My Tortured Soul

Chapter 4 - Dear Journal, This Is Stupid

OK, OK, I'm alive and I should be dead. Like dead dead. Like really freaking dead. Like bloated body, death pinata, dead.

How could this have happened? I don't understand.

I go back to my room as there is a flurry of activity trying to wake Olivia up. I lay on my bed. What happened? Why am I alive?

I drift off to sleep and the nightmares begin again.

***

I am awaken by a bed check to make sure I'm still alive.

Alive.

Still alive.

What a joke.

You call this alive?

The next few days are a parade of different doctors, different therapists, different groups. Different people trying to figure out why I'm still here and why I don't want to be.

I'm supposed to write my feelings down in a journal to try to see a pattern. Here's the pattern. I'm abused and broken and want to die. But I don't.

I have to go to art therapy. Draw something or string a necklace.

I have to go to occupational therapy where there is nothing that has to do with an occupation.

I have to go to group therapy where I'm supposed to talk to others and get feedback from the group

It's all pointless.

This isn't helping anyone.

Why can't they just leave me alone?

***

I went to take a shower this morning. I was washing my hair when I heard it.

The door lock clicks.

I locked the door. I know I locked the door.

Oh God, oh God, oh god.

No.

Not this, not this. Not again.

I hear him.

I feel him get in behind me.

I feel his breath on my neck.

I tense up and freeze.

Don't touch me. Don't touch me. Don't touch me. Please don't touch me.

His hand drags up my arm. "Here let me get your back for you."

He takes the soap and slides his hands all over my back.

I turn around to punch him but he grabs my wrist. "Ooooo you're feisty today aren't you?"

He slams my head into the shower wall and crashes his lips on mine.

I keep my jaw locked together.

He bites my lip.

Hard.

I cry out and he shoves his tongue in my mouth.

His breath is rancid and he tastes like coffee and cigarettes.

I bite him.

I can feel the bile rising in my throat. It burns.

He squeezes my neck.

"Stop being a bad girl. I have all the power I say when you leave. So play nice or you'll be here for a while."

He's surprisingly strong for his age.

His hands are everywhere.

I can see his erection.

His saggy 70 year old d**k is reaching for me.

I take a deep breath to scream and he crams his fist in my mouth.

He slams my head into the shower wall again and I see stars.

The psychiatrist spins me around and enters me as I vomit all over the floor.

***

I have to journal about why I want to die but I'm not writing it down. I'm not going to tell them about what happened. It's not like they care anyways.