TRIGGER WARNING: CONVERSION THERAPY & SEXUAL ASSAULT

Author's Note: While it is a brutally painful chapter that is uncomfortable and enraging to read, it's realistic. It's necessary. As someone who has been affected by conversion therapy and rape, please know I am not making light of or glorifying either.

Five Years, Four months, and Four Days Ago

I force myself to swallow the mushy apple, following it with a gulp of lukewarm water, which tastes vaguely of dust. 

I have been here for about four months now. 'Here' is a place called Mercy's Grasp. It's a conversion camp run by a group of religious wack jobs that believe they can 'cure' homosexuality. And by cure, I mean torture the poor souls trapped here until they are broken beyond recognition, willing to say whatever they have to in order to be spared the heinous acts being passed off as treatment. They deny their very identities to preserve their well being. I don’t blame them one bit.

More than one of the people I've met here have taken their own lives, consumed by burning self-loathing forced on them by the dumbasses who think owning a white coat makes them a medical professional. The people who run the camp claim that those who took their own lives were so grief-stricken when they saw how far they had fallen from grace that they decided they just didn't want to be alive anymore. It makes my blood boil whenever anyone makes a comment like that, because they couldn’t get farther from the truth.

That's why I refuse to let them break me. I will continue to be true to myself for the lives this place has claimed. I will break out of here, and I will continue to be who I am. I glare at the faded pink tray in front of me, crumbs and the rotten apple core are the only thing remaining. 

"Miss Murrows." The hair on the back of my neck stands on end when I hear that voice. I know exactly what's coming. I turn to see a man with round, black rimmed glasses standing behind me. Two of the 'helpers', see: orderlies, flank him, one on either side. He wears khakis that are held up by a shit brown, fake leather belt. The golden buckle gleams dully in the fluorescent lights. He paired his ugly pants with an even uglier short sleeved blue polo. It's a waffled material that has a lopsided collar which comes down into a v-neck secured by three large plastic buttons. 

"What do you want, Doug?" I snarl his name, not having to force the menace that saturates my voice. He peers at me, disinterested as always. His bright white hair is clumped together-he used too much product again. Through the greasy, thinning mop of stringy snow on top of his head, I can see his bald spot. He started wearing his hair like this after I made a comment about how I could probably see myself in said bald spot in the right light. I found my comment extremely amusing. He, on the other hand, did not. 

"It's time for your healing." He pushes his glasses up with his weirdly large thumb, the nail cracked and yellowing. His phrasing is so cringey. I roll my eyes, turning back to stare at my tray. The two orderlies grab me roughly by my biceps, adding what will be yet another layer of bruises to my arms. They drag me off the bench, turning me to face the faux doctor. "Still not willing to cooperate, I see." He shakes his head, like a parent that's tired of their unruly toddler's misbehavior.

"Fuck you." I growl. He isn't surprised by my hostility. 

"Miss Murrows, this is a place of healing and peace, so I must encourage you to refrain from using such foul language." He drones. He says the same thing to me every time I cuss. I think it's scripted, like one of those automated robo calls that try to con you into a pyramid scheme or something far more sinister-like car insurance. He turns on his heel, his worn loafers silently slap against the floor. The so-called helpers drag me along after him. As we walk, I stare at the cloth belt that came as part of his lab coat as it sways with every step.

I can't decide which is whiter, his dress up doctor's coat, or his hair. As I'm escorted to one of the treatment rooms, I settle on the decision that his hair is the correct answer. 

The two large men direct me to the bed in the room. It's a regular twin sized mattress covered in a ratty grey sheet. There are restraints waiting to trap whoever is unlucky enough to find themselves in the room, keeping them pinned to the bed like a rodent to fly paper.

"Go ahead and strip her down, boys." Doug, or Dr. Ensell as he's so desperate for me to call him, instructs. He's my head doctor in this hell hole. All female patients are only allowed to have male care providers, and vice versa. It makes sense when you think about what they're trying to accomplish here. 

I remain silent as I'm pulled to my feet, my guards making quick work of removing the dirty scrubs I had been wearing. They easily maneuver their hands, working around my shirt, so they each have a firm grasp of me at all times. My pants and top come off and are discarded carelessly on the floor. I'm left as naked as the day I was born, since they don't allow us to wear underwear here. Doug eyes me hungrily, licking his lips like a cartoon villain. I know the truth, though. This man is truly evil. He may not look it, but once you get past his outward appearance, you come to know the truly malicious man that he is. 

"Tie her down." He sounds giddy. I let the orderlies secure my wrists and ankles in the worn leather and cloth cuffs. They each squat and tighten the fastenings, before heading into the hall to guard the door in case I attempt a daring escape. The sound of the lock engaging makes nausea stir in my gut.

