Enslavement of an Innocent Ch. 01

This is the first chapter of my book. This Chapter is Non-Erotic, but don't worry, we will be getting to the erotic stuff soon!

Chapter 1:

The cold metal bench numbs my skin, so that both my mind and, now, my body are deadened. This past year is a horrible blur, though it started out as a slow-motion train wreck. Bit by bit, threads of hope had been snipped away until I became this lifeless creature that I feel like now: naked and devoid of humanity or even my own rights.

It only took five fucking minutes to derail my entire life. It had been a beautiful, sunny day at the lake. Evergreen trees were fairly thick at that special spot near the water and became even more dense as they ran up the hill into the dirt, away from the sandy beach. There were not too many people that day; only just enough to put the nails in my (regrettably) hypothetical coffin. I never would have known the exact number of persons at the lake if it weren't for the unnerving organization of my trial: eight. One family of four, three college kids, and a lone jogger.

How had I gotten to that beach that terrible day? It was just a boring, coincidental series of events: By age two I was orphaned and at age nine I was finally adopted by a couple so obsessed with their big-time jobs that I often wondered why they had wanted a child in the first place. At any rate, they were well-off enough to afford my nanny, whom was the closest thing to family I had. Unfortunately for me, she was called away to look after a sick relative thousands of miles away, in a country called Multinova, a year before the day that changed my life. That fateful goddamned day I had been a very mature just-turned-seventeen years old and now I am barely past my eighteenth birthday.

That leads me to my close friend Tina whom had taken me on as what I suspected was a "project" when we met in school our sophomore year of high school. She had been one of the middle school bullies until she decided to turn herself around and, when she met me, Tina decided I was the perfect "project" friend to make up for all the harm she had done in her past. Undoubtedly, I made the perfect target- average in body type, small in stature, extremely introverted, quiet, dubious style choices, orphaned, and with adoptive parents that did not care. Part of her did want me to succeed and be happier, but part of her just wanted to feel better about herself. "Fair enough," I had always thought to myself since Tina's family was very wealthy, always toting the both of us around to fancy resorts or concerts or the occasional theme park. I felt that the free recreations made up for the part of her that cared more about her own feelings than me as a person. Sometimes I had even felt guilty enough about all the things I received from them that I tried to objectively analyze why I hung around Tina, until I realized that she was really all I had in my pathetic social high school career.

Tina's younger brother, Scott, was a mischievous little freshman prick, though he did have his nicer moments. The father, Correy, was always distant, always working, and had a severe gaze that made me uncomfortable. Tina's mother, Dahlia, was a sweet, fun-loving, albeit air-headed, woman that I had grown to love.

That day on the sandy shore, Tina's mother, brother, and even her usually-absent father were all present. I had slept over at their mansion the night before and it was just before noon. I had been walking back from the restroom and stopped at the top of the slope leading down to the beach. The grass I was standing on turned into dark dirt just beyond my toes and gradually gave way to light-colored, coarse sand. I stood looking over the lake. Tina and her brother were having a splash-fight in the clear water, while their father stood just beyond the lapping waves' reach. Their mother leaned back on her elbows at the sandy bottom of the slope, her large-brimmed, expensive sun hat obscuring her ageless, kind face from my view. A scratching sound took my attention away from the family and to my left, only fifteen feet away. Looking over, there was a strange-looking man next to a pile of cut evergreens stacked in a triangle that was tethered to the ground by a few ropes.

The man appeared to be touching the cut trees, his arm working back and forth in a strange motion at the lake-side of the pile. He looked over his shoulder at me and I involuntarily took a step away from him at the wild look in his eyes. His hair matched the color of the sand and was as wild as his dark eyes. Severe cheekbones reminded me of the Green Goblin character and his thin lips pulled back in a leering grin over perfect, white teeth. Drab, dirty, and tattered, khaki-colored clothes hung off of his thin frame, leaving me with the impression that he was probably homeless. With his left, free arm, he lifted a finger to his lips in a shushing motion, at which point I shuddered. Something was not right.

With one last jerk of his right arm, the dead trees began to move. A crunching sound reached my ears, though my brain could barely make sense of what was happening, and the heavy trunks began reeling down the slope with a low thumping noise that turned my stomach to rock. I could only stare blankly at them while they gained momentum and barreled almost soundlessly across the sand toward the water. My mouth hung open with the intention of screaming, but I could only suck air in to hold my breath. Legs moving jerkily, I lurched at the strange man until the distance between he and I was nearly gone. His eyes were a piercing green color and, in the split second that I looked into them, I realized that my urgency was futile; the damage was done. There was a blood-curdling scream coming from the beach. Without looking down the slope, I made a grab for the evil entity staring me down. To my astonishment, he stepped quickly aside and smacked something that felt like warmed metal into my desperate grasp, then ran. I looked at my hand to find a knife glinting in the sun that was streaming through the trees. When I looked up, he had vanished. I began to shake and my blood ran cold. In retrospect, I had been going into shock.

When I looked back to the beach, I found a horrifying scene: Tina standing, screaming, while her father and Scott clawed frantically at the trees. My frozen mind could not figure out what was happening for a few moments, but when it did connect the dots everything fell apart. My knees hit the ground and the metal handle rolled off my fingers.

