Mr. Troll* beat and drilled it into me that I was not supposed to talk about any of this but above all else there was one thing that I was never ever supposed to say. That even if some of the other stuff came out, I was not supposed to say he was molesting me. Even as I am writing this blog, I find myself still trying not to talk about the molestation. I have to tell it all now. When we got into the house in Michigan, Mr. Troll grabbed and wrenched my arm, leaving a huge bruise on my already bruised arm, hauled me to an empty room, and threw me to the floor, causing even more pain. He started yelling at me that it was very bad of me to try to run away. He claimed he was punishing me for being bad. He told me that if I tried to run away again, I would be brought back and punished for it. He beat me: grabbing me by the shoulders and shaking me and hitting my chest and arms. Furious, I tried to fight back, hitting and kicking at him. In the fight I wet myself as I sometimes did when he beat me or we fought. He left me locked alone in the room without food, water, or a bathroom. I was even more furious. I had nothing in the room, no other clothes. There were no lights, windows, or furniture, only darkness.
After several hours he came back and attacked me again by hitting my chest, shaking me, and pinching my chest and arms. He made me drink some water and yelled at me again about how bad I was. He told me that parents need to discipline their children, especially the bad ones. He kept repeating “your runaway attempt was because your bad and you can’t change.” He still didn’t feed me anything. Most of the time when I tried to sleep, he came in banging two pans together and yelling at me to wake up. He shook and hit me again. Bruises formed on bruises and I hated him for what he did to me. Mrs. Troll* was nowhere to be seen or heard during this and the same goes for the Troll* siblings. I have no idea where they were.
Later, when he did feed me, the food had the bad taste that always led to sickness and hyper-panic. He shook and hit me repeatedly again, telling me not to be angry with him for disciplining me. The only food he brought me while he kept me locked in the room was poisoned and meager. Even sick and panicking I hated him and was furious.
Without any way to keep track of time, I think it was on the third day he sexually molested me. My clothes were disgusting from wetting myself, the sweating from the poison and fighting him, and not being able to wash or clean up. I had to get them off me even though I had nothing else to change into and I still felt gross. He came into the room and shook me and started running his hands over my chest telling me to be good and not fight him. He started pinching my nipples and saying things like “it feels good” and “it feels right.” Then he started pinching my labia telling me to be good and be quiet. He took my hand and put it on his crotch over his pants and rubbed my hand against him. He also smelled bad which was revolting. (He always smelled like stale alcohol and sweat and something rotting) He unfastened his pants and pulled out his mostly erect cock, rubbing my hand against it again. I thought he was peeing when he ejaculated on the floor as we were standing there, a strange whitish pee that didn’t smell like pee, but was even more gross and revolting. He kept telling me to be good and don’t talk about it.
Later, I’m not sure how much, during a poison panic attack, he told me I was bad for talking to that woman at the airport and especially bad for talking about “The Family.” This reflected badly on “The Family” and that I should keep my mouth shut. Over what I can only assume was the next few days that he kept me locked in the room, he continued hitting, shaking, pinching, and poisoning me. He molested me a second time saying it was good, it was right, don’t fight, and be good. I was sickened and revolted by him.
After about a week or so, no bathroom or shower, starved, sleep-deprived, soiled, and molested, he pulled me out of the room and took me into the bathroom to “clean me up.” He ran his hands over me in the tub, rubbing and pinching my nipples and labia, telling he was taking care of me and not to fight him. He put clean pajamas on me and took me to the kitchen to feed me, still not feeding me enough. Then he took me into the master bedroom and put me down on his bed telling me to go ahead and sleep as long as I could. I was sick, weak, and dizzy with an arm that still hurt from being wrenched and covered in bruises. They should have taken me to a doctor.
This entire time I did not see or hear Mrs. Troll. I finally saw her again when I woke up in their bed still in pain, starving and very weak, barely able to move. She was in the room putting away some clothes, busy-bodying. When she saw that I was awake she told me “this is all your fault for “acting up” at the airport.” She looked nervous and kept her distance from me. She hurriedly finished what she was doing and left the room. After about an hour I felt strong enough to leave the room. I had to get out of their room. I was afraid he would come back and molest me while I was sleeping or resting in his room on his bed. I felt trapped in his house but was afraid of what would happen if I tried to run away.
*Troll should have been his last name but unfortunately was not.
|
