It’s my birthday today. And I haven’t received a single wish in two years. Well, who else knew about my birthday apart from my parents? Maybe they are secretly wishing me, from wherever they are but the truth is, it’s not the same at all.
I yearn for someone to talk to. I yearn for love. But all I get is hatred. Disgust. Loathe. Lust. I’ve just turned 15. And I’m writing this letter to rid my pain, physically and mentally. It’s very dark here, in the cellar. I can hear footsteps above me. It’s very cold. My legs are shivering. The candle is still lit, but only enough to give me light to write this.
I think Dan Sir knew my love for writing. He saw my diary, scribbled with hurtful poems of solemn, pain and death. He said once, “Your command of English is marvelous. Your parents must be proud.”
He stopped there and smirked.
He let me bring along a stack of papers and pencils before his father pushed me down the cellar last night, claiming he had to hide a disgusting truth from his in-laws. I don’t understand why I need to be hidden. I’m a mere servant, forced to do everything…
Oh yes… I remember. I was forced to do everything.
And it hurts, it hurts terribly. I’m crying now. Because the memories haunt me. I’d rather be back at the mansion. It feels unsafe here. It’s terrible.
It’s torturous. It’s especially torturous when you remember how it all started. And each and every episode etched in your memory like the alphabets, or like your favourite song, or like the names of each friend and family member. You just remember it. You can never forget it.
But how can anyone pen this in words? How can I bring to you a comprehensive imagery of what happened to me? How will your mind absorb it? Are you capable of absorbing it? Even if you do, you can’t feel it. No, you can’t say you sympathise with me because you are not feeling what you are reading. You don’t know how it feels having your arms and legs locked between the rough skin of a muscular beast, having your top peeled off from your body mercilessly, your pants being pulled down effortlessly, your bra being unhooked and removed over your head, your panties being torn shamelessly, you don’t know the feeling of being stripped down naked and pushed to the bed, pressed down by a weight twice than yours. You don’t know how it feels to have a big flesh forced right up into you. You don’t know how it feels being groped, pressed and pinched around your thighs, arms, neck and breasts. You don’t know how suffocating it is when your mouth is being devoured, and your lips and tongue are left sore with bites. You don’t know how it feels to wake up several hours later, with a body pricked with pain at almost every part and especially there, where my innocence was ruined in just less than two minutes. You don’t know how pain it is to urinate each time. You don’t know how terrifying it is to see your blood stains all around your thighs, calves, bed… but of course not on him. Never on him.
I feel sick as I write this, as I recall the same sequence of events repeated over and over again in the past two years. But you know what, I don’t think what I remember is all that has happened. Several nights, I wake up lying next to him, feeling groggy. I look down and see myself naked. I try to move but I can’t. Everything starts spinning. Sometimes, he wakes up and groans. He shifts closer and curls his arm around me. He tucks closer and starts biting my ear, then he moves down to lick my neck and up to my lips. He sinks his mouth into mine and I struggle as I try to push him away. But to no avail. I fall back to a dark dreamless sleep and leave my body to a monster again.
I’ve been drugged several times. And I try not to imagine what happened. I try not to.
But it’s funny how I’m not his dirty secret. Instead, I become the family’s dirty secret that must be hidden. He fell sad when I was forced into this cellar. His father slapped him hard. I felt happy. He felt pain. But he smiled. “She’s never going away,” he said.
I don’t know why his father agreed to bring me in two years ago, despite knowing how lustful his son was. Why was he regretting now? Did he not feel the urge to save a young girl? No, he definitely didn’t. Why didn’t ma’am save me? Oh she couldn’t hear my screams in the beginning? Was her husband as lustful as her son? Had she gotten raped? Why wasn’t she helping?
Why was Dan sir so authoritative when it came to me and the use of my body?
Why was he so authoritative that his presence irks me? I shiver when I hear his name. I shiver when I catch him staring. I shiver when I smell is scent. I shiver when he grabs my hand.
At 15, where teenage girls go to the Sunday market to feel pretty, be winked at by cute looking guys, I rest my head down low, ignoring every single man who appears infront of me. Yesterday, a man grabbed my arm just in time before the red car could hit me. I couldn’t catch his face as the street lamp cast a shadow on his face. But he was a man and I began to shiver as though he was Dan sir. I instantly pulled away, and ran off.
I am scared of the man’s touch. I am not your ordinary 15-year-old teenage girl. I’m a mentally insane girl, who fears her life in a man’s world.
I he a r
foo ts t ep s c om ing closer to the cell a r. The d o or j ust opened . I t’ s a ma n . I do n’ t know h o w to s to p. It’s D a n si r .. it’s hi m, his sce n t
, h e lp. Pl e as e hel p m e. I’ ts g oin g t o
h a p p en a g a in …
h e l p
Read Chapter Five