Escaping to the CEO

"We the court find you, Cassandra Miller Guilty on all charges." My husband took me to court for failing to protect our baby, claiming someone helped me to kill it. Even with the proof that I was lying on my floor bleeding all over the carpet in color, with sound. I was still found guilty of second-degree murder. I'll be going to jail for the next five years. My knees sank to the floor, my head bowed, banging against the table so hard I gave myself a gash across my forehead. I blacked out. My life started replaying across my eyes from the moment I met Joe. I'm only 19. I was forced into this marriage. I was 14 when I met my dad's friend's son, Joe. He was 23 and handsome. His dark completion and ripped body make him look like any woman's wet dream. I thought nothing about how he would message me constantly. He wanted to know where I was, what I was doing, my phone would go off while I was in school and if my teachers took my phone away, he would come to school and demand that I get my phone back. I assumed this was just him being protective, and it was a new puppy love. I never thought of it being anything more than that. He would take me out for dates but if I used the wrong fork or touched the drinking glass around the bulb instead of the stem. He would have a split second of intense anger. The kind that, if left unchecked, would lead to a lot worse. I always knew when he was about to burst, his hands would curl into themselves and he would make a tight fist. Over the next few years, the friends I had stopped coming around. Joe would be sitting with me at lunch and his presence seemed to drive people away. Before I knew it, I was graduating from high school and not one person, not one "friend", came over to give hugs or say they were going to miss me. Joe was by my side, hand on my back as he led me out to the garden. This was where he proposed. I said yes because he had been there for me. He'd become my only friend, and now my fiancée. After I said I did, everything changed. We moved into a large house on the edge of a desert drive. Every towel had to be folded a certain way. Each canned food label had to face forward, and be even. The coffee mugs all had to face the same way. Everything in the house was in its perfect spot and I had become the perfect little wife. I had been groomed to his liking. I saw the first time Joe had beaten me. I didn't know about his drinking habit until we came back from our honeymoon. I heard a conversation between him and my father in his study. My father sold my virginity to Joe for one million dollars. Now my father was demanding more. Joe told him no, that my pu$$y wasn't even worth half that, and that I was now just damaged goods since he had spent our entire honeymoon, as he called it, wrecking it and destroying them for any other man. That pissed my father off, and they started yelling and screaming at each other. I then heard before I left that I was barely good enough to pick up his dirty socks. I held my hand over my mouth hearing this and tried to stiffen the cry that was going to escape my lips. I couldn't listen anymore and ran upstairs. My family who I thought loved and supported me were only in it for the money. I sat in our new bedroom boxes yet to be unpacked. Clothes have yet to be put away. A picture of us in our wedding attire sitting on my nightstand. I thought he married me for love. But I'm just good enough to pick up his dirty socks and birth his babies. I went to take a shower and get ready for bed. I must have been asleep for a few hours when he came in. He threw the beer bottle so hard it shattered against the wall over the bed. Little glass shards falling all over me. I sat up, my body getting covered and scrapped with the broken glass. "You f*****g w***e. I've been looking all over for you. It's time you do your wifely duties. Come here on your knees and pleasure me." He was so drunk he could barely stand. I stood up and started taking the sheets and what not off the bed. I needed to clean this up before one of us got hurt. I was walking around the edge of the bed when he grabbed my chestnut-brown hair and pulled so hard that I fell backwards. "When I tell you to come here and pleasure me, I expect you to do just that." For the next year, I endured beating after beating. My face was always covered in bruises. I always had a broken bone or some form of a brace or a cast on my body from how hard he beat me. I forgot what my face looked like. __________________________________________________________________________________________________________ The beeping noise was causing my head to hurt more. The room was too bright. There was talking in the room and someone was holding my hand. I squinted my eyes, and it was the asshole of my husband, Joe. He was the one to prosecute me. He's a top lawyer in the country. He has won every case. On those days he would drink a lot and then come home and beat me. He'd give me flowers every morning after as an apology and promise he'd never do it again. One of my wrists, the one that was not in his hand, was handcuffed to the bed. A police officer was in the room. Joe noticed I was awake at first, pretending to be the most caring and sweetest husband. "Officer, may I have a moment alone with my wife? You know before you take her off to prison." "Of course Mr. Miller. I'll be right outside the door if you need me." Joe's hand went to touch my cheek like he was trying to be sweet and gentle. I flinched at his touch. "Oh my sweet love. I'm sorry I had to put you away. I promise when you get released I will be the husband you once loved and deserve you'll see." He leaned down and kissed my forehead ever so gently and then winked at me as he walked out of the room. I was released later that day and placed in the back of the officer's car. He drove me to The DJT Women's state prison. It was in the middle of the desert somewhere west of San Antonio. I was stripped and searched, had my casts removed and, after a very extensive cavity search, a very orange jumpsuit was handed to me. I had to change and walk out barefoot. That's right, there are no shoes available here in prison. And the cast that was on my arm and leg, well, those are viewed not only as weapons, but I could have concealed a weapon in them so they had to go. My right leg was fractured in several places from this last beating I received only a week ago, and I couldn't put any weight on it. I was supposed to have the cast on for almost a year. My first few days were lonely. I was tabled as the baby killer, so I got loads of beatings. That was until someone who works in the office let it slip that it was a miscarriage due to the severe beating my husband had given me from drinking. From then on, I had a few allies. Joe would come to visit. Every visit day at first till they started becoming fewer and further between. By the end of the first year, it had been three months since I had seen him. My face had fully healed. My bright green eyes looking back at me in the mirror. My chestnut-brown hair was long. I needed a haircut badly. I had a very noticeable limp, and it hurt to hold anything with my right arm. I lost even more weight due to how awful the food is here. I got used to it. I never had any money in my commissary, so I had to get creative with my time of the month. Occasionally, I would find stuff in my room or in my bunk, some tampons or even a chocolate bar. Once there was even a bottle of Asprin pills hidden in the bathroom stall. For the next four years, I cleaned the bathrooms, helped in the laundry room, cooked meals with others. I hoped the day I was released he wouldn't be there waiting for me. I hoped I could escape and start a new life. I would change my name, leave the country. I have a cousin who, luckily, never had the pleasure of meeting Joe. He lives in northern Vermont, or well, he did. I don't know if he's still there, but I would try. I would go anywhere just to start my life fresh and over. I imagined how my life would look. How would I escape over the border? How would I flee north? How some nice trucker would see me hitchhiking along the highway and pick me up and help get me close. How I would never see my husband again. That would make for the best life. I was released early. I had begged to stay in prison but was denied my request. On my release day, I was given back my clothing. I had on a maroon turtle-neck dress, and Black Mary Jane shoes. My feet were all calloused from not wearing shoes for five years, so they were very uncomfortable to put on, and my body was so much slimmer that the dress that once fit now hung like a garbage bag. I stepped out of the gates. The sun was so harsh, hitting my eyes, the heat, even at 9 am in January, was unbearable. A Black Tesla was waiting at the end of the walkway. Joe was standing there, his hands crossed over his chest and an evil grin across his face. So much for my hopes and dreams.