Alright this is just a story that I came up with. I may or may not continue it. It is rated M. This is for a reason. Rape, torture, language, and other crap that comes from my twisted mind. It is not from any story, or show, or anything like that. Any characters that are recognizable, I did not mean to copy. Any recognizable characters belong to whoever created them. This is a twisted story and may be triggering. If you feel that anything will do this, DO NOT READ THIS STORY. If this story causes anyone to do anything, that is their fault as I included warnings. I debated whether or not I should post this, but I would like feedback on how people feel that I write. If you read this, and feel like commenting, do so. Even if it to say that I am a shitty writer and should never write again. Nothing you can say will hurt my feelings, as I asked for feedback.

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I must say. It wasn't supposed to go this far. But I sure am glad it did.

It started as a desire to get free. To get a few hours of freedom.

And you see, I had gotten free, but the whole situation devolved into something more dangerous than I of had thought it would. I just wanted to be free of my husband.

My so called, husband, yeah, he could go die in a hole for all I care.

Oh. Wait. He did. I made damn sure of that.

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"My husband and I had been married for only two months before he started to show his true colors. I mean I guess I should have guessed what he was truly like.

He made an effort. At first. Just long enough to get me pregnant. He didn't know though.

Then he started working strange hours, and when he was home, he drank. A lot.

It began with a few beers a week. Then a few beers a night. Then spending hundreds per week for the good stuff. The vodka. It made him quite volatile.

Any little thing I did set him off. His food wasn't hot enough, it was too hot. The house wasn't clean enough. I wore a certain color that he didn't like. I was too loud.

At first he would scream or hit the wall. Then he started screaming and hitting me.

The first time, he slapped me across the face. After he hit me, he froze and just kind of stared at the hand that had hit me. Then it was almost like a light had turned on behind his eyes. When I saw that I started to turn and run. I wasn't fast enough.

He punched me so hard in the face it knocked me out. When I woke up I was still on the floor and he was standing over me. After that he started treating me like a slave. Beating me when he felt like it, torturing me, raping me, making me do all of the dangerous household tasks he could think of. I was afraid for my life and my child's. I was able to avoid his hits to the stomach.

Thankfully he was the head doctor at a hospital and had to work a lot. Since he could set his own hours, he decided he would only work nights. Eight at night to eight in the morning every night except Monday and Tuesdays.

I hate Mondays and Tuesdays now with a burning passion.

The best part about his job was that he couldn't miss a day. He had to be on time, and he couldn't leave early. Those were the nights I was free. After I did everything he left for me to do of course.

You might ask why I didn't just run away or call the cops. Well he disconnected the house phones and broke my cell phone. He also decided to board up the house and put heavy duty security locks on the doors. I didn't have the strength to take down or break the boards, and the locks were outside.

I couldn't leave during the day because he had convinced all of the neighbors that I was mentally unstable and couldn't go outside. They believed the doctor. Even my previous employers believed that I was unstable. He told them and they believed him. Especially when I stopped showing up.

I was afraid. For my life. For my child's life. To run. Of him.

Then one day, he got so drunk that he missed me when he went to punch me. He hit the board that covered one of the windows. The punch was so strong it knocked the board loose. He didn't even notice; he was that drunk. He hit me a few times then stumbled away to sleep off the alcohol. By that point I was on the floor, so I stood up (carefully because I think that he broke a few ribs that time) and fixed the board so that he wouldn't notice. Then I went to go clean the already clean house.

It took me two weeks to work up the courage to even look outside through the board. Then another week to actually go out. That, I would have to say, was probably the most terrifying day of my life at the time. I was terrified someone would see me, or that he would find out somehow. I was sure that he would kill me if he caught me.

I knew better than to stay around the neighborhood. Any of the idiots would call him in a heartbeat if they saw me. So I stayed hidden and got out of the neighborhood as soon as I could.

But I didn't run. I wouldn't have been able to keep myself alive if I did. I should have run. I should have known he would know. I should have."

Here I stop my story and began to sob. All I can think is that I should have left when I had the chance.

Kayla grabs me by the shoulders and whispers to me frantically, "Hey! HEY! You need to look at me and you need to be quiet. I hear them coming!"

I quickly shut up and wipe my face. I know better than to let them see me cry. They don't like when we cry and it makes the 'punishments' worse. There are four guards this time rather than the usual two so I know that someone is going to be taken. I hold little hope that it's not me. They always take me and one of the other girls for the punishment sessions. And I'm right. They grab me and one of the new girls who doesn't know how to shut up.

I feel sorry for her and a few of the others. They won't survive long here. I've been here so long that I have an instinct as to who the survivors are. I've been here the longest and know how it all works. I just hope for her sake that she doesn't survive this session. It will mean less pain for her. It's not like she would be the first one to die in front of me.

