Escape Attempts

// dolls, grooming, abuse, implications

The first time you escaped, you only made it a few blocks from home. Specifically, you went to the park and hid inside the playground. Not much of an escape attempt really. Was it a cry for help? Whatever you wanted, the beating they gave you smothered it in empty pain.

The second time you ran away, it was more organized. You packed a bag, you had clothes and gear, you had a bicycle. You made it eighteen miles that time. The beating was worth it. You made it forty-five miles by the fifth time. They still caught you though.

It took until the eighth escape attempt to realize they had probably bugged your phone. You ditched it in a dumpster. They still caught you. The next time you went on foot without a bike, catching a greyhound for the next city over. They still caught you.

The eleventh time you took nothing but the clothes on your back. They still caught you. Was it worth the pain? You lay in your bed, every muscle bruised from the beating they gave you, lip split. Just a little rough housing of course, you know how kids are.

They were preparing you for ritual sacrifice. They were going to force you to sign the documents and sell your soul. If you didn’t they were going to hurt you until you did. They were going to shave your head tomorrow. They were going to shave your head.

Your life stretches out before and behind you, an expanse of known and unknown pain. Chances, opportunities, risks, sacrifices. You weren’t what they wanted, and they hated you for that. They were going to ‘whip you into shape’ if it was the last thing they did.

You sigh as you look over your abused body. Too small, too thin, too feminine, it pisses them off to look at you, at best you were raw meat. In the dim light, the knife gleams as you hold it over the old scar from your childhood. 

The one they hid the tracking chip in.

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