Tears fill their eyes, spilling over, leaking to their rumpled clothes.
I wonder how long they've been here.
How long I've been here.
"Oh thank god," my dad exclaims, and I can practically see a weight lift from his shoulders. I blink at my family, unable to speak, but wanting to let them know I hear them. See them. "We were so scared, son. Looked for you for so long." Months. We’d been missing for months. But how many, I wonder. He holds my mother and Carmen tight as they close in, touching me but not. Their hands are shaky, nervous. I’m fragile. Damaged. It shows in their eyes. It shows in their breaths. "We were so scared we'd lost you. Lost you both. Oh, thank god you're alive." He's choked up. I've never seen my father cry before. But there he stands, tears spilling down his face.
He's always been the toughest guy I know.
Watching him break down wounds. Breaks an already broken heart.
I look back toward Evie. Continue to watch her breathe. Continue to watch her heart beat.
I am grateful for the presence of my family, but it's her I'm thinking about.
"She hasn't woken yet. But doctors are hopeful." The Sheriff's gruff voice fills my ears. I look at him, take in his tired eyes, eyes that while they don’t match my love’s in color, show the familial bond, and wait for him to continue. "They were weaning you off the meds. Should be any moment now, they say." He has always been a stoic man, I remember. But in this moment, he is vulnerable, beaten down. Like my parents, gray hair seems to have taken to his dark locks. His eyes are shining, tears spilling over them as he stands near the foot of Evie's bed, one of his hands lightly grazing one of her feet. He looks hopeful, though. So I allow myself to feel the same.
In the end, I'm glad it's him telling me this. I would think it a lie, if it had been my parents. That thought fills me with guilt. But I can’t deny its ugly truth.
I imagine they would try to keep me optimistic. Even if the reality was anything but.
Still, I feel sadness that I couldn't trust their voices.
That the moment, my experiences, allowed distrust.
But I can't dwell.
My love is alive. We are free. Now, all I need is for her to open those beautiful brown eyes and smile at me.
Our nightmare is over.
Finally.
SEVENTEEN
“A kind of light spread out from her. And everything changed color. And the world opened out. And a day was good to awaken to. And there were no limits to anything. And the people of the world were good and handsome. And I was not afraid any more.”
― John Steinbeck, East of Eden
Three days after my return to the world, Evie returned to me.
I can’t even explain the level of fear I felt during those three days of waiting. As amazing as it sounds, considering all that I’d experienced, they were nearly the worst days of my life. It didn’t matter if the doctors believed she’d wake. It didn’t matter that I “just had to be patient.” Waiting for it to actually happen was nearly my undoing.
“Caleb? She’s coming back to you. Okay? I need you to listen to me.” That was Carmen. The parents had just stepped out to grab a coffee. My sister had stayed behind with me. She was sitting beside me on the bed, trying to keep me from succumbing to a panic attack. I’d already experienced four since awakening. “You need to breathe. Evie will wake up and when she does, she’s going to need you. If she sees you falling apart, she’ll fall apart. And you heard Dr. Dillamen, you need to be calm.”
“She’s everything to me. I can’t lose her, Car,” I cried against my sister’s shoulder.
“I know. I know you can’t, sweetie. And you’re not going to.” She wiped my tears, shushed me gently. “I’ve been talking with her dad since this whole nightmare began; Evie is a tough girl. And she wouldn’t give up after all this. She’s coming back to you. She’s coming back to all of us. I need you to hang on okay?”
I nodded. I nodded and looked to my love through teary eyes. Gazed upon her with overwhelming hope that she’d wake soon. I needed her more than air. I needed her more than life.
So when those beautiful caramel eyes fluttered open. When Evie’s breath was her own and not the workings of a machine. Only then did my panic subside. Only then did I feel relief.
Only then did I take my own breath.
But that didn’t mean everything was okay.
She was disoriented. Scared. Untrusting of even her own father. Thought he was a hallucination.
