I wake up sore all over and unable to move very much

I wake up, sore all over. I guess this is what I should feel after finally getting some proper rest after my ordeal. I lay there in the softness of the sheets, the blanket, the pillow cushioning my head, staring at the ceiling. Any movement now is met with resistance, as if someone has poured concrete through my veins and overnight, it has set. The soreness is more resistance than pain, though if I try to move something past the resistance, then pain is all I feel. I want to move, with the freedom to explore rather than be a fly on the wall, a constant observer, until I'm chosen to participate, against my will. I shake my head, in an attempt to jar my mind from thinking about the past three years. I cannot think about those moments, but I know this is trauma. If my muscles had any sense past this numbness, they would remember the ordeal, replaying it over and over again. I'll probably need some therapy, I'm sure.

I try to lift my arm just for the sake of lifting it and I hear a familiar voice warning me, “Ah, ah, ah, ah, ah,” simply a repeated sound rather than actual words. At least I can turn my gaze towards the voice, since it doesn't need the muscles in my neck to turn my head. Thankfully, the source of the voice enters my vision. “Good morning, miss...”

“Dev--” I try uttering my name, but find that my throat is dry.

“Don't strain yourself, girl. I know you want to get out of bed, but you're probably sore. Your body is going to need to get some food in order for the soreness to go away. Fortunately, my partner is making breakfast for us,” Elena says, placing a gentle hand on my wrist, rubbing it with light pressure. Her touch is easily able to calm me down and I nod in understanding, relaxing my body. Elena leaves me, only to come back with a tray of food. She helps me get into a position where I'm sitting up, supported by pillows behind my back. The tray that she brought actually has legs that when extended, can be put above my thighs.

I don't remember the last time I had breakfast in bed, but whatever memory I may or may not have, it puts a smile on my face. At least Elena sees it and makes it known to me. Before me are two plates. The first has crispy bacon with two eggs, cooked over medium, and the second has a large Belgian waffle, dusted with powdered sugar and fresh fruits. On the side is salt and pepper for the eggs and syrup and butter for the waffle.

Motivated by the sight of food, I try lifting my arms to pick up the utensils provided, but I find the resistance too great to overcome. Again, Elena comes to the rescue, her soft gentle hands planting themselves on my arms. “Just rest, I'll go ahead and feed you,” she tells me and I rest my hands underneath the propped-up tray.

She prepares bites sized portions of the bacon and the eggs. All I can manage is watching the majestic yellow yolks breaking under the pressure of the knife and fork, the runny deluge of yolk bursting and blanketing the flat of the plate. She seasons the mash of egg with salt and a dash of pepper, before preparing a spoonful topped with a piece of bacon. She feeds me the bite and I open my mouth wide to accept it. I'm glad that the spoon can enter my mouth with no hindrance and I'm also able to close my jaws down to keep the foodstuffs in my mouth to chew it. I find that there is a degree of soreness in my neck, but not so much in my jaw and without much trouble, I'm able to digest my food, even savor the saltiness, before swallowing. I can't remember the last time I had some proper food in my mouth nor have I felt satisfied by anything sliding down my throat and into my stomach. I wonder if I was ever malnourished in my captivity, but Elena's massage of my wrist breaks me away from any thought dwelling on that negative place.

I guess I had a good appetite despite my restricted range of motion. I'm halfway through the sweet, sugary goodness of the waffle when there is a knock at the door. “Come in,” Elena says. The door swings wide while I'm In the middle of a bite.

“How's she doing?” a male voice asks and I open my eyes to reveal to myself Elena's partner. I don't know what happens, but the sight of the man's face is something so familiar that I lose any sense to keep chewing. It can't be, I say to myself, but as I do, I somehow **** on the food on my mouth. I cough and cough, like the morsels still in my mouth had slid down the wrong pipe.

“Are you okay?” Elena asks, but the man is quick to react.

In his hands is a glass of water, which he brings to my mouth with a guiding voice, “Here, here, drink.” I sip the ice-cold liquid, washing out my mouth and soothing my throat from any half-swallowed bits of food. I look up at the man's face and I feel a tear escape the confines on one of my eyes. The man rights the cup, making sure not to allow any to spill on the blanket. “Better?”

I nod and recline against the pillows behind me. “I'm going to guess that you're finished. I'll get this cleaned up. You can watch some TV while you rest your stomach. After a while, you can lay yourself back down to rest,” Elena advises. She leaves, with the man in tow. Before he leaves, he places the glass of water on the nightstand. Looking at him more than a second seems sacrilegious and inappropriate for me, so I drop my gaze, until he is out of my sight.

The TV is turned on, a movie playing on the screen, but considering what had just happened, I'm not too interested in the film. My hand rises to my chest and I feel my heart racing. Did I just see who I just saw just now? I ask myself. There was no mistaking the face on that man. He... he's my father. This house is his house and I'm sort of glad that I had the sense to come here in the first place.

