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January 16, 2019

Samantha's Chronicles: Worse than torture

A locked gate has thwarted my escape. I was so close! My captor has caught up with me and dragged me back into the house, down the darkened corridor, back to that horrible, seedy room, away from the light.

His friend is still crotched over. I really hit him hard. He gives me a murderous look. I have caused serious, blood-curdling trauma to his family jewels, and he looks quite happy to kill me because of it.

I read somewhere that kicking a man in the balls makes him feel like his testicles have a headache, nay, migraine, which affects his stomach and causes him to feel like he’s about to defecate all over the floor or paint the room’s walls in vomit. This description came from Bobby Box, who wrote with such feeling that he must have experienced it.

Because of this pain, he keels over (kind of like how my captor is doing right now). He looks like he’s about to birth his own testicles without an anaesthetic. The only feasible remedy, Bobby wrote, is to curl up in a foetal position and curse out the person responsible for it. In this case, that would be me.

“I’m going to kill you, bitch!” my captor's friend groans.

“Get the trunk,” the other man tells him, as he drops me onto the mattress. “We need to teach her what happens when she tries to escape.

I scamper to the edge of the wall, terrified. It takes a while but his friend finally manages to get up and does as he has been instructed. He returns after a few minutes with a luggage trunk, still walking gingerly.

“Let me at her, Bill,” he says, giving me a dirty look. So that’s his name. Bill shakes his head.  

“Despite what my friend here feels after what you’ve done to him, you are very valuable to us. We can’t hit you or bruise your body,” he says. “We can, however, lock you up in a cramped space for hours on end.”

With that they grab me, ignoring my kicks and screams, and toss me into the trunk. The lid closes and they padlock it. The space is small and cramped. Will I run out of air? I can’t move my head so there’s no way of seeing if there is an air vent anywhere. I finally know what it must feel like to be buried alive.

“Let’s hope when we let you out you are better behaved,” one of them says. I can’t tell which one. Their voices are muffled. My screams are ignored and I eventually stop, afraid that I’m sucking out all the precious air.

What have I gotten myself into? Who are these people? What will they do to me? My body is valuable? How? To whom? I burst into tears. I have a disturbing feeling what all this means, but my brain is refusing to process it. Could it be kidnapping for ransom? Do they think my parents have money? Or do they think Mr N will pay to have me released? They said I wouldn’t get beaten or bruised, so what else could it be? Did Nabil bring me here and worse, sell me to them? Or is he their boss?

The tears are now gone and it’s only the dry, anguished sound of a caged, frightened animal that fills the trunk. Great sobs wrack my body. I have no watch or concept of time. I have no idea how long I’ve been in this trunk or how long they intend to keep me in it. I’m sweating profusely; it’s very hot, like being in a sauna. A beating would have been better than this torture. Eventually, I pass out from the heat.


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