Revealed: The Missing Years
Page 19
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“No, Tony. You can’t afford to break this order. It’ll land you back in jail.”
“I don’t give a damn about some piece of paper. I haven’t seen Claire since the shooting. No one is keeping me away from her or Nichol,” he added.
Brent reached for Tony’s arm.
“Don’t do it, Brent. Don’t try to stop me.” Tony’s dark eyes glared.
“I’m doing what needs to be done. I’m going to bet when we turn that corner, there are policemen outside of her room. Husband or not, Anthony Rawlings or not, you can’t walk through a restraining order. The day is young. Let me find out the allegations and why this was granted. We’ll get it overturned, hopefully today.”
Through clenched teeth, Tony seethed. “Get me out of here before I add murder to my list of charges. So help me God, if I see my in-laws…”
Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.
—Lord Acton
The night before, Brent had ventured further into Meredith’s book. It wasn’t that he wanted to know the details, but with everything that was happening, he believed that he needed to know. The recent memories of the three of them, Claire, Nichol, and Tony in his kitchen and living room, gave Brent the strength to read with an open mind. It was a luxury not held by many. Other than Roach, Courtney, and himself, Brent wasn’t sure of anyone else who knew how far the Rawlingses’ relationship had progressed.
My Life as It Didn’t Appear: Chapter 2…
I couldn’t remember what happened, but I knew it had. I knew that somehow and for some reason, my life had changed. My body ached, each movement evidence of the atrocities I suffered, atrocities cloaked in veiled memories that my mind kept locked behind my conscious recollection. When I finally awoke, I didn’t move or make a sound, fearful of what or whom my actions may alert. I lay still for the longest time, utilizing my other senses. I heard silence. It’s true that it’s audible: a buzzing that drones on and on. While the blankets against my exposed skin were soft and comforting, I fought to deny the aroma of the bed where I lay. Instead, I drifted in and out of sleep. With time, my mind cleared and the calmness of the room gave me the strength to move.
Though the suite where I was kept was beautiful and lavish, I was too focused on survival and escape to notice the opulence. Despite my circumstances, I held onto false hopes that I could make both goals a reality. With each step on my tender legs or the sight of my marred reflection, the hope dimmed. The reality was suffocating: I’d been used, physically abused, and undeniably raped.
I remember thinking that things like this didn’t happen to real people. This was the storyline for TV shows, movies, and books—not for real life. Yet, for some reason…it was now my life.
I had vague memories of fighting, none which ended well. As the recollections began to surface, I understood with painful clarity that I was no match physically for the man I’d recently met. Not only had he overpowered me, but my reception of his advances in Georgia had also opened the door to his mental domination. With an overwhelming sense of defeat, I recalled surrendering, not having the strength to continue the fight. As I cried under the hot spray of a much-needed shower, I found it difficult to blame anyone but myself. I’d lived my life independently and safely by following my rules. In a matter of days, Anthony Rawlings had broken my rules and shattered my world. No longer was I safe and independent. At twenty-six years of age, I was huddled in the corner of the cavernous shower, petrified of what the next hour would bring, and terrified of the suite door opening.
The ambiguity of my future was numbing. All I knew with some certainty was that I was trapped in a large suite with windows that looked out for miles and miles onto a dormant forest of gray, leafless trees. No longer was I in Atlanta… but where was I? How did I get here? And… could I handle the answers?
The fear of learning my location was equally as upsetting as the prospect of seeing the dark eyes that I knew in the pit of my stomach would return to that opulent cell. I was a prisoner at the mercy of my captor. At some moment in those first few hours of wakefulness, I convinced myself that there’d been a mistake—a terrible mistake. Perhaps it was a misunderstanding or maybe a mistaken identity. No matter the reason, survival instincts told me that it wasn’t enough for me to believe there’d been a mistake: I needed to convince the man with the key to my freedom. Naively, I believed that was possible.
In what I later realized was a game of wits, I was informed of Mr. Rawlings’ impending return. I was told that he would come to my suite at 7:00 PM, and that I was to be dressed and ready to dine. It was as if each minute were more absurd than the one before. My brain truly had difficulty keeping up.
Instead of being left alone to my own devices, which in hindsight would have more than likely resulted in another painful lesson, I was assisted with dressing, fixing my hair, and makeup. The entire scenario was unreal and vulgar. I was being helped to make myself presentable for the man who’d kidnapped and abused me. As much as I planned to state—or even plead—my case of mistaken identity, in the pit of my stomach, I feared that with the help of the kind housekeeper, I was doing nothing more than preparing myself for more abuse.
The man who entered my suite that night was somewhere between the charismatic man at the bar and the monster I’d seen glimpses of during my abduction. Though intimidating, he was also debonair. It’s an odd combination, one that left me reeling with uncertainties. To say I was scared to face him would have been an understatement; however, after an afternoon of attempting to escape, I knew my only mode of freedom was through him. Though I tried to hide my trepidation, the physical cues were obvious: my entire body trembled merely at the sight of his black eyes.