I recognized him, but he sure did not recognize me. So this a good thing, for now, I hope. I lay there awake, unable to move without putting my body in pain. Staring at the ceiling, my rind races on all the possibilities and outcomes this can come from. Most probably, Elena could use the DNA she got from my cheek and immediately find no match with anyone they have on file. There is the possibility that she could match to missing persons and eventually match it to an 18-year-old boy who was kidnapped 3 years ago. Who knew how frequent my father would enter the master bedroom to visit me? I wouldn't be able to do anything, if he tried anything. I didn't take him to be one who took advantage of girls who were the same age as his son, though I have only two instances of his contact with me in this body. And just what happened to him and mother in the last three years in my absence? Where was Mom? Why does it seem Elena took her place in the household?

I then hear a shuffle in the hallway and immediately, I close my eyes to make whoever comes in think I had already fallen asleep. I hear Elena's voice say, “She's in here.” Glad that it's her, I open my eyes and wait for her entrance. “Miss?” she asks upon her entering the door. I turn my head to find her walking in with a police officer. He looks younger than her by ten years like a guy straight out from the academy. “This is Officer Carlisle. He is here to ask you some questions. I will leave you two you alone, but I'll be nearby, so just holler if you need anything.”

Elena leaves and Officer Carlisle takes a seat in a chair, making himself comfortable. He takes out a notepad from his jacket pocket and opens it. From another pocket, he produces a pen, which he clicks to activate it. He pus the pen to the paper and starts, “Let's begin with your name.”

“De-De-Dev,” I start, but find it hard to form words. I instinctively go for the glass of water on the nightstand and the officer sees me struggling and offers to help. He takes the glass of water and brings it to my lips. I take a swig of the water, letting it hydrate my throat and clear it anything I have eaten earlier. I nod, giving him a signal that I'm okay, to which he sets the glass of water back down on the nightstand. He returns to his seat and resumes his notetaking. I finally utter, “Devon.”

“Alright, Devon. I hear from Elena that you somehow stumbled upon this house last night. Can you care to tell me in detail the trail of events of that night,” he starts. I tell him as best as I could without emotional delving into what the man did to me. I **** up a few times, but soon start over again as I regain composure. “Alright, do you know this place you came from? Were you able to tell where you were going as you escaped? Anything you make have come across, like mile markers, road signs, points of reference?”

Going back to that night, as I navigated the cold and the rain, key elements that witness on my escape. I recall and tell the officer I did not see anything significant until I came across a road. It wasn't a busy road, but I could hear there was cars driving fast, as if on a highway, near my position. I remember having to duck behind a metal sign that unfortunately, I wasn't able to observe for that long. “It had the numbers, 10, 20, 22... in that order,” I utter, thinking hard to remember. “Preserve... Preserve...” I add, remembering that I had seen the word multiple times, but not exactly where I had seen it.

“And why this house? Did you choose at random? Or did you deduce if they were people at home by the lights that were on or the cars in the driveway?” Officer Carlisle resumes his questioning. I tell him that I did not choose at random. I chose the house because I remembered living here once before. I don't tell him that I specifically lived here prior to me being taken. “Alright, let us go back to that place. Are you able to tell me what happened? How were you imprisoned? And I think Detective Elena mentioned that there were others?”

“There were two others, an Asian girl and a white girl with blonde hair,” I tell him, closing my eyes to recollect those moments where I had limited contact with them. I recall how he'd chain two of us up when he took the third past the door. We could only hear the screams from the girl and could even feel the vibrations of the man's activity in the next room. I tell him we would scream for help, but nobody could come to rescue us. We felt that it was no use and stopped out attempts when we would receive more punishments for us being loud.

“Alright Miss Devon. We can stop there. I think I have enough to go on. I'll go and let you rest,” Officer Carlisle says and I take a deep breath and close my eyes, resting from all the memories I had to recall. I hear him put his notepad away and get to his feet, but suddenly feel him walk near the bed. Subtly, I feel his hand at the buttons of the shirt I'm wearing, popping one so that he could slip his hand underneath and cup one of my breasts.

His hand is cold upon my flesh and I at once speak up to protest. My voice is weak and low in volume, “Stop it.” When he doesn't leave my body and even moves to pinch my nipple, I try to raise my voice. “Please, stop it. Help!”

I suddenly feel vibrations barreling from the hallway. The door bursts open and in comes a mass of a man. I find my eyes are still closed when the two bodies collide and in the scuffle, words are exchanged that is not friendly. Before I could realize the extent of what has happened, I open my eyes to discover that the owner of the house, my father, had forcibly escorted the officer out of the room, down the stairs, and out of the house.

I hear footsteps return and in comes my father, cooling down from his rage. “Are you okay? He didn't hurt you, did he?” he asks, using his softer voice.

“No, I'm okay,” I utter, finding that the moment has me breathing hard and thus, my voice is a bit shaky.

“Are you sure you're okay? You have a mighty tight grip on my wrist there.” When he says this I look up to see my hand gripping his wrist quite tightly, as he had placed weighted hands upon the mattress.