When I gasp, there is a cloud of smoke, and through it I see his smile. “I can’t open it with these damn gloves,” he says sheepishly.
I drop to my knees before him and wrap my arms around him. “Yes,” I say in a giant marshmallow hug of material. “I don’t need to see it. Yes.”
He squeezes me so tightly I laugh, his arms managing to lift us both up to standing. “Forever?” he asks, setting me down and stepping back, pulling me up the hill, towards the house. Through the glass, I see my girls, a few nosy ones at the window, their hands cupping the glass, Chelsea in the background holding up a champagne bottle. Brett’s friends, the same men who were there the night I was rescued, are scattered throughout the room, one ... I squint ... mid-kiss with Megan? I stifle a smile and turn back to my future husband.
“Yes, Brett. Forever.”
He pumps his fist in the air, and everyone inside jumps up and cheers, the muffled cry passing through the glass to us. I jog a few steps, catching up, and let him pull me against his side.
The word ‘tight’ has twenty-two definitions, but my favorite is Webster’s fifth - “a bond which cannot be broken.” We had survived secrets, suspicions, and separation, and perhaps been strengthened by all of it in some ways. Once he broke down and told me about Elyse, it all made sense. My suspicions found their answers and he found my trust. Now, we had no secrets, and a vow to never keep any. He had saved me from hell, and healed me back to life, all in less than two years. We were one unit and not only could our bond not be broken, it would only strengthen with time.
1 year, 5 months after rescue
I spent the last week before my imprisonment thinking that Brett was running drugs. Spent the first few months in Carlos Menas’ basement of the same opinion. Somewhere, in between the sessions and the erosion of my mind, I stopped thinking about the bad and focused only on the good. I stopped caring whether Brett was involved in an illegal drug ring and started caring only about us. Whether our love was strong enough. Whether he would love me for me. Whether the teeth that had been pulled from my jaw reached him and my father or whether they simply settled into the kitchen trash of Menas’ home, a lesson in psychology and nothing more.
The police did find my teeth in their search of his home. They were bagged, tagged, and put in neat order next to the other exhibits. Photos of me. Recordings. My sketches. My early journal entries. Everything laid out in perfect organization next to his interviews. It made a stunning exhibit at his trial.
Carlos Menas ended up getting a twenty-four year sentence. He will be released from prison around his seventieth birthday. Brett, to this day, curses himself for not killing the man.
I moved to south Florida a month or so after my rescue, much to the chagrin of my friends. I am happy here, happy anywhere that is in arms reach of this man. I now work in the rehabilitation house, with the slaves that Brett rescues. I can relate to these women, can understand their struggle. Am taking classes in psychology in hopes of helping them more. My father, after being cleared from charges of assault against Menas, has also joined the rescue business. He works with law enforcement, feeding them information we are gleaning from the girls, and they are taking down as many of the trafficking operations as possible. While Brett’s practices might be frowned upon in the States, the Central American countries are turning a blind eye to any questionable methods, and accepting our funding and information with open arms. To date, we’ve taken down five traders and - with Brett’s previous tally included - saved over twelve hundred women. It will never be enough, there will always be monsters, there will always be missing women. But it is the best therapy I could ever have, the best use of my life I could ever wish for.
A part of me died in that cell, in my life as Kitten.
But another part of me was born. Grew. Held onto the love in my heart and fought back, was freed, became a woman who married a man. A woman who reclaimed her life. And today, at 2:21 PM, a woman who gave birth to a baby girl. I look down at my new purpose in life and smile. Gently squeeze her against my chest and feel the sigh of her breath. Our baby. Elyse Riley Betschart. I glance over at my husband and see the fear in his eyes. His level of love scares him. Our happiness scares him. He has gone so long with loss that I don’t think he knows how not to fear, how not to worry. I reach out my hand and he grabs it. Holds it tight.
THE END
I drop to my knees before him and wrap my arms around him. “Yes,” I say in a giant marshmallow hug of material. “I don’t need to see it. Yes.”
He squeezes me so tightly I laugh, his arms managing to lift us both up to standing. “Forever?” he asks, setting me down and stepping back, pulling me up the hill, towards the house. Through the glass, I see my girls, a few nosy ones at the window, their hands cupping the glass, Chelsea in the background holding up a champagne bottle. Brett’s friends, the same men who were there the night I was rescued, are scattered throughout the room, one ... I squint ... mid-kiss with Megan? I stifle a smile and turn back to my future husband.
“Yes, Brett. Forever.”
He pumps his fist in the air, and everyone inside jumps up and cheers, the muffled cry passing through the glass to us. I jog a few steps, catching up, and let him pull me against his side.
The word ‘tight’ has twenty-two definitions, but my favorite is Webster’s fifth - “a bond which cannot be broken.” We had survived secrets, suspicions, and separation, and perhaps been strengthened by all of it in some ways. Once he broke down and told me about Elyse, it all made sense. My suspicions found their answers and he found my trust. Now, we had no secrets, and a vow to never keep any. He had saved me from hell, and healed me back to life, all in less than two years. We were one unit and not only could our bond not be broken, it would only strengthen with time.
1 year, 5 months after rescue
I spent the last week before my imprisonment thinking that Brett was running drugs. Spent the first few months in Carlos Menas’ basement of the same opinion. Somewhere, in between the sessions and the erosion of my mind, I stopped thinking about the bad and focused only on the good. I stopped caring whether Brett was involved in an illegal drug ring and started caring only about us. Whether our love was strong enough. Whether he would love me for me. Whether the teeth that had been pulled from my jaw reached him and my father or whether they simply settled into the kitchen trash of Menas’ home, a lesson in psychology and nothing more.
The police did find my teeth in their search of his home. They were bagged, tagged, and put in neat order next to the other exhibits. Photos of me. Recordings. My sketches. My early journal entries. Everything laid out in perfect organization next to his interviews. It made a stunning exhibit at his trial.
Carlos Menas ended up getting a twenty-four year sentence. He will be released from prison around his seventieth birthday. Brett, to this day, curses himself for not killing the man.
I moved to south Florida a month or so after my rescue, much to the chagrin of my friends. I am happy here, happy anywhere that is in arms reach of this man. I now work in the rehabilitation house, with the slaves that Brett rescues. I can relate to these women, can understand their struggle. Am taking classes in psychology in hopes of helping them more. My father, after being cleared from charges of assault against Menas, has also joined the rescue business. He works with law enforcement, feeding them information we are gleaning from the girls, and they are taking down as many of the trafficking operations as possible. While Brett’s practices might be frowned upon in the States, the Central American countries are turning a blind eye to any questionable methods, and accepting our funding and information with open arms. To date, we’ve taken down five traders and - with Brett’s previous tally included - saved over twelve hundred women. It will never be enough, there will always be monsters, there will always be missing women. But it is the best therapy I could ever have, the best use of my life I could ever wish for.
A part of me died in that cell, in my life as Kitten.
But another part of me was born. Grew. Held onto the love in my heart and fought back, was freed, became a woman who married a man. A woman who reclaimed her life. And today, at 2:21 PM, a woman who gave birth to a baby girl. I look down at my new purpose in life and smile. Gently squeeze her against my chest and feel the sigh of her breath. Our baby. Elyse Riley Betschart. I glance over at my husband and see the fear in his eyes. His level of love scares him. Our happiness scares him. He has gone so long with loss that I don’t think he knows how not to fear, how not to worry. I reach out my hand and he grabs it. Holds it tight.
THE END
