When I was a child I watched as my father was taken away by the police. I am told that my father raped and stabbed my mother. I’m also told I watched and he tried to do the same to me. The neighbors heard the screams and called the police. All I remember is watching them handcuff my sobbing father and shoving him into their car. I was present at the trial, but they wouldn’t let me speak. They had no reason not to. I was 18 and legally an adult. They told me that they didn’t need my account, he would be prosecuted. I had always hated my father I hated him even more after he killed my mother.

Though they could keep me from helping to convict my father; they couldn’t keep me from watching his execution. I watched with hateful eyes as 2,000 volts were sent through my father. When the examiner checked his vitals, with a small signal, they sent another 2,000 through him. This time he was dead. I let out a sigh in relief. So many hands touched me and tried to comfort me. They didn’t understand that I was happy. My father was a murderer. Little did I know that five years later, I would be too.

I had taken a little longer in college than I had planned to and was walking back to my apartment after my night class when men attacked me. At first I thought that there were only two of them but I soon realized there were four. They pulled me into their vehicle a few minutes later, with a bag over my head; I was pulled out and brought into a room. They took the bag off and I could see that I was in a basement of some sort. As I was trying to get my bearings one of the men kicked the back of my knees and I fell to the ground.

Fear was taking over me. I knew what these men were going to do to me and that resisting would only make it worse. What I didn’t know was how they were going to do it. As they ripped my clothes off me, I closed my eyes and began searching for an escape. I could feel them everywhere. Tears crept down my face. Finally I decided that I wanted to see their faces so I opened my eyes and studied each ones face.