I just want to sleep. I
sleep a lot, because when I sleep
I
can dream about
better things, like
being home with my
mom and sister. When I
wake it is dark, but something has
woken me up. I hear
the rattle of the lock. He is coming. He
usually doesn’t come this late. I have not thought he would
come this late. I
should have thought of all the possibilities
and this wouldn’t have happened. I am scared. What does
he want? I
want to sleep.
He enters with
a flashlight. I
pretend to be sleeping. I
squeeze my eyes tight. How long
can I pretend to be
asleep? I can hear him crouching down
in front of me. Go
away, I
scream in my head. He shakes
my shoulder and I
pretend to wake up. He whispers to me,
“It’s time to wake up, we are going next door,” and puts the
blanket on me.
A few days ago, he brought in a pink flowered one-piece
jumpsuit for me to wear and a pair of undies. I t feels good
t o have
something to wear.
I hate taking
it off when
he
comes for sex. Where
are we going?
This is different,
I
haven’t left this building since I got here. He says I need to
be quiet as we make our way out of the building.
I cannot
see where he is leading me, but we are there quickly, so it
must not be far away. I
have taken about ten steps when we
arrive “next door.”
We have entered another room. This one is different. I it’s
all one room
with three windows. Two of the windows are
on each side
of the building
and the third
one is by the
door. On the back wall halfway up is a cooler unit in the
wall,
but there are no
windows on that wall. I
see that there are
iron bars on these windows, too, before he moves to cover
them with towels.
He is using a flashlight and doesn’t turn
on the lights until he has locked
the doors. There are two
doors
back-to-back—one on the
outside with heavy
iron
bars and the
inner wooden door can
be locked from
the
inside. I am
standing frozen with
fear and shaking
from
head to toe. The unknown is the scariest thing for me and I
have no idea what to expect. I feel so alone I even long to
go back to my little room next door. At least I know what to
expect over
there. I look around
the room. I
glance at the
three windows he has now covered with towels and
think,
No one to save me from this, nowhere to go.
There is a
blue couch in
the center of
the room; it
separates the room
into two halves. A partition
separates
the back of the couch
with a desk on the other side. The
desk has lots of junk on it. As I look at the door, to the right
is a little
refrigerator that sits
on a wooden
cabinet with
storage underneath. T o the left of the door there is a
toilet
with a built-in
bucket. As I turn around I
see beyond the
couch a TV on a stand. I
notice a black trash bag sitting by
the couch. There is also a stool under the window.
Reflection
I just noticed I was trying to distract myself from writing
this part. I saw a
spot on my computer and for some reason
it was very
important to get
that spot off
right now even
though I know
it’s been there for months. My mind knows
that what comes next is not easy for me. I am finding ways
to avoid it. Avoiding things has worked to my advantage in
the past. At
other times, like
now, it is
just an
inconvenience. I want
to not be afraid of letting people know
what really happened to me all those long years ago.
When I was first
found I was adamant that there would be
no book, no one would ever
know what happened. In the
months that have followed I
feel I have grown so much. With
the help of
my mom and
my family and
especially my
therapist I have come
to realize that I can now do things for
myself. I can make my
own decisions and not worry about it
if it’s not what
someone else wants. But most of all
I have
come to realize that I
no longer need to protect him, Phillip
Garrido. He no
longer, or ever really, needed or deserved
my protection. I t has taken time for the guilt to wear off.
But
after living with him for so long I am amazed at how good I
feel that I am no
longer subject to him.
I t is incredible,
the depth of his manipulation. I
t did not
feel like
manipulation at the time. Only distance and time
have revealed
what life was like
there and what life looks
like from the outside. While I was there I
would tell myself it
could be worse; there
are so many people in the world
in
worse situations than
mine. At least I had
a place to live.
But what kind of life
did I
have really? No house. No real
family. No friends.
No, life was
not what it
should have
been. My life depended on Phillip Garrido.
