(Trigger Warning: Violence, Crime, Abduction, Imprisonment)
The detective left and there I sat, shivering, still smelling of my victim’s blood, in an interrogation room. Reality had set in, and I knew that this was just the beginning of another chapter of the sordid tale of my life in these past few weeks. Oddly enough, though, I wasn’t worried. I had good grounds for a self defense case and I knew it. I’d done plenty of research leading up to this day, I rationalized, silently.
The door opened and interrupted me from my revelry. As soon as the detective entered the space, and before he could even speak, I shut questioning down. I knew my rights.
“I’d rather not speak until my lawyer arrives. Don’t I get a phone call?” I asked in a voice so firm, I surprised myself.
Yes, my deed was premeditated, but so were the heinous acts that my former assailant carried out. Waiting for the opportunity to phone my lawyer, tired of counting the number of ticks of the old clock overhead, I mentally replayed the events of that evening, working backward from tonight to the major events that led up to my drastic actions. I traveled all the way back to when I’d met him, and got caught in his tangled web. Just a few hours ago, I was at the will of my tormentor, feeling trapped and fighting for my life, my sanity. But, something in me had snapped, and I had to get out, be free.
When the cops came, I stood at the mouth of a dark alley, covered in blood and the stench of strange men I was leased to for a nominal fee. Still, even in these bleak circumstances, I’d felt more alive than I had ever felt. I trembled with adrenaline, with pride, with expectation. I quickly alerted him to the location of the other abducted women, and was loaded into an ambulance afterwards.
I stood over his bleeding body, glowering, wanting to make sure he wouldn’t make one more move, one more sound. I probably stood there for a good ten minutes, watching and seething before I called 911. I savored the pouring of blood from his swollen head as I waited for the emergency workers to arrive. While I waited, I paced, catching a glimpse of myself in a nearby mirror. I was splattered with his blood. For a fleeting moment, I felt sick, but the nausea passed. I mentally comforted myself, reaffirming that I’d done a brave, valiant thing. I probably wouldn’t even serve jail time for killing Ross, but if I did, it was most certainly worth it.
Still incensed, I reached down to feel for a pulse. There was none, he really was dead. I was shocked that I’d actually had the strength, the gumption to finally end this, but I had not an ounce of remorse. Enough was enough. I was beyond tired of suffering at the hands of tyrants. My shock was giving way to a feeling of triumph. That pervert would no longer have the privilege of roaming the earth, seeking victims to carry out his twisted fbidding, profiting from women’s misery. No longer would he be allowed to extort and sell the wares of young women with impunity. I was done with hiding the pain and discomfort of sexual victimizations, past. I felt like this was a victory for every woman who’d gritted her teeth with fear in the midst of an unwanted catcall. This was vengeance for every woman who’d fought off an assailant and took burning hot showers to try to wash off the filthy feeling of being violated. I did it for every woman and girl who’d been sold into sex trafficking by some scumbag they thought they could trust, for every one of us snatched off the streets, taken from the people and things we loved to be sold as chattel.
This victory was for them and for me, as I’d just endured the hardest, most soul crushing month of my life.
Day 30 came, and I serviced clients as usual, including George. The day crept by, but finally evening came, and Ross came for me. He’d led me up the stairs to the back door, where his car was waiting in the dark alley, but not before flashing his gun at me and warning me not to try anything funny. He patted me down, but I’d had my makeshift shiv tied to my inner arm with an elastic. I shuffled into the backseat as he climbed into the driver’s side and started the car. Before he could clear the alley, I made a quick move for it. His arrogance made him sloppy, and he hadn’t restrained my hands, or brought back-up, so I quickly jammed a shiv in one side of his neck. Instinctively, he grabbed for the wound and I jammed my second one into the other side of his neck, hitting his jugular. Panicked, he rolled around in the front seat, unable to scream. In survival mode, I sprinted from the car, opened his door, dragged him out and grabbed his gun. Angrily, I didn’t shoot him, but hit him repeatedly with his weapon instead. It was like I was possessed with rage, and I didn’t stop until he wasn’t moving. Then, I grabbed his phone to call 911.
I was grateful for the shift in my energy that caused such a daring plan.