Correy, the father, testified in court that I had come running to try and dig Dahlia out, though I have no recollection of that part. He said it was to cover up what I had done- murdered his beloved wife.

My motive was apparently that I was jealous of Tina, since her parents were so doting and her mother was so involved in her life. The whole trial did not make much sense to me, but it seemed to make perfect sense to everyone else. No one had seen my mystery man. There were no prints on the knife except mine. Had he worn gloves? Trying to recall the killer's figure brought tears of helpless frustration to my eyes, even now. Students from our school, whom I had talked to only in passing, were witnesses to my "quiet, brooding, unapproachable, and suspicious" character.

"Apparently, introversion is now a crime," my court-appointed lawyer had said sarcastically. It did not matter, though; every nail went into my coffin in staggering uniformity. They even found a few knives identical to the knife that he had used to sever the rope tying down the logs in my parents' house.

I must still be in shock because nothing seems real. I curse the cold metal bench I sit upon for being the only thing that feels real at the moment. I am sitting in the transitionary holding room at the Crater County Prison, shivering sporadically and wondering why whomever had wanted Dahlia dead picked me to be the scapegoat. Why frame me? Probably because I have nobody, I think dazedly to myself. My adoptive parents had come to court in the beginning, trying to appear the supportive mom and dad they liked to believe they were, but as the evidence against me piled up, they stopped coming. I knew I was on my own the last day they showed up. My "mother" just looked at me, shook her head, frowned, and stared at her lap for the remainder of the session. I didn't even get the chance to scream at either of my "parents" for abandoning me. I was tried as an adult and they had finally gotten what they always wanted: to be rid of me, like a baby bunny after Easter was over.

I heard that in some smaller countries like Multinova, convicted murderers are simply and painlessly executed. I "humph" in jealousy and wish that I could wrap my arms around myself- the handcuffs are too tight and there are hardly any links between my wrists. Idly, I count them: one, two, three, four, five, six. Lowering them to between my knees, I suddenly choke back tears and clench my jaw, squeezing my watering eyes shut so I don't have to see the walls of this metal box blur.

"Oh look, she's crying," I hear someone titter. It's one of the other two inmates sitting on a bench diagonal from me. A voice deeper than the first says, "Hey, you're the sociopath that murdered that nice, rich, family lady, huh?" More tittering. "You're going to be so fucked when you get out! I mean that literally and physically, of course." One of them lets out a startling, loud screech of a cackle that makes me jump and the unshed tears stop in their tracks.

I see two men in red jumpsuits shackled similarly- handcuffs with short links- when I open my eyes, but their cuffs aren't attached to a long chain that connects to anklecuffs like mine do. I imagine the way I'm chained up seems like a loose hogtie using chains instead of ropes. Observing them, they were most likely convicted of some drug crimes and are going to be placed at a Work Facility. Inmates call it a "Break Back Facility:" a prison-factory hybrid that handles assembling products or making clothes or running sewage plants- anything a person can think of, really.

Silently, I stare down the man with the deeper voice. He's a muscular guy with pock marks and greasy hair that appears to be wavy under the oil. He waggles his eyebrows suggestively at me. "You're kinda hot, you know that, sweetheart? Are you even eighteen? They're going to eat you all up. Is it the husband that you're going to? Oh man, I saw that shit on the news! That dude is gonna stick it in your ass until you..." He is interrupted by the door opening.

Biting the inside of my cheek, I pull my handcuffs apart until they bite into my wrists and I wince. I had been hoping to avoid hearing my fate spoken aloud; once in court had been more than enough. Here in Scolcanda, convicted murderers' lives are put in the hands of the person that was closest to the murder victim, and they can choose execution or a lifetime of slavery in the hands of the deceased's loved one. The choice had gone to Tina's father, Correy. He had stood, with a grim sneer on his face, and chosen slavery, condemning me with the same voice that had made small talk in their luxury car on the way to the lake. In five years I will be back in court again and the judge will decide whether or not I will be executed or serve another five years in the Carrighan's household. My fingers are crossed for the execution. I do not want to die at the moment, but I have been told by the jeering "ladies" of my prison corridor that I will pray to any and all deities for death after the first week of my sentence. By the burning look on Correy Carrighan's face and Tina's inerasable screams that day, I knew they were right.

Hands wrap around my upper arms and haul me to my feet. I try to shuffle forward, but I'm not fast enough for them and they drag me to the wall parallel to where my bench sat. The wall pulls upwards like a garage door, only faster. The scraping of my prison-grade, slip-on shoes against the asphalt alongside steel-toed boots makes me break out into a cold sweat and I squirm in the vice-like grip of the two officers. My hair is blown across my face and I have no way to get it out of my mouth, so I sputter, rubbing my face against the rough prison jumpsuit. One of the guards yanks on me and I realize we're standing at the back of an open armored vehicle. Before I can react, I've been thrown into the back of the vehicle and my cheekbone connects painfully with the un-upholstered floor. My eyes can see the raised, crisscross patterns on the floor and slowly I look up to see a uniformed man crouching over me. When I jerk away from the looming figure, the back of my head hits metal and I groan. His hands wrap themselves in my hair and I am pulled up off the floor, my scalp screaming, while I scramble to find leverage with my limbs. A shriek bursts past my dry lips and I say, "Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop!" in rapid succession. Finally, there is another bench underneath me and the hand removes itself from my hair.