In my heart I do not
hate Phillip. I don’t believe in hate. T
o
me it wastes too much
time. People who hate waste so
much of their life hating
that they miss out on all the other
stuff out here. I do
not choose to live my life that way. What
is done is done. I ’m looking to the future. For the first
time in
a long time
I get to
look to the
future instead of
just the
present. I have
lived one day
to the next
never daring to
look ahead. I never knew what was going to happen.
I f all
my heart was filled
up with hate and regrets and what ifs,
then what else would it have room for? I won’t say every day
has been glorious and wonderful, but even on the bad days
I can still say one
thing—I am free … free to be the person
I
want to be …
free to say
I have my family
and now new
friends … I have
nothing to feel ashamed about. I am
strong
and want to continue writing my story …
And then I
see it. In the
corner by the desk there
is a
bucket of water. Oh no!
I think to myself
I don’t want to …
No! … No! But what can
I really do? Nothing. There is no
one here but me and him. The door is locked. I want to cry.
But I don’t. He
is talking now. He talks a
lot, I notice, but
doesn’t really say
important things. He
just likes to
hear
himself talk, I
think. I t’s easier
to just agree
with him
because if you
don’t he’ll explain
it in detail
and go on
forever. He says something about going on a “run.” I doubt
if he means he’s going outside for a real run; it’s
late and
dark outside. He explains to me that a “run” is something he
is going to be doing periodically and that I will be staying up
with him for a few days depending on how much crank he is
going to take. He says that crank is a drug that lets him
stay
up for longer
periods of time. He
says he really
amazes
himself by how much crank he can smoke or snort at one
time. He says he can take hit after hit and it doesn’t hit
him
as hard as a regular
person. He says he has out-smoked
his friends before and he has a high tolerance to all forms
of drugs. He says he is explaining all this to me so I know
what’s going on and I
will know what is expected of me. He
says the “run,” as he calls staying up for days, will be a
time
for him to fulfill all his fantasies and
I will help him do that.
He says the crank
allows him to focus on one
thing for a
long time. He
says first he’s going to get me dressed the
way he wants and then depending on his mood, the rest will
consist of me masturbating him, sucking his penis, me in
whatever position he desires, and dancing over him while
he masturbates. He says for me to start by getting cleaned
up with the bucket of
water in
the corner. He wants me to
shave my vagina because he doesn’t like hair because it
gives him a rash.
After that he is going
to dress me and
then I can
put on some makeup. Makeup? Why does
he
want me to put on
makeup? Why do I have
to do any of
this? It’s stupid
and I hate
it. I don’t want
to do what he
wants. I don’t want
to take off my clothes. I don’t want to
do
any of it. I
just want to go home! I
think to myself. On the
outside all I let go
is a few tears. I ’m afraid he will see me
crying and become angry. He has already told me not to cry
because it will interfere with his fantasy.
I ’m trying so hard
not to cry.
He sees me hesitating and picks up the stun gun,
I go
over to the bucket and clean myself a little, when I am done
he drags over the bag of clothes and starts to dress me in
tight clothes. He makes holes in weird places.
I have been standing
for what feels like hours now. When
will he get done? Do I
want him to be done? What’s going
to happen next? I
guess he finally is happy with his creation.
He tells me to lay on the bed in a certain way and then he
gets undressed. He has a little bag of white powder. I ’m
not
sure what it is. Maybe that’s the crank he talked about. He
shakes some out
on the desk and uses a razor blade
to
chop it up a bit, then he puts it into a glass pipe and
lights it
and inhales from the other side. He asks if I want some and
I say no. He says it
helps him stay up, he calls it speed or
crank. I think it is
disgusting. I hate drugs. Is that why he
is
doing
this—because of the
drugs? He also rolls what
he
calls a joint and
says its marijuana. He explains to me he
has a sex problem and that he took me so I could help him
with his problem so he wouldn’t have to bother anyone else
with his problem. He says it consumes his mind and that by
me giving him an outlet I
am saving others. Why me? Why
can’t he take care of his own problem? I don’t want others
to be hurt, though. Better me than someone else. The night
seems endless and I
am very tired. He has the lights on. All
of them. I t makes the room so hot. I have to touch his penis
and stroke it
up and down;
he calls this
“jacking off.”
