Beauty And The Mad Man

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Young Adult  |  House: Booksie Classic
Just a novel idea I needed to get down so I could work on my Nano project.

Submitted: November 24, 2013

A A A | A A A

Submitted: November 24, 2013







It was such a silly thing, it's definition as lucid and flexible as the girls that chased after it. To me, I was a waste of a thing. I never really cared if I was considered “Beautiful” by the standards “Handsome” boys held. It simply wasn't something that wasn't on my to do list. By the worlds standards, I was considered undesirable. My A cup chest was next to none existent, my white blond hair was straight and bland, my eyes were a normal blend of blue and gray, and my whole body was covered in large, hideous scars; results of my childhood. The only thing I had “going for me” would be that my body was lean and toned. Unlike most of the girls out there that chased after the skinny image by starving themselves, I preferred my athletic built and was perfectly happy with not having my ribs poking out from my side. Such as silly thing to worry about, beauty... Growing up, that was the last thing I worried about. Because growing up happened when I was only five years old, by the time I was eight I considered myself an adult. When I was 9, I had moved out. Well, I ran away, but if your husband was like mine you would, too.

My husband, you see, was a fifty year old pervert who had abducted me when I was four years old. I had been playing at the park without my parents watching me when he came and told me he was suppose to bring me home. That he did, the house I spent the next five years in was considered our home, where we played house. He was the daddy, I was the mommy, and we did what mommies and daddies did. Until I mistakenly read a book, I read a lot while he was out of the house seeing as there was nothing else to do, about child molesters I thought what we were doing, how he treated me, touched me and cut me, was love. I had stolen the book on our last outing together; he was kind like that. Making sure to get me out of the house a few times a week. He always warned me, reminded me, that people wouldn't understand our love so I couldn't talk about it. Outside of the house, he was my big brother. Whenever I told people that, me and him would share a secret smile. But one day, I had been wandering a small store we visited often and saw a book with a little girl on it in the shadow of a older man. I was eight years old then, and was truly brain washed into thinking what Jared did to me was love. Whenever he touched me or invaded me, whenever he would take a knife and cut my arms, legs, stomach and back (they were easy places to cover whenever we went out.) I thought that's what love was. It hurt, and I cried a lot whenever he did it, but it was love. And good wives loved their husbands. I never went to school, I stayed inside the house and taught myself how to read books about the world. Jared would buy me ones he deemed were 'safe', so when I shoved the book with the man and little girl into my large coat pocket, I did my best to keep it a secret from him. It fascinated me, and I didn't want him to take it away from me. So in secret, I read it. And what I read horrified me.

At first I couldn't believe the nerve of the author who dared accused my Jared of being an abuser, I hated her. Those other children were different, those other men didn't really love them, not like Jared loved me. But the more I read, the more I saw myself, our marriage, being described. Slowly, my determined rage at this accuser grew to am angry doubt, then to a questioning quiet. Weeks later I would ask my husband about it, about what child abuse was. That was the first time he ever cut my face. As he chained me to a wall and slashed my body, breasts, legs, arms, face in a rage he called me many things. I didn't scream, but I cried and begged him for forgiveness. Hours later I would find myself laying in a basement I had never been allowed in before. It was clear why as soon as he threw me to the hard ground. Underneath me, something crunched. Shakily, I looked around me. All around laid small bones of children. I was a smart girl, I knew what they were.

I wasn't his first wife.

As punishment for stealing the book, Jared kept me in the basement for a week. Occasionally he'd come down to dress my wounds, feed me, and do what mommies and daddies do. I didn't fight back, I hadn't since I was five, and allowed him to what he wanted.

That was the first time I ever thought about escape.

I was never allowed out of the house again. My face was now like the rest of my body, covered in scars, making it impossible to avoid questions whenever we'd travel out. I never went back in the basement, but it was enough to scare me into total submission. At lest, that's what he thought.

Whenever he was at work, I would roam our normal looking house for weak points that I could escape through. It took me a full year until I found the opening to our attic, where there was a window that wasn't made out of reinforced glass. It was three stories up, but it was breakable. My next task was on making a rope. That took a full month of slow progress of making a strong enough rope out of stolen shirts and pants here and there. Just enough that he wouldn't notice them missing. I had to bid my time well, otherwise he'd catch me and I would end up in the basement; but in a different form. So, on the day before my 9th birthday, I escaped. Jared was gone the whole day to buy food and decorations for my birthday. It was a very special birthday, he had told me. One that I wouldn't forget, he promised. I was a smart girl, I remembered how the book said that molesters often move onto a different victim when the current one grows to old. I doubted the girls in the basement lived to have an 10th birthday. I waited for my husband to drive away, then waited another half an hour before I smashed the window with my fist, pushed the rope through, and climbed down to the lawn below. The scars I attained from breaking the window I look at often to this day, proud at their source.

We lived on the outskirts of a large city, so running miles and miles that day and following night into the bustling streets, allies, and abandoned apartments was the easy part of the escape. The hard part was surviving on my own. It was then that I met a man named Gideon. He was making a drug deal in the apartment I had been hiding out in when we met in the most untimely fashion. The deal had gone south, and there was a large shoot out. I had only been free for a week, but I had quickly learned what the sounds of guns were, and how to avoid the bullets. I hid under a rickety old table as the men shot at each other, that's when Gideon had ran over to the table and flipped it, using it as a shield. To say that the look he gave me was shocked would be an understatement.

