nobody understood why I cleaned up after Frank, but it was a weird detail that sort of made my entire story more believable. I feigned being a distraught lover, and it really wasn't an act. There was still some part of Frank's programming in me that made me still love that mother fucker.
I wanted to get away as quickly as possible, but as Frank's de facto common-law spouse, it was up to me to deal with Frank's affairs. He didn't leave a will--I think he guessed that he was immortal. (Ha!) There weren't any credit cards or any bills other than the utilities on the house, and Frank had plenty of cash to pay for the few bills there were. I paid them, and found an attorney that helped me file the necessary notices, and other administrivia involved in a loved ones death (loved one--that's rich!).
I had Frank's remains cremated. My religion allows cremation as long as the ashes are interred in the ground. I didn't know Frank's religious beliefs, so I did things my own way. I took the white box I got from the funeral parlor (it was surprisingly heavy), and over the space of three weeks, I poured a little of Frank into the toilets in the house and flushed. He would be forever buried in the Los Angeles sewer system.
My lawyer also help me set up a donation of Frank's house to a home for battered women (how rich the irony!) so they would get the bulk of his estate. I had until the end of the month to move out before they took ownership.
The charity I contacted tried to help me, figuring that I must have been mistreated by Frank. I really didn't need their help, though. Frank's death was my freedom. I was finally escaping him, even if I had to still clean up after Frank as I did when I was in his power. I told the charity that simply accepting the gift was help enough for me.
For the record, I made no claim on Frank's estate other than things that were obviously mine, such as my clothes. There weren't many mementos that I had from living with him that I wanted to keep; the entire five years had been a living hell, as I said earlier. There was a lot of money stashed in various places in his house, and I knew where some of it was. I only took a few hundred dollars of the many thousands that were there, donating the rest to the charity that now carried the deed to his house.
There were two cars at the house. One of them, a small Pontiac coupe, was one that Frank never drove. Inside it, I discovered an up-to-date registration card inside it that had my name on it with Frank's address. All the other paperwork seemed up to date as well.
The only other thing I took was an old Underwood typewriter. It was in Frank's closet, but I never once saw Frank use it. There was something about it that appealed to me. I felt a special kinship to it for no good reason. Perhaps it had something to do with my life before Frank. Anyway, I packed the typewriter into the trunk of my car.
So, at the end of the month, I left for good. I hit the road, never to come back.
It costs a lot to live in the modern world. The little money I took didn't last very long, but I could not bring myself to take any more than I had. It was blood money, after all. It wasn't mine, and it wasn't Frank's. It belonged to hundreds of anonymous "donors" that Frank controlled, and it sickened me to even have the little bit I took.
I managed to make five hundred dollars and change last a couple of weeks. I was now on the other side of the country, far away from Frank's memory in a place in the south of Maine called Wells. It was a tourist destination during the spring and summer, but being mid-autumn, most of the hotels were pretty cheap. I knew that I was just marking time, though. With my money starting to run out, I knew I wasn't about to last much longer. There weren't any jobs available out of season for somebody with a resumé with a five year hole in it. I applied for a job as a housekeeper at the place I was staying, but the manager laughed, and pointed out the many empty rooms and his current skeletal staff.
"You don't look homeless," the manager told me. He could tell that I was at the end of my rope.
"Well, I guess I am, technically." I didn't want to go over the story of my life. I made a mental decision to try to never think of what I did while I was Frank's slave.
"Let me make you a deal," the manager said, giving my body a once over. "I'll let you stay tonight, but I expect you to clean up your own room. There's a dumpster behind the motel for your trash. Around noon, I'll pay you a visit. If you're still there and you want another night's stay, you can pay me with your body. If you aren't there, I'll figure that you've left, and that first night is my gift to you."
I shook my head. I might be reduced to a whore, but I'm not going to let the client name his own price. "I can get a better deal than that."
"There are dozens of motels on this strip."
The manager shrugged. "Try your luck, then."
.... There is more of this story ...