“Caleb? Daddy?” Her voice was weak still, barely a whisper, but it was there all the same. And I felt my heart kick up its beat at seeing her awake, alive.
“It’s okay, baby girl. You’re okay. Caleb’s okay.” Sheriff Drake took Evie’s good hand, caressing it softly as he gazed down at her with tears streaming down his cheeks. I could hear my own family crying softly. We were all so very thankful she had woken.
“Where are we?”
“You and Caleb are in the hospital. But you’re going to be okay. Dr. Dillamen will be in shortly to talk to you.”
The words were meant to soothe, but instead, a look of pure fear graced Evie’s face.
“You’re not real. Who are you? What do you want from me?” she cried out, trying to pull her hand away. My heart plummeted. “Caleb? Where’s Caleb? Please don’t hurt him. I’ll do whatever you want, just leave him alone. Please!”
“No one is going to hurt Caleb. He’s okay,” her father tried to reason but it seemed to be falling on deaf ears.
“No, no they’ve said that before, made that promise before. They said they would leave him alone if I, if I just… please no.”
She thrashed against her bed, her mind lost. And my mind, it was trying so hard to come to terms with what she’d been saying, what her words had implied of her time in captivity. Of the times they’d taken her alone. Dear God, the things that my imagination was coming up with. Those visions stole my voice. Stole my ability to soothe her myself.
I know it tore at her father’s heart to see her so scared, not of him, but the possibility that he wasn’t real. That she was back in her fantasyland, and it would be used against her once more. After all, the worst agonies we’d suffered together involved her pretend world and it failing her in the most spectacular fashion.
“Evie,” my sister stepped in, her voice firm but kind. “Evie, my name is Carmen Sutton. I’m Caleb’s sister. You don’t know me, right?” Evie shook her head no, so Carmen pushed on. “It’d be pretty pointless to use someone you don’t know to get you to believe a lie, right?” Evie nodded this time. And my sister smiled softly, her eyes flickering my way quickly. “Caleb is okay. He’s okay. In fact, he’s in the bed right next to you. Turn your head and see for yourself.”
Evie’s gorgeous eyes gazed my way. Fear. Panic. A storm of emotion raging, making the brown a haze of blacks and grays. And then I watched as the storm settled, cleared. Her terror melting away at the mere sight of me, tubes and wires and machines swaddling me.
Instantly. Like the ‘on’ switch was flipped to ‘off.’
My presence alone, the truth and ease on my face was enough to relax her entirely. Enough to allow her to appreciate the miracle of our rescue. Enough to appreciate it was really her father, standing there, waiting for her. We were free. Finally free.
And the sweet smile that painted her dry lips made my breath catch.
“We got out,” she told me, her voice a little shaky. “We got out.”
“Yes, we did.”
EIGHTEEN
“The truth is rarely pure and never simple.”
― Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest
Though the memory of our perusal and the words used, is foggy at best, the truth was finally revealed to us. We received confirmation our captors were part of a sex slave trade. They’d initially worked a sex trafficking ring out of Portland, but due to an increased interest by police in the area, had traveled to other parts of the United States to gather “new meat.�
� They’d been travelling through Colorado, planning to head to Colorado Springs or Pueblo, since Denver was too big to scour, and find new targets. Someone somehow got irritated with the drive, took a detoured stop to Palisade, and into the path of Evie and myself.
It’s hard not to feel angry at that misfortune. If not for their lack of internal cooperation, we might have never been harmed. We might still be normal. Safe. Sane.
I battle with guilt at knowing if not for us, someone else would have been targeted. There is no winning in this situation. I understand it’s healthy to feel the way I feel, but that doesn’t make it any easier.