The sad thing isn't that I don't know her name. It's that I don't want to. I don't ask their name until they come back at least five times. Most of them don't survive that long so there is no point. And no one knows my name. They do call me Asha though. Ironic really. Kayla says that it means hope. Though why they think that I represent hope in this place leaves me astonished. They say that it is because I have survived for so long. They shouldn't hope to be here for as long as I have.

They all either die or get sold. The guards are supposed to train the girls to be sold, but sometimes they get eager, and the girls don't last that long. They are the lucky ones.

I was right. The new girl didn't last long. I would say she went the quickest of any I've seen. She was gone ten minutes in. Lucky bitch. So now I had the guards all to myself for the next however long they feel like. They must have been quite angry. They pulled out the brand this time. In addition to the barbed whip, rape, and the other usual fun goodies.

When I am taken back to the disgusting cell I now call home, I see that Kayla is shocked at how bad I look. She hadn't seen the brand used before. One of the new girls asks where the other girl, Sharon, she calls her, is.

"Dead. She went fast. They must have been training new guards. One of them hit her wrong and got her in an artery seven minutes in. She bled out in three even though they tried to keep her alive. The guard that got her was shot though. That made my day." I laugh bitterly.

As I am talking, the girl that asked begins crying and screams at me, "Do you even care?! My sister just died and you are alive and laughing! You're a fucking monster!"

I stop laughing. The other girls and Kayla volleyball their eyes between us. All of the girls stick together for the time they are here, and now there is a rift.

I snap.

"I know I'm a monster! What do you think happens when you've been here for two years and anytime they take someone for punishment, they also take you? What do you think happens when you see half of the girls who come through here die in front of you, and when they die, the guards take out their anger on you for having their fun taken away? What do you think happens when you have seen so much death and misery that you can't remember a time when you were happy? What do you think happens when your husband, who is supposed to love you, instead beats you and sells you to this hell hole?"

I decide to finish my story from earlier. MY story. Of how I got here. And why I shouldn't be a beacon of hope.

"He beat me unconscious one day. I woke up tied to our bed. The ties were quite secure. I could only lift up slightly. When I lifted myself up, I realized I was naked and in a shitload of pain. Numerous bruises, a lot cuts and I believe I had at least three broken bones. He had really gone to town on me. But none of that really sunk in over the large pool of blood around me. He had actually stabbed me in the stomach. Right where the baby was. I was pregnant and he killed my baby.

I must have gone into shock after seeing that because I don't remember anything after that until he slapped me in the face, bringing me to.

I think he expected me to fight or scream or cry. So when I just laid there he must have been surprised. If he was even capable of feeling anything other than sick pleasure at seeing me bleed.

He must have been extremely shocked when I calmly asked him, "Did you know? Is that why you stabbed me?"

"Know what? That you were sneaking out? That you are a dirty whore and don't deserve to live?"

"No. That I was pregnant."

"WHAT?! AND YOU DIDN'T TELL ME YOU FUCKING WHORE? WHAT THE FUCK?"

Here he just kind of went off on a rant about how useless I am, I think, but I wasn't really listening. An overwhelming grief had begun to sink in. And under that was a guilty sense of relief. At least I don't have to worry about keeping a child safe from that monster. And I don't ever have to worry about it again. Stabbing any female where he stabbed me would make them infertile. He told me himself. Well, more spat it into my face with a sick gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. Asshole.

I had been brought back out of my thoughts when I heard him say that at least he could make some money off me. I was about to ask what he meant when he said that, but I didn't have a chance.

He pulled out a syringe and injected me with whatever was in it. Whatever it was made me pass out. But not before I saw two men enter the room and saw my husband greet them like friends. And then I woke up in this hell hole and have been here since. So yeah I'm a monster. But we all are. You all now know how I got to be here and that I'm a monster. I don't care anymore." With that I collapse against the wall.

They know most of my story now. They can make what they want of it. I don't care anymore.

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It's been another month since I told my story. Kayla died two weeks ago. They didn't even torture her. They just…slaughtered… her in front of me. The guards realized that I was closer to her than any of the other girls. It's my fault that she is dead. My favorite guard of all time told me that.

He said that they killed her in front of me just to have an effect. They wanted me to scream and cry again. It didn't work though. Why would it? I don't feel much anymore.

Needless to say, I'm not getting close to any of the girls anymore. I'm not having any more deaths on my hands because I'm too close with a person.

I hear the girls talk about me sometimes. The older girls tell the newer girls my story. Then when the newer girls become the older girls, they pass my story on. They all know of Asha. The girl who never screamed. The girl who never made a sound anymore. The girl with no hope.

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If anyone wants me to continue this story, tell me. Let me know if anyone has any ideas on how this should go. I may or may not include them. Just let me know what you think.

Also Asha is an Indian name that comes from the Sanskrit word for hope.