My Story (5 page)

I looked down at my pajamas. They were very bright.

He said something more about a runner seeing me, something I really didn’t understand—what kind of runner would be up here on top of the mountains?—then reached into his bag and pulled out a gray shirt. I don’t remember if I put it on or not, but I do remember that he made me hurry. By this time, the man had put away his knife. He figured I couldn’t get away from him now. Still, he always stood beside me, ready to grab me if I ever made a run for it.

Over the top of the ridge we moved, dropping onto a steep canyon on the other side. There the trees were not as thick, seeming to grow in patches of scrub oaks and small pines, with a few quakies scattered in, most of them nearer to the bottom of the canyon. There was thick grass and weeds, and the mountain dropped steeply toward the south. Above the treeline, there was a large basin of barren terrain we had to cross. The man almost made me run, so worried was he that I might be seen. I was exhausted by then. I’d been climbing all night. I was terrified and thirsty and dreading whatever lay ahead. But I moved quickly with him, too terrified to resist.

We hiked across a barren patch of grass, thistle, and weeds. Then he pulled me toward a grove of mountain oaks that was about a third of the way down the ridge. Approaching the trees, he stopped and called out. “Hephzibah!”

A woman’s voice answered from the trees: “Immanuel.”

He seemed relieved and moved faster toward the voice.

The old woman was waiting for us near the trees. I studied her hopefully, but her hard stance and cold eyes told me she was anything but a friend. She had a wild look about her, emotional and tense, like a strand of wire that was being pulled too tight. She had straggly brown-and-gray hair, a broad face, and brooding eyes. She looked older than she was, and it was obvious that she had lived a hard life. Her eyes were dull, but grew excited now, an ember of fire beneath her drooping lids. She had rough hands and a rough manner that was all-business and curt. She was dressed in a linen robe, not the kind you tie at your waist, but those you have to slip over your head. It shocked me to see her dressed like that, up there on the mountain.

That turned out to be one of the first clues as to what lay in store for me.

The first thing she did was walk up and put her arms around me, pulling me into a strong embrace. But it was not a warm thing. Not an act of kindness, and certainly not an act of love. No, it felt more like an act of dominance than any sort of welcome.
I am stronger than you are. And don’t ever doubt it—when it comes to you and me, I am number one.

I felt dangerously out of place, standing there in my red pajamas. Though my top had a collar, sometime before, to be more modest, I had taken a safety pin and pinned it a little higher. I touched the collar, then thought of my mother, knowing she had a set of pajamas the same as mine. Thinking of her, I wanted to cry.

I glanced quickly around the camp, trying to take it in. It was primitive but well stocked. Tents. Tarps. Other things. They had obviously been up there for a while.

I don’t really know what time it was, probably close to midmorning. It had been something like six or seven hours since I had been taken. I don’t remember feeling tired any longer, but I remember feeling very scared.

Immanuel (I didn’t know his real name yet) nodded, seeming to signal to the older woman. Hephzibah (again, I didn’t yet know her name was Wanda Barzee) nodded back. Without any explanation, she took me by the hand and pulled me toward the large tent. It was obvious they had planned out what was going to happen before I had been brought into the camp.

As she pulled me by my arm, I knew that my world was about to come apart.

Stopping outside the tent, I had a better chance to look around. It was a big tent; maybe six people could sleep inside it. A large tarp had been placed on the dirt in front of it, with another tarp hung from the trees, making a roof of sorts that hung over the camp. There were several blue Rubbermaid plastic containers. Lots of kitchen utensils were out. It was a very well-stocked camp. On the far side of the tent there was a large mound of dirt where part of the mountain had been shoveled away. More than a dozen logs were piled on one another. Thick and heavy. It would have taken a lot of power to move them into place. I didn’t know yet what it was, some kind of dugout or winter bunker, but it was imposing and depressing to look at it and I had to turn away.

Opening the flap, the woman pulled me into the tent, which was filled with bedding. She had a blue basin already set up, the kind that hospitals give to young mothers to wash their brand-new babies in. She had already filled it with clean water. She pushed me toward an upside-down bucket and told me to sit down on it. She took off my running shoes and placed my feet into the hot water and washed them. Then she told me to take off my red pajamas. I pulled back in horror. “No!” I cried. She scowled, her dark eyes hard. I could see even then that I was not going to be able to tell her no. But she forced herself to be patient. I didn’t know it yet, but this was to be my wedding day. It was supposed to be a beautiful occasion. So the woman forced herself to be patient, showing a little leniency, at least for now.

“I need to bathe you,” she said through a tight smile.

I recoiled even further, pressing against the fabric of the tent. “I took a shower last night,” I whispered, somehow thinking I could convince her to leave me alone.

