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Any thoughts of introducing myself for the sake of politeness catapult themselves right out the window. Fuck. Me. I didn’t recognize her at first—and I probably wouldn’t have without the black and white uniform—but now I think I recall seeing her in the distance back in the dining room briefly, not that I could focus on anything other than my inflamed bladder for more than a nanosecond the entire time. But it doesn’t erase the fact that she was there; there to witness some part of the most humiliating experience… Magbasa pa

My eyelids feel heavy. Insanely heavy. Swollen. Burdened. Like they each have anvils sitting on them. It’s the most unusual sensation. And, for some reason, everything feels slow. Lethargic. Disoriented. I vaguely register the sound of soft knocking in the distance. Gentle taps come in five at a time, followed by a long pause. I think I’m imagining it, almost positive I am, until I hear the sequence of knocks again; still gentle and soft, but my awareness of them increasing each time they come through. A sea of nothing… Magbasa pa

God, this blows… That’s all I can think. How much this all just fucking blows. Seconds march on in silence, but I don’t count them. I have no need to. Monitoring time won’t change the outcome of my fate. It won’t save me from the inevitable. In fact, the only difference it’ll make at this stage is wear me out even faster. Still, the time passes, quietly and unmeasured. That’s all I know for sure, and only because I’m still conscious. Barely. Join us or log in to read more.

My eyelids peel back as far as humanly possible—and then some. My lungs turn flaccid, my breath halting on autopilot, my pupils dilating as the daunting thought plants itself firmly in my head. I know I don’t always succeed in not taking the name of the Lord in vain—the way my late mother taught me to—but Jesus. Motherfucking. Christ. Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God… No, no, no, no, no, no, no! This cannot be happening! Continuous wheezing suddenly fills the room, the simultaneously high-pitched and strangled sound… Magbasa pa

Twenty-three. Twenty-four. Twenty-five… For the first time since this damned “ritual” in the name of punishment began, I’ve been forced into starting a ritual of my own; counting up to the next rotation of the make-shift clock. Seventy-one minutes times sixty seconds. Four thousand, two hundred and sixty. That’s the number that separates me from my next play-date with Satan’s toy—or my potential victory over it if I play my cards right, paltry as they may be. Forty-two. Forty-three. Forty-four. Forty-five. Forty-six. Forty-seven… I’m surprised I can even manage basic… Magbasa pa

Absolute certainty isn’t guaranteed. Not for anyone. Never has been and most likely never will be. That’s a universal truth. I know that. But for me, in particular, even temporary assurance has been nothing short of a luxury, no matter how much I craved it. There are far too many variables, too many curveballs that life loves to throw in spite of the most careful planning to think anything is truly set in stone for any length of time. In fact, the only thing you know for sure is that… Magbasa pa

There are times in life when absolutely nothing makes sense. When nothing goes right. When everything seems out of place. Wrong-side up. Inside-out. Surreal. Impossible. And, yet, you know it’s real. That it’s happening…to you. Even though you can’t truly comprehend how it could be. For me—Ramona Georgette Gallo, a simple, twenty-four-year-old college student—this is one of those times. Join us or log in to read more.