I was four weeks into what I was determined wouldn’t be the rest of my life, so I had to think fast. Each week, I’d experienced a different stage of myself. After 23 days of being missing from all who loved me, trapped in Ross’ sex dungeon with four other women, I was on my sixth consultation with George. Feeling like I had him wrapped around my finger, I made a strange request: I’d asked him to bring me a pack of razors so I could shave my legs smooth for him, as well as a comb and brush set, complete with ponytail elastics. Thinking that I just needed the toiletries to groom myself for his visits, George quickly obliged. On day 26, George reappeared with the things I’d requested from him, sneaking them past Ross’ big but dumb security guard at the door. On day 27, I’d crafted a shiv, using the elastics to form a grip on the handle of the comb and brush and using the razors as blades at the ends of the comb and brush. On day 29, I faked a bout of vomiting and nausea, which Beverly reported to Ross. This made Ross think I was possibly pregnant. He notified me roughly that he’d be taking me to his crooked doctor friend the next evening to assess my condition and possibly change it. I’d done it. I’d manufactured my chance to escape.
By the time the third week hit, I was a seasoned pro. I’d begun to view myself as an actress. I had a different persona for every client I had. It helped me to better disconnect from the reality of what I was doing. One of my clients, whom I’d met two week prior, had started to fall hard for me. His name was George and he was an older man who’d lost his wife a few months prior. I was Katie with him, a timid young woman who came alive and vamped up the seduction after a few minutes of dirty talk. I’d even worn fake glasses for him, to further the image. I followed George’s every whim, despite how much he disgusted me, to gain his trust, and sometimes he’d come just to talk to me.
In the short time I was with Ross and the rest of his “girls” as he called them, I remained quiet and observant. I did what was asked of me and kept my head down, all the while plotting my escape. In the first week, I’d suffered a “punishment” because I gave a client a hard time. I’d refused to service a guy because his scent turned my stomach. Ross quickly sent in another unfortunate escort to take my place and commenced to “discipline” me severely. I was unable to “work” for two days. There were no more incidents after that. I tried my best to disconnect my mind from my body as I did what each client requested. I worked consciously to stay sane in my circumstances, praying to God and keeping my hopes quietly uplifted as I looked for every opportunity to escape. Still, this was no easy feat, as Ross had a secret brothel set up for his illegal escorting enterprise. He ran a tattoo shop as a legal cover-up, and in fact, that was how many of the girls had been lured in. This way, he felt it was a surefire way that he’d attract edgy young women that were of legal age. The basement of this tattoo shop was a full fledged sex dungeon, with all types of equipment to support his clients’ kinks. It was soundproofed, as well, so that none of the neighbors or tattoo customers on the floors above could hear our screams. After the first couple of days, though, one of the more seasoned women there told me, the new girls always stopped screaming and resolved themselves to their fates.
All the girls had different stories of how they’d ended up there, and Beverly, a 24 year old from Oklahoma, had been there longest. Two years ago, she’d visited Ross’ tattoo shop while on a spring break trip to NY. Ross was handsome (until I’d cut his face into ribbons) and after he tattooed the small butterfly onto Beverly’s right hip, he’d asked her to dinner. He commenced to drug her drink and she woke up shackled in the basement of the tattoo shop. She hadn’t felt the sun on her face since that day, but oddly enough, she felt a love and allegiance to Ross. They had an odd relationship. It was almost as if she ran the brothel with him, to an extent. She reported the goings on to him in his absence and we all knew not to tell her anything we didn’t want Ross to know. We all had different stories and different reactions to our situation. However, the things all of us had in common were the drugging of our beverages and waking up in the basement, shackled. My story was the shortest, though.
We met after a week of messaging in a cafe near his shop. We hit it off immediately, and even flirted back and forth. I excused myself to use the restroom while we waited for our beverages, and when I returned to the table, the cups were there. Ross beamed at me and before I could sit down, he suggested that we take our drinks to his shop down the block. He wanted to see me free-hand a tattoo sketch. Comfortable and confident, I accepted his invitation, not sipping my latte until we got there. Unbeknownst to me, it was laced with GHB. I don’t remember passing out but I do remember waking up in the basement, shackled, with Ross laying beside me in a state of undress. There were other girls there, on a couch, crowded around a TV, staring mindlessly. I was apparently the only one he’d laid with, I later found out, which made me feel even more violated. I’d have never imagined him to be the monster he’d revealed himself to be. Naively, I trusted him immediately. He was handsome, articulate and wildly successful in the art scene as an esteemed tattoo artist and entrepreneur. Nobody pegged him to be a cold, hard criminal.
A month ago, Ross sent me a private message on Pictogram, a social media site. He’d seen my artwork on my business page and messaged me under the guise of wanting to train me as a tattoo artist. A starving undergrad student 600 miles from home, I jumped at the chance.
In hindsight, I wish I’d have been a bit more skeptical. It could have saved me a lot of grief