Darren Marsh, or "Preacher," as he was called by his associates, was running the show. He had started out as a Sunday school teacher in Portland, which is where the nickname came from, but that turned out to be just a cover. Darren Marsh, it turns out was arrested multiple times under the name of Darren Maxwell, an out of work mechanic from Boise, Idaho, who had an addiction to child pornography. He’d skipped out on bail, fled to Oregon, created a whole new identity and got himself a job around children. It’s my understanding there is now an investigation regarding any children he may have harmed while serving as their teacher.
I severely hope none of them were touched, but I am too suspicious to expect otherwise.
While employed at the school, Preacher had managed, using the goodwill of the church who employed him, to “infiltrate” a sex trafficking operation. He claimed he was trying to “save” the girls he saw working. In the end, he had only made deals with the leaders of the group to get in on their activity. And once they found out what’d he been arrested for, how easily he had access to young girls, they didn’t hesitate.
In no time, Darren “Preacher” Marsh, a.k.a. Maxwell, had climbed the trade’s ladder and was running his own crew. He ran a tight ship, managed to find easy targets, and kept the big bosses’ happy, while padding his pocket with cash and his bed with underage girls. He had a strict plan and everyone followed it. Until they didn’t.
Snatch some people, sell them off to the highest bidder. That was the way things were supposed to go. Only, some of Preacher's crew got greedy.
The three who were assigned to grab us wanted more of the cut. And they knew Preacher was never going to let them have it without giving something in return. So what better way than to keep their "finds" and pimp us out. Return customers always bring a bigger payday than a sell off, they figured.
All the masqueraded men I remembered seeing in the chairs, they had all paid a hefty sum to watch us be degraded.
Unfortunately some paid even more to participate.
Thankfully, fear makes people talk. And all the names of the “guests” was not a well-kept secret. In the end, there were over two hundred names in all handed over. Including the names of some prominent political officials and celebrities.
The media had a field day with that one.
As it turns out 'Little Missy' was a nickname given because of a smart mouth attitude. But it stuck. And it helped keep identities hidden. Until mistakes were made.
Occasional coke fiend, Melissa Wagner, aka 'Little Missy,' her on and off again boyfriend, Billy Truit, and his friend John Henley, were arrested after snatching an undercover cop posing as a prostitute in Santa Fe. They hadn’t been taking care of us, knowing out treatment was poor. So the news of them attempting another snatch and grab wasn’t that surprising. We were dying, they needed replacements. But this time was different. This time, cops followed.
Guess in the end, Billy didn't want to suffer too severely in prison. He knew he would be going away for a long time so he turned on his girlfriend and friend. Cut a deal. Even offered to give up the Preacher.
He was also the one who didn’t keep the guest lists a secret.
That's how we were discovered. Billy finally admitted there were two teenagers locked in an underground doomsday type warehouse in the Utah wilderness.
Yeah, they crossed states lines again. We were found in a bunker just outside of Cedar City.
Of course, Billy’s confession and admittance of our whereabouts was all nearly three weeks after they were caught. March was ending, and April beginning.
If not for the FBI finding us when they did, we both would have surely died.
As it was, we were both severely malnourished, extremely underweight and dehydrated. Our organs were failing, and it was weeks before we woke up from the comas they'd put us in to help us recuperate.
We were tested for everything under the sun and it was by some miracle we didn't come back positive with any STD's. Especially given the way we’d been treated.
Evie's injuries were the most severe, especially considering the torment her body had endured. Her heart stopped twice on the way to the hospital. The last time for nearly two minutes, which scared the hell of out me. And she had in fact suffered a miscarriage. The doctors had to perform a D&C on her to make sure “everything was removed” to avoid further infection.
There was talk that she might never be able to have children, she'd bled so much, had suffered too much. But nothing was definitive yet. And in the beginning, it wasn’t a priority to find out. In the beginning, it was just another thing to not want to deal with.
I imagine it was my baby she had been carrying. I don't want to think it might not have been, that she had been so brutalized by another that it resulted in pregnancy. My mind won't let me go there. So I imagine it was mine.