“I don’t give a damn about some piece of paper. I haven’t seen Claire since the shooting. No one is keeping me away from her or Nichol,” he added.
Brent reached for Tony’s arm.
“Don’t do it, Brent. Don’t try to stop me.” Tony’s dark eyes glared.
“I’m doing what needs to be done. I’m going to bet when we turn that corner, there are policemen outside of her room. Husband or not, Anthony Rawlings or not, you can’t walk through a restraining order. The day is young. Let me find out the allegations and why this was granted. We’ll get it overturned, hopefully today.”
Through clenched teeth, Tony seethed. “Get me out of here before I add murder to my list of charges. So help me God, if I see my in-laws…”
Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.
—Lord Acton
The night before, Brent had ventured further into Meredith’s book. It wasn’t that he wanted to know the details, but with everything that was happening, he believed that he needed to know. The recent memories of the three of them, Claire, Nichol, and Tony in his kitchen and living room, gave Brent the strength to read with an open mind. It was a luxury not held by many. Other than Roach, Courtney, and himself, Brent wasn’t sure of anyone else who knew how far the Rawlingses’ relationship had progressed.
My Life as It Didn’t Appear: Chapter 2…
I couldn’t remember what happened, but I knew it had. I knew that somehow and for some reason, my life had changed. My body ached, each movement evidence of the atrocities I suffered, atrocities cloaked in veiled memories that my mind kept locked behind my conscious recollection. When I finally awoke, I didn’t move or make a sound, fearful of what or whom my actions may alert. I lay still for the longest time, utilizing my other senses. I heard silence. It’s true that it’s audible: a buzzing that drones on and on. While the blankets against my exposed skin were soft and comforting, I fought to deny the aroma of the bed where I lay. Instead, I drifted in and out of sleep. With time, my mind cleared and the calmness of the room gave me the strength to move.
Though the suite where I was kept was beautiful and lavish, I was too focused on survival and escape to notice the opulence. Despite my circumstances, I held onto false hopes that I could make both goals a reality. With each step on my tender legs or the sight of my marred reflection, the hope dimmed. The reality was suffocating: I’d been used, physically abused, and undeniably raped.
I remember thinking that things like this didn’t happen to real people. This was the storyline for TV shows, movies, and books—not for real life. Yet, for some reason…it was now my life.
I had vague memories of fighting, none which ended well. As the recollections began to surface, I understood with painful clarity that I was no match physically for the man I’d recently met. Not only had he overpowered me, but my reception of his advances in Georgia had also opened the door to his mental domination. With an overwhelming sense of defeat, I recalled surrendering, not having the strength to continue the fight. As I cried under the hot spray of a much-needed shower, I found it difficult to blame anyone but myself. I’d lived my life independently and safely by following my rules. In a matter of days, Anthony Rawlings had broken my rules and shattered my world. No longer was I safe and independent. At twenty-six years of age, I was huddled in the corner of the cavernous shower, petrified of what the next hour would bring, and terrified of the suite door opening.
The ambiguity of my future was numbing. All I knew with some certainty was that I was trapped in a large suite with windows that looked out for miles and miles onto a dormant forest of gray, leafless trees. No longer was I in Atlanta… but where was I? How did I get here? And… could I handle the answers?
The fear of learning my location was equally as upsetting as the prospect of seeing the dark eyes that I knew in the pit of my stomach would return to that opulent cell. I was a prisoner at the mercy of my captor. At some moment in those first few hours of wakefulness, I convinced myself that there’d been a mistake—a terrible mistake. Perhaps it was a misunderstanding or maybe a mistaken identity. No matter the reason, survival instincts told me that it wasn’t enough for me to believe there’d been a mistake: I needed to convince the man with the key to my freedom. Naively, I believed that was possible.
In what I later realized was a game of wits, I was informed of Mr. Rawlings’ impending return. I was told that he would come to my suite at 7:00 PM, and that I was to be dressed and ready to dine. It was as if each minute were more absurd than the one before. My brain truly had difficulty keeping up.
Instead of being left alone to my own devices, which in hindsight would have more than likely resulted in another painful lesson, I was assisted with dressing, fixing my hair, and makeup. The entire scenario was unreal and vulgar. I was being helped to make myself presentable for the man who’d kidnapped and abused me. As much as I planned to state—or even plead—my case of mistaken identity, in the pit of my stomach, I feared that with the help of the kind housekeeper, I was doing nothing more than preparing myself for more abuse.
The man who entered my suite that night was somewhere between the charismatic man at the bar and the monster I’d seen glimpses of during my abduction. Though intimidating, he was also debonair. It’s an odd combination, one that left me reeling with uncertainties. To say I was scared to face him would have been an understatement; however, after an afternoon of attempting to escape, I knew my only mode of freedom was through him. Though I tried to hide my trepidation, the physical cues were obvious: my entire body trembled merely at the sight of his black eyes.
