The Price Was Us

Chapter 2

⚠️ This chapter contains scenes of s****l assault and emotional trauma. Reader discretion is advised.

I woke up in an unfamiliar room.

It looked like a hotel—or something like it. Clean but cold. Too quiet.

Then I saw him.

Mark.

The guy who had been pestering me for years to date him.

He came out of the bathroom, bare-chested, with a cunning smile on his face.

“Lil Cathy,” he said, “do you know how much I love you? But you keep pushing me away. Now… it’s time to get that body and dump you.”

“Please, Mark…” I begged, my voice trembling. “Let me go. My mother needs me. I promise—I’ll date you. Just please let me go. Mark, please.”

But my pleas were like water poured into a basket—useless.

He acted like he couldn’t hear me. Or worse, like my voice was entertainment.

He walked to the bedside, opened the drawer, and pulled out things—things that made my skin crawl.

Handcuffs. A whip. A choker-like chain.

Before I could scream, he cuffed my hands to the iron bedframe—each wrist pulled apart. Then he tore off my clothes.

The air was cold. The shame was colder.

He pinched my breasts, clamped them with tools I didn’t recognize. I was in pain—real, burning pain—and the more I sobbed, the more excited he got.

I kicked, I twisted, I cried—but he was laughing.

The little cherry on my chest—the very thing that made me woman—was what drove him wild. My struggle only made him worse.

Then he pulled out something soft—maybe a feather—and started tickling me. My body was confused. Should I laugh? Should I scream? The touch stirred something, but not pleasure—violation.

Then came the whip.

It landed between my breasts, down to my c******s. A sharp, stinging pain that made me choke on my breath.

The wounds felt like pepper had been poured into them.

Mark licked it—my skin, my blood.

“f**k, you’re sweet,” he whispered. “It’s a pity I’m gonna dump you soon.”

Then he thrust into me—hard and rough.

I was too stunned to cry. Then he paused.

Naive me—I thought he was done.

Until he entered me again—from behind. More violent. More animal than human. Still cuffed, still powerless.

And he kept whipping me.

Over and over.

After what felt like hours, he finally uncuffed me. He dressed me back in my bra and panties like a doll he’d finished playing with.

Then he said something that shattered what was left of me:

“Holy Molly. You’re a virgin? I should’ve believed that b***h you call your best friend. Anyway, she got the money she asked for.”

I froze.

He carried my lifeless body to a car.

I didn’t even have the strength to scream.

In just my underwear, he dumped me at my apartment gate, laughed, and drove off.

Somehow, I stood up and rushed inside—before anyone could see me.

In the shower, I scrubbed my skin like it wasn’t mine.

Hot water. Soap. Scrub. Scrub. Scrub.

Tears flowed. They didn’t stop.

I stayed there for hours—trying to wash away what couldn’t be washed.

Finally, I got out, wrapped myself in clothes, and lay in silence.

Then my phone rang.

It jolted me. A number I recognized.

“Miss Cathy,” the doctor said. “We’ve been trying to reach you. Your attention is needed.”

My heart stopped.

I ran. I ran past the pain. Past the blood. Past the bruises.

I ran to the hospital.

And the moment I heard the words—

My mother didn’t make it.

—I collapsed.

I woke up again in the hospital. Not in her room. In the observation ward.

Tears rolled down my face.

No… not Mom. After everything I did. After all I tried… why?

Flashback

“Mom, you’re the best,” I’d said, laughing.

“I love this necklace you got me. Is this my convocation gift?”

She laughed. We tickled each other, like little kids.

That day, we stayed up talking, smiling.

Then I asked her:

“Mom, who’s my father?”

She slumped—suddenly.

No warning. No pain. Just dropped to the floor like air had left her.

I thought it was my question that triggered it.

I panicked. Rushed her to the hospital. Called Elorah—my best friend.

Elorah was there for me. She consoled me. She loaned me money. I hadn’t gotten a job yet; I was fresh out of school.

Tests came.

Diagnosis: Stage 3 blood cancer.

She had to be hospitalized until… either she died or a surgery saved her.

From that day, I hunted for jobs like a madwoman.

But at every place, it was either:

Jealous coworkers who schemed me out

Managers who only wanted sex

Or offers that came with shame

I got laid off from six jobs.

All for being either too quiet, too pretty, or too good.

Then I landed a role at R&A Company.

Twelve months of hell.

Sandra—my living nightmare.

My manager—no better.

I endured it because of one reason: my mother.

But the salary was never enough for surgery.

I kept trying. Every. Damn. Day.

And in the end?

I was sold.

By the one person I called friend.

For money.

For the bag.