Chapter 11— Help!

Deven's POV:

Two years ago, during the evening:

"Deven! You have a special guest!" Mrs. Bulgaria says in a sing-song voice.

I turn around and lock eyes with her. That same deceptive and conniving look is engraved in her eyes.

The look that makes every word I want to say get stuck in my throat.

I nod and walk toward my room.

I open the door and walk inside, only to find my bedroom lights on, but nobody is in here.

"Happy Birthday, sweetheart. Missed me?"

The voice of the man who creeps and haunts and stalks my nightmares and turns them into more than a nightmare-a reality.

My heart rate increases so do my breathing pattern. I grab my right hand with my left to subside its severe shaking.

No. Please tell me that's someone else that has his voice.

I take in a deep breath that doesn't exhale because it's stuck in my lungs.

"W-what a-a-are y-you doing here?" I stammer, still clutching my shaking hand.

"Oh, I'm here to celebrate your birthday sweetheart. Just. Like. Last year," he enunciates his last four words while stroking my hair.

I close my eyes and breathe out a shaky breath.

"I'm sorry to kill your hope but I'm not available right now," I lie to him hoping he buys it and leaves me alone, but I don't expect much.

"Now. Now sweetheart. No need for the blatant lie," he moves his hand to the side of my hair, softly stroking it as he moves in front of me.

"Besides, what would Bulgarie say? Or rather, do?" he voices as his voice goes an octave lower.

I begin to shake my head slowly as I place both of my shaking hands behind me, so he doesn't get the pleasure of seeing me distorted. Then again, I don't think that would matter because my body is about to drop to the floor.

"Oh yes. I'm sure she would throw you out and you would become worse than the destitute prostitute that you are."

He's one to call me a prostitute.

"What do you want?" I meekly ask, succumbing to him to avoid getting rid of my means of living.

"Good girl," he smiles sadistically.

"You're sick," I defensively whisper as his lips move against my neck.

"I know sweetheart. I know."

Throughout this session, silent tears spilled out of my eyes. Not a nerve in my body felt pleased, content, or craved more. All I felt was disgust, hate, and fear.

I forced myself to make 'pleasured' noises, so I don't prolong this unwanted hour.

"You were much lovely than last year, sweetheart. I'm glad you grew," he smiles his sick smile while buckling his belt.

"You're mad," I whisper louder than before.

"I know sweetheart. I know," he retorts before walking.

As soon as he leaves, I bring the blanket closer to me, as close as it could get. I wish it would seep into my skin and clean me inside out. On second thought, no, he touched it too.

I crawl down from the bed and crawl to my bathroom. I crawl not because of what he did but because my body is still involuntarily shaking from that traumatic experience.

I turn on the faucet in the shower till it's hot so it could melt away all his germs then I grab the loofah. I scrub and scrub and scrub till I'm sure his touch; his lip imprint; his smell; him; is washed off of me. Even then I'm not sure it will ever go away.

As I keep on scrubbing, I remember the promise I was forced to make.

"I promised I'll do it," I whisper, as my tears spill even more, and my scrubbing gets significantly faster and harder.

"I promised I'll do it," I exclaim, as the hot water and my hot tears tumble down my cheeks and onto the ground.

"I promised I'll do it. Help!" I cry loudly, hoping someone will hear and help me but as always no one does.

Narrator POV:

Present day, 3:00 am:

"I promised I'll do it," Deven cries softly into her pillow as beads of sweat trickle down her face and onto that same pillow.