Life of a Donna

Descriptions of any real place are not exact. The following story is a work of fiction, entirely my creation, and bears no connection to real-life events, people, or places. DO NOT COPY. Content Warning: This story contains depictions of violence, s****l content, and s****l assault. No added warnings will be provided beyond this notice. ******* Memory is a fluid thing. You can have vivid memories at three, but two years later, those same moments might slip away, leaving only fragments or nothing at all. I was six months old when the accident happened. Back then, I’m sure I remembered it—how could I not? But now, decades later, the details are blurred, tangled, and elusive. This is my story... ******* People would say I was lucky to have a roof over my head. Lucky. That is what they call it. But luck had nothing to do with it. My adoptive parents took me in when I was six months old, but not out of want, love or kindness—it was for the money they received to raise me. By age ten, I was on my own, fending for myself. For the last five years, I have lived in pain and fear, trapped in a life I want to escape. Lucky? No. This isn’t luck. I was lucky in one way—I was smart. Instead of going to school, I found a job at a local diner. It was not much, but it was enough to keep me afloat. I worked hard, saved every penny I could, and only spent money on the essentials: food when I was starving and medical supplies when the pain became unbearable. But no matter how long I stayed away, I always had to go back. I knew what would happen if I did not. So, I returned night after night and did it because I had no other choice, no place else to go. Tonight was the worst and a first for me. My parents reached a new low, a depth I didn’t think was possible. They have always been drunks, and when they stopped pretending to raise me, they added drugs to the mix. But until tonight, they had never sold me, never crossed that line. My dad had barely managed to keep a job. It was enough income to cover the food they ate and the roof over our heads. But his boss had been looking for a reason to fire him, and on Wednesday, it happened. He was told he would finish out the week, and then he was done. No job, no income, no way to keep up appearances. Desperation can make you do crazy things. Desperate they were. My adoptive dad convinced his boss to have dinner to discuss his firing. So tonight, in their desperation, they made a choice. They sold me. Not to a stranger but to someone who held all the cards. A perfect opportunity. A win/win scenario. His boss got me for a night and dad kept his job. Tonight, something broke inside me, and I am not sure if it is something I can ever fix. After Dinner Dad told me to show his boss to my bedroom. Usually, my room is just a cramped wardrobe-sized space with a small mattress and a few shelves holding what little I own. My bedroom is what the authorities would see if anyone were to come knocking. The moment we entered the bedroom, the air turned heavy, suffocating. Before I could react, his hands were on me, shoving me onto the bed. My back hit the mattress with a force that knocked the breath out of me. I barely had time to register what was happening before I felt the sharp tug of fabric tearing, the cold air hitting my skin as my clothes were ripped away. I fought, clawing at his hands, kicking, thrashing, but it was like he did not even notice. His boss, my father’s boss, stood there, unmoved, his expression unreadable. When I was finally bare, he stopped and just stood there staring at me with a gaze that made my skin crawl. I tried to cover myself, my arms trembling as I crossed them over my chest, but the slap came fast and hard. The sting of it burned my cheek, and I froze, my breath hitching in my throat. He leaned, his breath hot and sour against my face. I turned my head away, refusing to meet his eyes. But it did not stop him. His lips pressed against my neck, wet and invasive, and I clenched my teeth, trying to block out the sensation. When I did not respond, he bit down—hard—and I gasped, the pain sharp and sudden. Tears blurred my vision as he moved lower, his hands rough and demanding. My mind raced, searching for an escape, a way out, but my body was paralyzed by fear. This should not be happening. Not to me. Not like this. I never expected him to be gentle, but how he looked at me—like he wanted me to enjoy it—made my stomach churn. His touch was invasive and calculated as if he were testing my reactions, waiting for some sign of compliance. But I refused to give him that. I clenched my jaw, my body stiff and unyielding, even as his hands roamed, and his breath grew heavier. When he finally grew tired of his exploration, he shifted, positioning himself between my legs. My heart pounded in my chest; each beat a desperate plea for this to end. He thrust into me, and the pain was sharp, immediate. I bit down on my lip to stifle a cry, refusing to give him the satisfaction of hearing me break. The minutes dragged on, each one stretching into an eternity. I felt detached, as if I were watching this happen to someone else. It came to an end when he pulled out, and I felt the warmth of his release on my skin—a final violation, a mark. An invisible mark that I would always know was there. He stood, adjusting his clothes as if nothing had happened, while I lay there, frozen, my body trembling and my mind reeling. Ten minutes. That is all it took to shatter everything. Ten minutes that felt like a lifetime. Once he left, I just lay there. My body felt heavy, like it did not belong to me anymore. Every inch of me ached—my skin raw, my muscles trembling, my mind numb. I knew I should get up. But moving felt impossible. The room was silent, except for the sound of my shallow breathing. I stared at the ceiling, my vision blurry with unshed tears. I wanted to stay like this forever, spaced