Lonely Women - Turmoil Takes Control

Donna is a single mum, though you'd never guess. She looks so young, and has the face of an angel, fragile and pale, but painted with a natural beauty most women spend hours applying. Her hair is auburn, long and ragged just like her dress. It has not been cut for years. Only 20 years old, her child is 4. She moved to Brighton not long after her baby was born. She ran away from her past, a fucked up cult in the guise of a hippy, pagan, nature-loving group. They messed her head up big time, brain washed her to do as they please and basically used and abused her, mentally, emotionally and sexually. She was weak, young and troubled, and a perfect target. She had already been through more than enough by the time she came to reside at The Grange. She was trapped in the group at their residence in the country, by her own fear, fear of being strong and fear that she wouldn't ever make it past the door. But one day an opportunity arose, she felt a surge of confidence; most the people in the group were in ritual at some outdoor, secret-heathen meeting place, worshipping their dark lords and no doubt asking for another younger girl, a virgin. There had been many other young girls in the cult, but most of them were in the basement now, in many different pieces and fragments. If there were any other girls still in one bit she never knew about them directly but she often heard dominating voices from the basement ordering someone what to do and I don’t think it was telling them to wash the blood off of the walls... 

For some reason they liked Donna and wanted her alive, maybe to raise the child for them. She would cook and clean, and satisfy their sexual urges. The men and women would just take their turns on her; all night sometimes, and she would be left black and blue in the morning. Anyway, on this particular evening, a couple of the others in the group were upstairs having sex in the attic, ecstatic on ecstasy. There would always be someone who stayed behind to keep an eye on whatever girls they had stashed, but they hadn’t been down to check on her.
    
     Donna was supposed to be making the groups dinner, but she was so tiered and drained of the mental torture, that she wasn't scared of resting. She had reached her limit and didn't care what happened to her.  She sat at the table, head in her hands. There should have been tears rolling out of her eyes, or at least slowly dripping, but there was not. She was past all that now. She looked across the table taking in a deep breath, and saw a handbag left on the kitchen side. Nobody ever left anything lying around in that place, at least she'd never noticed; maybe they did and she was just so washed out that she couldn't see straight. She got up wobbly, heartbeat gaining intensity, breathing quickening and eyed up the bag. She didn't touch it, just stared at it for ages. Thoughts, all twisted and bleak, cramped up in her head, and then it was in her hands.
    
     Making her way towards her slavery quarters she thought in double speed what she was going to do. She scooped up her sleeping child, and the pile of folded clean washing on the end of her bed and put the clothes in the carrier she had picked up as she passed the utility room. She was surreal now, cool, calm, and together. She knew exactly what she was doing, and for some reason she was not scared. She sensed her dead grandfather around her and could almost feel the essence of all the other girls that had passed before her, egging her on and cheering her all the way. When she reached the end of the hall she put her ear into the air, listening for any sounds of life from the basement. Knowing there was no time to save another survivor, she slipped down the spiral staircase and disappeared into the big outside world. She hadn't been allowed out for weeks, and the bitter evening air welcomed her with a promise. She wasn't out of their trap yet, but instantly she felt free and she knew the promise could not be broken. The wind would carry her and she would fly like the bats, blindly trusting her senses. Grace was warm, bundled in the blankets she'd picked her up in, still sleeping, away with the fairies where pain does not exist.