Sometimes he wants me
to suck on
it, too. I
hate it so
much; it tastes disgusting. I am afraid the white stuff which
he said is
called cum will get in
my mouth. I think
this is
really gross. He says
the speed helps him to
prolong the
sex so he won’t cum
for a while. So I don’t have
to worry.
This goes on and on
for a while with him looking
at these
books he has. They look like photo albums, but they have
kids from magazines
cut out in
different positions with
penises taped on from other magazines. He looks at them
and talks dirty to them, using words that are bad, some of
which I have never
heard before. He keeps doing the same
thing over and over. When will this nightmare end? He also
flips through the channels on the TV. He says he’s looking
for anything with a little girl with shorts on. I think it is finally
morning now. The sun is coming through
the windows that
are covered with towels. I
can see the sun through some of
the cracks. He looks at
the time and he says
it’s time to
have sex. He tells me to lie down on my back. Part of me is
relieved to get it over with. I was dreading it but want to go
to sleep. I ’m
so tired. He gets on top of me and
tells me
he’s going to talk
really dirty to me and for me not
to be
scared. He says he’s still the same person. He just needs
to release the “monkey on his back.” I can’t help but cry, but
they are silent
tears. He fucks me
as hard as
he can it
seems like. He
uses that word
a lot. My
head is being
pushed in between the couch and the pullout bed. I feel like
I can’t breathe. He
is calling me a fucking whore and a cunt
and other things.
I want to
be somewhere else,
but I am
here and I
must not panic.
I t hurts more
when I try
to
struggle, so I try
not to get away from him, but it’s hard not
to want to
push away from
his sweaty disgusting
body.
Everything will be
okay I tell myself.
He will be
the nice
person soon. The
one that likes
to make me laugh and
brings me good
things to eat. I
feel his release in me and
finally it is over. He asks if I
’m okay and I look at him and
burst into tears. He takes me in his arms and says it’s
okay,
that he is done,
and that
I can get cleaned up and go to
sleep. He won’t
bother me like this
for a while.
I am so
scared I don’t know
what to think. I want to believe him. He
releases me to get up
and put on his pants. He leaves to
get me fresh water to bathe with. I am left alone. I hear the
lock as it
clicks. I wonder why he bothers. Where would I
go? I don’t
know where I am.
I feel so alone. Who would
want me now? He comes back with the water and I get up, I
am so sore. I am also
bleeding again. He says it looks like I
started my period.
Tomorrow he will
bring me some
tampons and show me how to use them. For now he gives
me some paper towels
to stick in my underwear. I
feel a
little better now that I
am dressed. He takes me back to the
studio and says he will be back later with something really
good to eat. He leaves and I
am scared, tired and alone.
(The buildings that I w rite about are all in the part of
the
backyard that Phillip made secret for eighteen years.)
Reflection
T o see myself
in that moment is very hard now. I was
there and all this crap happened, but as I look back I
can’t
help but look forward.
I live in the
present just as I
always
have and when I look
back like this I see a very scared
little
girl just trying
to survive. I wanted
to go home to my mom
more than anything, but I
didn’t know how. He said he took
me so that he wouldn’t have to hurt anyone else. In a way he
made me feel special. I
felt needed. Why I felt I needed that
from this man I don’t
know. He would say terrible things like
he would teach me how to be the best “sex slave” ever. And
then there were other times that he was a very nice person.
I t confused me. When he would use bad language, it would
scare me and make
me feel
horrible. One time he
even
threatened that he was going to sell me. This made me so
scared. I didn’t
really know what it meant. When I
asked
why, he said I wasn’t
really doing the things that he wanted
me to do. He said I
cried too much and that it was hard for
him to act out his fantasies when I was uncooperative and
made him feel
bad. I remember
I begged him
to please
don’t make me
go with someone
else, that I
would try
harder, and he could do anything he wanted and I would not
fight. He said he would have to think about it. He said that
these people that he was going to sell me to were planning
to put me in a
cage. I t would be really bad
for me. That it
would be better for me if I
stayed, but he didn’t know if that
was the thing for him to do. I remember shaking so hard on
the couch. I
didn’t want to be
put in a
cage. He left me
thinking that that
was what was
going to happen
to me.