Being seventeen, I never thought about having kids before. A senior in high school, with plans for college, a baby was the last thing on my mind. But there had been something there, something tangible. A life created within her. And I wish it to have been part of me.
Regardless of circumstance.
It’s amazing how much an experience can change one’s perspective, how much it can alter one’s thought process or path.
Once our voices were stronger, we spoke to police and the FBI. We gave statements. Put our humiliation on display all over again just to tell our stories.
We learned the woman Jackson had seen briefly was thirty-five year old stay-at-home mom, Sandra Baker. She'd been missing from Provo, Utah for nearly eight months. Her emaciated body was found under some brush near the shelter’s entrance. She left behind three kids and a husband who deeply miss her.
Unfortunately, Jackson was found there too. He'd been badly beaten. Reports indicate he'd suffocated on his own blood. But there were defensive wounds on his hands. He went out fighting. At least we can say that much. Not that it changes the fact that he’s dead.
Both were dumped unceremoniously. I gather that's what would have become of Evie and me if not for our captors mistake. We were so very close to death as it was. Our path had been clear.
An unmarked dumping in the middle of nowhere. I get the shivers just thinking about it.
Even still, whether it’s surprising or not, I feel no comfort in being alive. Of being free. I wished for it for so long but it became a dream. And now that we are free, I am trapped inside my own mind.
Given our mental well-being, or lack thereof, we were both sent to a psych ward following our release from the hospital. It was a harrowing time. Our minds couldn't grasp the freedom we now possessed. In a way, they still can’t, but back then, it was much more harrowing.
I know it's worse for Evie. I know it will always be worse. The things done to her... they were so much worse.
They kept us separate in the ward too. For some ridiculous reason, they thought we needed to be kept apart. They thought we were driven by sex for a while too. They believed given our time alone, we would be all over each other, that we’d somehow not be able to control ourselves. Revert to the behaviors of animals unable to grasp the open space from the cage. Which was a horrible mistake. And so completely illogical.
We’d been tortured. Sex was used as a punishment. We’d been slaves to fiends using sex, our bodies, as toys. It might have amazed me, the ignorance of the adults around us. It might have if not for
our captivity. As it was, any progress we had been making their forced separation of us derailed quickly. We'd spent months together. Faced unimaginable horrors side by side. And then the ones meant to help us pulled us apart.
Still, more often than not, one of us, would sneak to the other's room for comfort. Whether it be faking ingesting the sleeping pills we were given, or pretending to cooperate to get the doctors to leave faster. We did what we had to do to get back to one another.
My parents tried to explain once that we needed to heal on our own. They tried to make me understand we couldn't depend on each other for survival any longer. We were free. To heal, we’d need to learn to live on our own again. Separately. It wasn't healthy, everyone had said.
What did they know? How could they understand?
We had been broken. And broken people fade. Especially if there’s nothing to keep them tangible.
By the time anyone figured out how much we truly needed one another, it was nearly too late.
We had both welcomed the idea of death in our prison; we were willing to die in our supposed freedom.
In the end, it was Carmen who salvaged us. She'd flown home immediately after my disappearance. Took a leave of absence from school. And then for months, she’d worried. For months, she’d watched our parents suffer in terror, fearing the worst. Preparing for what had started to become inevitable.
She had been there when, miraculously, we were found, rescued, clinging to life. She saw and felt joy along with our parents at our discovery. It was beautiful. It was extraordinary. She’d stood by us, helping, aiding us in our recovery, being a rock for everyone.
And then Carmen watched in so much sadness, as Evie and I suffered more in our freedom.
It all came to a head one night after we’d been found huddled together in Evie’s room.
During a room check, my bed had been found empty. It was easy to deduce where I was. Alarms were sounded, doctors notified. Security called. When they found us, lying in Evie’s bed, we were pulled apart forcefully and locked in our rooms with promises of injected sedatives instead of the pills.
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