He chased after me, hammering on the door with his fists. My heart was pounding so hard I thought it was about to burst out of my chest. I looked around the bathroom, not really knowing what I was searching for, but my blind panic was pushing me to find something. Then my eyes found it. I had left my bag on the bathroom floor when we checked in. Remembering my phone was in the front pocket, I dived on it, tucking myself between the toilet and the bath, sinking as low as I could and wishing it would be enough to make me invisible.
I did the only thing my horror-filled brain could think of, knowing it wouldn’t be long before he tried breaking the door down.
I texted Amy. I told her where I was, the room number, and that I was terrified of what he was going to do. I said if she didn’t hear from me in the next ten minutes that she needed to help me. Realistically, I had no idea what I thought Amy was going to be able to do. I just knew I had to try something.
When the sound of Ollie pounding on the door again snapped me back to reality, I fired off another quick text saying, ‘I think he’s going to kill me’. I probably scared the shit out of her with it. At that moment, I shut down. I never saw her reply; I fired the phone back into the pocket of the bag. There was nothing that I could do to prevent what was coming. I had nothing to defend myself with, I didn’t think I could overpower him for long enough to get to the door and get out. I let out he breath that I had been holding, closed my eyes, offering a silent prayer to anyone that was listening.
Then I waited for that split second to pass until the lock on the bathroom door finally gave in, and Ollie barrelled through it and reached me.
His hand went straight into my hair, and he pulled hard, dragging me towards him. His rage and fury poured out of him in every move he made and every word he uttered. It started with him throwing punches to the side of my head. He yanked me hard out into the middle of the bedroom.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he shouted as he threw me on the floor and started kicking my stomach and ribs.
“You think you’re so fucking special, don’t you? You fucking frigid queer!” he taunted. “You’re just a fucking foster brat! You’re nothing. You’ll never be anything.”
I heard what he said, and some part of me was cut by it, but right then, in that moment, I couldn’t think about it. I was focused on just one thing. Survival. I curled up in a ball, trying as best I could to take the force of his fists and feet on my arms and legs instead of my face and ribs.
I had never been a remotely religious person; being abandoned by your own mother goes a long way towards questioning the existence of any kind of higher power. But in that moment, I prayed to God that Ollie wouldn’t kill me.
He hauled me back up onto the bed, spreading me out the way he had before. I was too terrified to fight him this time; he had already broken down a door to get to me and had started to beat the shit out of me on the floor. My sense of self-preservation kicked in, and I lay there as he rammed himself into my ass.
When I cried out, he punched me again on the side of my head, so hard that he burst my eardrum. I could feel a trickle of something warm fluid flowing from my ear. I remember him pulling out and manhandling me over onto my back, his hands gripping at my hips like a vice. My mind had started to disconnect from what was happening with my body in an attempt to limit the trauma it was being subjected to. It got to the point where, when he asked me something, I didn’t realise. I had mentally shut down and he started to punch me again.
He told me what a worthless little bitch I was. He went on about how I had been in care, and how my other mother hadn’t wanted me. He said I was nothing. He said I didn’t know how lucky I was that someone like him wanted to even come near me. He shouted in my face about how I didn’t respect him, and how he was going to have to teach me a lesson.
His clammy hands went around my throat, and he began to squeeze. I screamed. I couldn’t just disappear out of the world without a sound. I wanted him to be worried that someone would hear me and come to see what was happening.
He let go of my throat and started landing punches against my face again: hard, bone-cracking blows, over and over. My eyes were swollen to the point where I could barely see at all. One eye was completely closed, the other barely a slit; my face was on fire with pain and swelling. Once he had convinced himself I was subdued enough and wasn’t going to make any further protests to what he was doing, he put his hands around my neck.
With his hands clamped around my throat, leaving me fighting for breath, he again took a sadistic delight in putting his dick back inside me, fucking me without mercy as he slapped and choked me. All the time he told me that was all I was good for, how much he knew that I wanted it, and how I was never going to leave him. The pressure on my neck was mercifully too much. It cut off my air supply and I passed out. Blackness took me, and my final thought was wondering if this was what it felt like to die.