When he returned that day and said we were going to go
on a “run,” I
didn’t dare ask if he had changed
his mind. I
just tried to do everything just the way he told me. He
never
followed through on
any of his
promises. I will
probably
never forget feeling as afraid as I
did that day. He never
mentioned it again.
Even when I
went back to
doing
everything he wanted, I
tried to rebel in my own little ways.
Like sometimes I wouldn’t put
in as much effort as I could
here and there. I
wouldn’t jack him
off as fast
as I could,
forgetting (on purpose) to put lipstick on, and fake
sleeping
whenever he was engrossed in the TV. Little things that he
wouldn’t notice, but
I still felt
good inside for
knowing I
wasn’t trying my best. I
knew when to get serious, though, I
was beginning to
get a sense
of his moods and when
I
could and when I
could not mess around with him.
The “runs” were some of the most horrible moments of
my life. I
can’t think of a good moment even
when a “run”
was over. I always
knew there’d be a next time. I could see
no end in sight. The horridness of being alone was always
there, too. I
really hated and
despised it when he would
leave me tied up in a certain position by those eye hooks
that screw into the wall. He would screw them into the wall
and then lift my legs with straps in different positions.
One
night he had been working on
the position, trying to get
it
right for hours and realized he needed to go pick up Nancy
from the nightshift where she worked a convalescent home.
He said he was just
going to
leave me tied up because it
was the perfect position. He was gone for a while. My legs
were in such an awkward position, I got leg cramps and the
straps hurt my ankles.
I was relieved when he got back, I
wanted to get it over with so I could be done and go to bed.
Those were horrible times. I
can’t believe I ever felt sorry
for
him. He was
always saying what a
good person he was
and he didn’t know how else to help his problem. I needed
to help him
so others wouldn’t
be hurt. He
said, society
didn’t help people like him and that there were a lot of men
out there in the
world with the same
problem as his. He
would apologize to me. He would cry
after he was done
fucking me and beg my forgiveness. He said it would make
him feel better. For a reason I can’t name, I
knew in those
moments that it was
important to my survival
that I never
truly show how much I
was hurting inside. I don’t know
why,
but after that I kept
my feelings to myself.
Years later I
learned it’s the
little things that
add up to
make a person. Back then I
couldn’t see the little things that
added up to the bigger picture of who Phillip was on the
inside. I only saw
what he wanted me to see. And that was
a misunderstood guy with a problem that nobody wanted to
help him with. I
think he felt life was cheating him of what he
wanted. Deep inside
Phillip Garrido is a very selfish man,
looking only to gratify himself as much as possible while
still
projecting to the world a selfless and caring man.
The first year
was the worst.
I hated when
he would
videotape me and him having sex or me doing some other
degrading thing. The
camera would always have to be in
the right spot and
positioned just right.
I t was horrible. He
would always assure me
that the videos were just
for him
and nobody else would ever see them. He used
them, he
said, to give me a break. Years later when the sex became
not as frequent,
he said
that he had destroyed the tapes
and got rid of them.
I believed him. Little did I
know they
were still on the property, only partly destroyed.
We called the
first room I
was taken to
when Phillip
kidnapped me the “studio” and
later when the “runs”
(long
days of sex) started and he
introduced me to the second
building in the backyard, we called that “next door.”
Funny, how I
can look back
now, and notice
how the
“secret
backyard” didn’t really
look so “secret.”
I t wasn’t
even that well
hidden. I was
in the middle
of a
neighborhood. There
were neighbors all
around; the only
thing that was
camouflaged was the
gate leading to the
second backyard. I
can’t understand why
Phillip’s parole
officers didn’t know
anything about the
property and the
size of it. I t makes me believe no one cared or was even
really looking for me. Below is a diagram.
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