out, disconnected from the pain and the fear. But the quiet did not last. If I thought Dad’s boss was bad, I was wrong. So wrong. Because Dad was worse. The sound of footsteps outside the door snapped me back to reality. My heart raced, but my body stayed frozen. The door creaked open, and I closed my eyes. I knew he was not my dad. He had never been. But he was the closest thing I had to one. When the door opened, I expected him to say something—anything. Maybe tell me I’d done a decent job, that he got to keep his position, and then he would leave. That is what I hoped for. But he did not speak. Instead, I heard his footsteps across the room, heavy and deliberate. My breath hitched as I felt him kneel beside the bed. His hands moved quickly, roughly. Having grabbed the torn remnants of my clothes. I flinched as he began scrubbing at my skin, wiping away the evidence of what had just happened. I bit down on my lip to keep from crying out. My eyes stayed shut, but I could feel his presence, his anger, his disgust—not at what had been done to me, but at the mess it left behind. I lay there, silent and still, as he erased the traces of my violation, as if that could undo what had happened. When he was done, he stood abruptly, tossing the ruined fabric aside. I heard him mutter something under his breath, but I did not catch the words. My body ached, my mind still reeling from what had just happened. I thought it was over. I thought he would leave. But he did not. Instead, he climbed onto the bed with me, his movements clumsy and unsteady. The smell of alcohol and sweat hit me like a wave, and I froze, my stomach twisting in dread. It started all over again—the roughness, the biting. But this time, it was worse. Harder. He was drunk, his actions fueled by whatever he had consumed, and it made him relentless. I tried to shut my mind off, but the pain was too much. Each thrust felt like a knife. It was constant and every time he released inside me; he would start again. I was a virgin. Naively, foolishly, I had believed that was one thing I could keep for myself. One thing that was mine. But now, even that was gone. I lay there, trembling, as he finally rolled off me and stumbled out of the room. The door slammed shut, and I was alone again, the weight of what had happened pressing down on me like a suffocating blanket. My tears finally fell. I do not believe I fell asleep, but I cannot say. Time blurred into something shapeless and heavy, the hours slipping by unnoticed. The pale glow of dawn pulled me back, just enough to remind me where I was. My body felt foreign, like it did not belong to me anymore. I could not lie here; I needed to scrub it away. Slowly, painfully, I pushed myself up, my limbs stiff and uncooperative. The room spun for a moment before I steadied myself, taking shallow breaths. My torn clothes were scattered across the floor, a stark reminder of what had happened. I avoided looking at them, focusing instead on the door. After cleaning and dressing, I went about my normal routine automatically. It was like my body was moving on its own, while my mind stayed somewhere far away. I cooked breakfast and while the smell of food filled the house, no one came. Normally, the scent would draw them, and I could slip away unnoticed. But today, the silence lingered. When no one appeared, I went to search and found them in the living room, sprawled on the floor. For a moment, I just stood there, staring. A part of me hoped they were dead. I truly, deeply hoped it. But another part of me—the part that still somehow clung to a semblance of humanity—knew I could not just walk away. I called 911. My voice was calm and detached, as I explained the situation to the operator. I gave the address, answered their questions, and hung up without another word. Then I waited. The food on the plates grew cold, the smell of it now sour and unappetizing. I did not touch it. I just stood there, watching them, wondering if this was the end of something or the beginning. Police Station I did not talk more than I had to. The police already knew about my parents—it was not the first time they had been called to this house. They did not press me for details, and I did not offer any. I did not tell them what I’d been through. I could not. I was still trying to make sense of it myself. When they asked about relatives, I told them what I had always believed: that I was an orphan, adopted. But they insisted on a blood test, hoping to find someone, anyone, who might take me in. I agreed, not because I wanted to, but because I did not have the energy to argue. Maybe, deep down, I was curious too. But I did not hold out much hope. Hope was dangerous. To my surprise, it turned out I did have a family. A dad and ten brothers. “I’m sorry, sir,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “Did you just say I have a dad and ten brothers?” “Yes,” the officer replied, his tone matter of fact. “Your father is coming to collect you. However, it will take him a few hours, so how about you rest, and we will let you know when he arrives.” With that, he left me alone with my thoughts. The room felt suddenly smaller as my mind raced. A dad. Ten brothers. A family I never knew existed. Will they hate me? Like me? What if they do not want a sister? What if I’m just another burden to them? And then, the darkest thought of all: Will they hurt me too? But there was no turning away. All I could do was wait, hoping that things would be different. With these extra thoughts running through my head, I felt the weight of exhaustion. My body still ached, my mind was a whirlwind of fear and uncertainty, and all I wanted was a moment of peace. I curled up in a corner as much as I could without hurting too much and rested my head against the wall. The cool surface felt grounding. My eyes fluttered shut, and I let myself drift, the chaos in my mind slowly giving way to the pull of sleep.