Shuddering, I straighten up to glare at the aggressor through my straight, blond locks. My murderous gaze is a bold bluff and I worry that he will hurt me further for it, but I keep it up anyways to counter the horrifying vulnerability I feel, writhing like an angry snake in my stomach. In the past year I have had so many people touch me without permission, nevertheless, I am still unaccustomed to it and every touch, however small, is violating. My eyes look into smug gaze of someone who thinks I am little more than a dog to be beaten and I know he is far from the last person who will look upon me in this way. The grabbing of my arms, the clinically rough cavity searches, the punches and shoves from the other prisoners are already more than I can handle... how will I survive the pain I am certain awaits me at the Carrighans? The other two inmates are put into the vehicle, the doors slam shut, and we are driving away towards my bleak future.

The space we are all sitting in is smaller than it looks on television. I can see the inmate with the high-pitched laugh ogling me in my left peripheral and he is so close that I can feel his body heat. My whole body is tense and I scoot over to press myself against the partition that separates us from the driver. "You know, now that I'm looking at you real hard, I'm pretty sure you have some nice curves under there, baby girl. I do love me a sweet sixteen."

I blow my hair out of my face and turn sideways to scowl at him. "I'm eighteen, you stupid motherfucker." Without makeup, that I had not had access to since my arrest, I barely passed for sixteen and when I was made-up I could maybe pass as eighteen or nineteen. I just have one of those faces, unlike all the popular girls at school. There were even freshman that looked and dressed older than I.

"Oooooo, looks like a teen but is to legal to fuck! You could have made some good money in porn," says Oh-look-she's-crying guy. I turn my gaze to him and flinch when the officer sitting across from me shoves his reedy frame into the back door of the van.

"Be quiet, Carter," the officer snarls.

"Aw man, Royce, when are you gonna stop picking on me?" Oh-look-she's-crying whines, almost playfully.

"Soon's I'm satisfied you've gotten what's coming to you," replies the officer, placing his hand on his baton that dangles from his belt. I suppose that they have some quarrel with each other, since he had not bothered to strike greasy-haired guy during his sweet-sixteen comments.

My hands grip my stomach as I try to reach across myself protectively. The van is silent as we bump across the road. Tremors course through me until I am shaking so frantically that if the engine were to turn off, my chains would rattle audibly. Waves of nausea come over me and I don't realize that I am breathing too quickly until black murkiness creeps into the edges of my vision. I try to count in deeper breaths but my lungs will not fill. The blackness thickens and my body wilts.

The next thing I see is the furrowed brow of the guard inches from my face and there is garbled speech that I cannot understand. I try to murmur a question through the heavy haze settled over my mind and it does not make sense. This does not make sense. What is happening to me? There is no movement below me save for a low rumbling sound. We aren't moving. We? I blink, trying to clear the fog. Two nasty faces are mocking me with their knowing smiles. Oh-look-she's-crying and Sweet-sixteen are looking down at me. I must be on the floor of the prison transportation vehicle. The guard is glaring at me, probably for inconveniencing him with a dead faint. I gasp in air and my vision clears completely until I can feel sufficiently discomfited. "Really, Nyla, you weak piece of shit," I scold myself internally, my face burning. By the increasing chuckles from the two other prisoners I know my complexion was nearly puce- an abhorrent tendency of my naturally pale skin.

"Sorry," I whispered to the guard, whom was growling irritably into the com on his shoulder. "I-I don't know w-what came o-over m-m-me." The shaking is coming back, stirring up my nasty habit of stuttering. Considering these circumstances, I should be impressed that my anxiety had not manifested before this. True to my earlier suspicion, the chains are beginning to clatter with every violent shudder against the floor of the van that I am lying on. I leverage my right elbow against the surface underneath me and try to push upwards, only to find myself so weak that my face lurches into the uncomfortable flooring, arm twisting uncomfortably behind my back.

There is a click and light washes through the vehicle. Knowing I am too twisted to get up, I brace myself for rough handling. Fingers wrap around my ankles and my left upper arm, causing chains to drag loudly across the floor. My body is dragged intolerably across the bevels and I struggle to hold my face away from a good scraping. A groan passes through my lips and I am suddenly standing precariously on my feet in the warm, soft, midmorning sunlight. Before me is a sight I used to enjoy: the Carrighan mansion. Sliding my feet as far apart as they can go, I strain to keep myself from falling again.

The tears finally fall and a rush of terror-fueled adrenaline rushes through me. "Maybe they won't do such terrible things like all the inmates say they will," I lie silently to myself. "Maybe they'll just beat you a little and make you slave over the kitchen all day." The silly fibs do not help like I hoped; I have always been good at seeing straight through liars. Today was the beginning of the end. The beginning of my personal hell.