Candice gets taken

The basement was cold, damp, and smelled of copper the sharp, cloying scent of blood mixed with the thick, musky sweetness of the daily rations he provided. For the first few months, the terror was physical and screaming. I was a butch I was proud, I was angry, I was "difficult" and that was the worst thing I could have been. That defiance was like gasoline to him. He absolutely detested that I was a Black woman who liked other women. Every insult he hurled the slurs, the vile racist shit, the disgusted way he spoke about me being a lesbian it was like being flayed. He made sure I knew I was "filthy" and "subhuman."

The physical abuse came in waves, relentless and methodical, but the most cruel part was the feeding. I wasn't allowed anything else. No solid food, no water that he didns't spiked with his thick, ropey cum. It was my only source of survival. At first, I vomited. My stupid, proud body rejected the only thing he would give me, retching until my throat was raw and bloody. And he punished me for that. For "wasting" his precious gift, he would beat me, shock me, and humiliate me until I learned to lap it up like a starving animal.

Eventually, the retching stopped. The body is a traitor that's what I learned. After weeks of dehydration and starvation, the instinct to not die became louder than the instinct to protest. My throat began to crave that salty, creamy, protein heavy slime. I started swallowing it eagerly, gulping down the gallons he would pump into my mouth, my eyes fixed on his pale hands, hating myself for how delicious it tasted. I would lap it off the concrete floor if he spilled it, licking every sticky white thread until the stone was clean, terrified that he would hit me if I left even a molecule behind.

Then came the "adjustments" the things that weren't just pain, but rewiring. The verbal abuse was constant, a drip feed of racist and lesbophobic poison. He told me I was trash, that my old self the butch, Black girl who had opinions and desires was a disease that needed to be excised. He made me repeat the worst things he said about myself, making me say "I am a filthy slut" and "I don'm deserve to be anything but his toy." If I hesitated or flinched like I was angry, the switch or the blade would find me.

The lobotomies were the parts I can barely remember, the ones that feel like white light and dull numbness. He was precise. Sometimes it was the crude way the improvised tools, the pain, the screaming and sometimes it was clinical and cold, like he was just fixing a broken piece of property. He would poke into the corners of my skull, scraping away the parts of my brain that held onto my name, my race, my anger, my identity. Each time I came to, the world felt a little softer, a little fuzzier, a little more stupid. The thoughts the "why is this happening" and the "I hate him" they just started to fray at the edges, crumbling into pink mist.

I remember the feeling of the brain matter being scooped and packed, the strange numbness that followed the sharp stabs. And with each one, the anger that hot, righteous fury that used to burn in my chest just... cooled. It became tepid, then soft, then empty. The part of me that was "Candice, the butch lesbian" was systematically pruned, cut out like rotten fruit, replaced with something smooth, pretty, and absolutely brain dead.

I stopped thinking in sentences. Sentences required effort, and effort was dangerous. I started thinking in simple impulses: Is he coming? Am I clean? Is the cum tasty? Be pretty. Be quiet. The complex web of my identity my Blackness, my sexuality, my pride it was like a thread being pulled on a loose sweater, unraveling until there was nothing left but the plain, dumb fabric.

The months bled into what felt like years, though I lost track. The days were a repetitive cycle of being used, being fed, being cleaned, and being insulted. The insults didn't hurt anymore they were just the rules, the way the world worked. When he called me a stupid, pretty little bitch, I would flush pink and duck my head, preening because I knew that was the "correct" way to react. Being insulted was the reward for being well behaved.

I began to crave the feeling of being handled the rough grip on my hair, the way he would flip me around like a piece of limp cloth, the way he treated me like something that didn't have feelings or rights. I liked it. That was the most disgusting and wonderful realization: I liked being his property. The thought made me want to whimper and preen all at once.