“The hell?” He gaped. I was crying openly and looked at him in a way that must have melt his stone heart, something pedicured from living on the streets as long as he had. Before I knew it, the other man was dead, and I was being carried to where Gideons gang lived. He was a nice man, or boy technically. In reality, Gideon was only 17 years old. But he was the head of a gang of 30 men, most of which were older then him. He was a smart man, that's how he had become the leader. He'd gone from a starving boy, to a massive drug dealer. Though he was smart enough to never do drugs himself, it would cloud his judgment and was merchandise better sold then consumed. I had allowed him to pick me up and carry me away from that apartment. I hadn't eaten in a week and was to weak to even try to fight back. We went through many alley ways, I was tense with fear the whole time. Afraid that any moment we would run into Jared. It took years for that fear to leave.

Gideon eventually got to his hideout and brought me inside. Most of the men that he was in charge off were there, making me wish I had enough strength to escape. But instead, I allowed Gideon to carry me past the staring eyes to his room where he tucked me into the little bed. I started to cry again, then, after he left. When he returned with two other men I sobbed even harder thinking about what they'd do to me. The three of them stared at me openly vulnerable with large eyes. None of them knew what to do. Eventually, Gideon approached me with a tray I hadn't noticed earlier. On it was a bowl of soup with chunks of meat and vegetables in it.

“Here, open your mouth.” His voice was soft, gentle. I had read about that voice, in fictional books. I never understood what it was, or what it sounded like, but as soon as he talked to me I knew. This is what kindness is like. I whimpered still, terrified of what this meal would cost me. But I was so hungry that I was willing to pay the fee later. So, I allowed Gideon to feed me until my tiny little stomach couldn't hold anymore. My eyes were like lead, I allowed my lids to slid close. My head hit the pillow and I was immediately asleep. Weeks past as Gideon nursed me back to health, not once did he touch me or hurt me. As soon as I was strong enough to walk, he brought me out to the large room where all the men were. His home was made out of an abandoned warehouse. His room was a blocked off part of the office found on the second story of the building, all the men were gathered on the open bottom floor. I tried my best not to cry then, knowing that my time for payment had come. Gideon helped me down the large metal stairs to the others below. They parted like the red seas as Gideon walked through. We reached a large table, where Gideon picked me up and place me on. I sat there with large eyes wondering what he'd do next. To my complete and udder amazement, he looked me dead in the eye and asked me a simple question.

“Whats your name?” I had never had a name, not one that I remembered anyways. Jared had always called me things, they were names I thought I should call myself. I had read about names, too, but never thought about having one myself. So when Gideon asked, there was only one answer I could give him.

“I don't have one.” That was the first time I ever talked to him. At hearing my voice his blue eyes melted though his outward composure stayed stern and stone like.

“Everyone has a name...” I shrugged.

“He never gave me a name.” Gideons eyebrow raised at the mention of another man.

“Whose 'he'?” I bit my chapped lip, making it bleed. The taste of blood reminded me of Jared and how he always enjoyed blood so much.

“My husband.” Gideons jaw clenched, The men around us had gone quiet to listen to me speak. I had been a mystery to them for the past few weeks. One that all of them were eager to figure out.

“Your... Husband?” I nodded not meeting his eyes. Instead I looked down at my now healed hands. I traced the scars on it, the ones from the window and from the years of abuse. Gideon looked down at them, then back up to my face. My arms and legs were covered from a large shirt Gideon had given me. It had belonged to him, so it hung over my skeletal figure in plenty of ways. “Explain.” He forced the words out through clenched teeth. So I did.

With tears streaming down my face I told him about being kidnapped, about 'playing house', how he cut me, the basement, and then escaping. The room was utterly silent as I retold my story. My voice cracking and wobbling the whole way. When I was done I could see all the men in the room muscles tense and fingers twitch towards the guns and knifes at their sides. Gideon had closed his eyes halfway through it, his eyebrows came together angrily. He was silent for a long while after I finished. But, eventually, he spoke.

“Angel,” He told me, his eyes still closed, “Your name is Angel... You'll be ours. And we'll do anything to protect our Angel, wont we, boys?” His eyes flew open. Inside them burned a fired so hot that I was afraid it'd consume me. There was no cheer to Gideons speech, only silent nods from the men around him. “Tell me everything you again about what this man looks like and where he lives...” Gideon demanded, and so I did. When Gideon was satisfied he ordered his men to go to work finding him. The room began to clear out. I looked up at Gideon, mustering up the courage to speak out of place.

“Are you going to make me play house, too?” It took him a moment before he realized what I was talking about. As soon as the realization came upon him, he looked like he was about to vomit.

“No. I'll never treat you like that... But how about this? I'll be the daddy and you'll be the daughter. Would you like that?” I remembered reading a book once about families. The daddies and mommies took care of the daughters, and Jared told me that he didn't hurt daughters. Daughters were never hurt, they were always protected. I nodded with wide eyes. “Good, then you go lay down and sleep. I'll wake you up as soon as I... Take care of business.”

Should I have watched the news for the month following, I would have heard the story about the man named Jared who was found shot to death in his home with a note in his bloody hands that told the police to look in the basement; the bones that were identified matched the DNA of several missing girls that had never been found.

Years passed, and my scared mind with them. Gideon and the gang raised me like their daughter. I grew close to every last one of them and saw each of them as brother, Gideon was the only one that ever earned the name of daddy.

I learned how to defend myself and use a gun, I grew up under constant protection. Never did another man hurt me or touch me, should they try they'd get a bullet to head by whomever was appointed to watch me that day. I had the option to go to school but declined, I'd rather self teach myself with the few books Gideon managed to buy me.

My world was seemingly perfect, or as perfect as it could get. That is, until the eve of my 18th birthday.

The day I met a man that would change everything forever.

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