My legs are pulled wide, exposing me to the self-proclaimed doctor. I have nothing left to hide-Doug has seen me completely bare during some of our previous 'treatment' sessions. My eyes track him as he moves to the other side of the room where a cheap folding chair and wall mounted hooks wait for his own clothes. He sheds his layers, hanging his white coat of lies on the hook reverently. His polo and undershirt are laid gently over the back of the chair, while his pants and boxers are neatly folded and set on the seat. His shoes are tucked under the chair, protected by the four plastic legs. 

He turns and gazes at me lustfully, his pot belly covered in unkempt grey hair. I force a gag down. He waddles over to the bed and I see that he isn't fully naked. No, he still has his socks on. They come a quarter of the way up his shin, bulging at the sheer volume of leg hair they're tasked with subduing. At one point in time, I truly believe they were white, but now they're a stained yellow, complete with a hole in the right big toe area. I can see his toenail through it. I notice it matches the color of his sock. It's enough to make me want to hurl. 

"Carter, you're so beautiful." He coos, attempting, and failing, to be seductive.

I've lost weight since I was brought here. The lack of decent food will do that. The small pooch of fat that gave me the illusion of hips is long gone. But hey, at least I finally figured out the secret to getting and keeping a flat stomach. Are you picking up on my sarcasm here?

He approaches my bed, his eyes grazing over me. He has these beady, shit-brown orbs that are far too small for his face. They're nothing like Bec's large, deep, warm eyes that I'd always get lost in. Just thinking about her hurts. 

Doug doesn't waste anymore time with talking. He mounts the bed, straddling me. His dick is withered and dusty. Yet, it stands at full mast dutifully. He positions himself at my entrance, forcing himself inside dry. I grit my teeth against the pain. Squeezing my eyes shut, I force my mind to wander-anything to escape my current reality.

While Doug is pumping away, wheezing all the while, I retreat into my mind, thinking about all that has happened since I arrived here.

The officers handcuffed me and brought me here in the back of their cruiser, my parents' pastor following in his expensive Escalade. He talked to the owner of the facility, who he is apparently friends with, while I was released and ushered away by the intake staff. They stripped me and searched me thoroughly, forcing me into the itchy scrubs mandated for all 'guests', aka patients, prisoners, whatever you want to call us, that are stuck here. The two orderlies that manhandled me earlier were the ones to drag me to my room. I was bucking and kicking and screaming, tears making seeing clearly impossible. Doug gave me a sedative injection soon after I was locked inside. I'm not sure how long I slept, but when I woke up, the 'healing' as Doug puts it, began immediately. 

My treatment plan includes sex therapy, see: rape; aversion therapy, which includes me being forced to watch lesbian porn while being shocked or after being given a drug that induces nausea and vomiting; psychoanalysis; food and water deprivation; isolation; beatings; and good, old fashioned prayer. Sometimes, Doug even involves some of the other male patients. He calls it 'mutually beneficial healing'. I call it sick. 

In the last four months, I've fought through all their tortures, never losing sight of who I am. I think about Bec often, I wonder if she's okay. I've changed while I've been here, just not the way they want me to change. I started to channel my best friend's tough, give no fucks, attitude. I honestly think that's the reason I've survived. I graduated high school, which was a dull affair. No cap and gown for me. I didn't even get to see my diploma-it was mailed directly to my parents' house.

Because of my continued unwillingness to cooperate, Doug told me I could be here for years at this rate. I have to find a way to escape.

A particularly painful thrust snaps me back to reality. I can't stop the gasp that escapes my chapped lips, my eyes flying open.

"That's it. Just enjoy it, gorgeous." Doug mistakes my pain for pleasure. He leans down and kisses me, forcing his tongue into my mouth. I once again force back a gag. He tastes like fish and I can smell his rotten musk. I close my eyes again, desperate to flee this waking nightmare.

Go with it.

My eyes are open wide. That voice-it was Bec's. I'm sure of it.

Carter, just go with it. Fake it. 

There's no denying it. That familiar tone-it's hers for sure. She's not here, though.

Of course I am, Beautiful. I'm always with you, even if it isn't physically.

I fight back the tears that are burning the corners of my eyes.

Listen, I can't be there to save your ass anymore. You have to save yourself. You have to lie and fake it. You have to do whatever it takes to escape.

She's right. I can't survive here much longer if something doesn’t change. 

I love you. 

This time, the thought is mine. I direct it at her body-less voice.

I love you, too, Butterfly. Now man up, bitch.

I swear I hear her laugh. Then, it's once again silent in my head. I can't stop the smile that spreads on my mouth.

"That's it, baby. I knew you liked this." Doug is so clueless. "You couldn't fool me." He has sweat beading on his forehead, his face red. I just keep smiling as he pumps in and out, wearing himself out.

I'll let him think that he's been right, that the treatments are working. I'll let him think I'm playing his game.

Meanwhile, he'll be playing mine. 

And he's going to lose.