She hesitated, then yelled toward the zippered flap. “She says that she had a shower last night. Is that okay?”

Both of us looked toward the tent door, my stomach crawling into my chest.

There was a moment’s hesitation as he considered. The absurdity was surreal. It was as if she were asking,
Is she clean enough for you?

“Yeah, that’s okay,” he answered. His voice was very close. He was waiting just outside the tent. Anxious. A starving animal ready to devour.

She turned to me again, my feet still inside the basin. “Take your clothes off,” she repeated.

“No,” I said again.

“Take them off, or I’ll have him come in and rip them off you,” she rasped in anger. I knew that she would call him. And I knew that he would indeed come and do exactly as she said he would do.

Pulling away, I started crying. I couldn’t stop it. My heart seemed to break inside me. The tears left my face wet, my eyes stinging and red.

“Take your clothes off, or he will rip them off you!” she repeated.

She then handed me a white robe. Again, it wasn’t the kind you can wrap around your body, but one you have to pull over your head. I quietly slipped it on. And wiggled out of my pajamas underneath.

She waited, and then pointed. “Take off your underwear.”

I choked on more tears. “No,” I stumbled simply.

“I’ll have him rip them off your body.” Her voice was firm, and certainly not kind.

Lowering my eyes, I slipped them off.

She looked at me with satisfaction, then crawled toward the opening of the tent.

I sat on the bucket, sick with dread, huge tears rolling down my cheeks. My body was so tight I felt I couldn’t breathe. I shivered, my feet still wet. I waited, crying softly as he came into the tent. He had changed his clothes and was now dressed in a linen robe just like mine, except his had a sash tied around the waist.

I waited on the bucket, my head low. Tears of horror filled my eyes. I choked in order to keep on breathing. He started talking, but through my sobbing it was difficult to understand what he was saying. Then I caught some of his words: “I seal you to me on this Earth, and what is sealed here on Earth will be sealed in the afterlife, and I take you to be my wife. Before God and His angels as my witnesses.”

“No!” I screamed, unable to contain my horror.

He reached out as if he was going to slap me, moving suddenly very close. “If you ever scream again, I’ll duct tape your mouth shut!” he sneered.

Then he forced me off the bucket and onto the dirty bedding. I fought him as best I could. “I’m just a little girl,” I begged in desperation. “I haven’t even started my period. I’m still a child!”

He stopped, his face tight, as if he were suddenly unsure of what to do.

He yelled outside to the woman, telling her what I had said. “Is it still okay?” he asked.

My heart leaped in hope.
I was a child!
Might there be a miracle? Might he let me be?

The woman didn’t hesitate. “It’s okay,” she answered.

He turned to me again.

I fought and kicked and struggled. I did everything I could. But he was a powerful and driven man. There was nothing I could do.

When it was over, he got up and crawled out of the tent, leaving me crying on the floor.

*

Over the next nine months, Brian David Mitchell would rape me every day, sometimes multiple times a day. He would torture and brutalize me in ways that are impossible to describe, would starve and manipulate me like I was an animal. Many times I would think, Okay, this is the bottom. Things
couldn’t
get any worse.

But whenever I began to think that way, I would quickly find out that I was wrong.

After he crawled out of the tent, I lay alone. The sun was up, but it was still early and the thick trees provided heavy shade, keeping it cool inside. I lay on the dirty blankets, curled in a fetal position, the linen robe pressed against my waist.

I felt disgusting. I felt sick. I felt like someone had crushed my very soul.

I thought about my family and what they were doing. Did they realize that I was gone yet? Were they looking for me? Was there a chance I might be found? I thought about my sister, Mary Katherine, and what she must be feeling. I thought about my brothers. I thought about my mom and dad. Then a terrible idea seeped into my soul: If they knew what the man had done to me, would they still want me?

The question cut me to the core.

Would they still love me? Would they want me? Or would they feel like, “We don’t want her anymore”?

I know that sounds crazy, but that’s exactly how I felt.

I didn’t feel like a whole person anymore. I felt like I was … like not even half, like I was just a portion of a human being. I just felt filthy and disgusting. I felt like, Who could ever want me back? Who could ever want to talk to me? Who would ever be my friend?

I don’t know what the exact definition of despair is, but if it is feeling as if your life is over, as if there’s no point to continue because no matter what happens, you will never be accepted or happy again, then despair is what I felt.

Part of the reason I felt so bad was that my family was very religious. I had lived a sheltered life. In my faith, and in my family, a great deal of emphasis is placed on sexual purity, waiting until you’re married for those kinds of relationships.

Another was the fact that I was so young and so I didn’t have the tools yet to deal with what had just happened to me. But I now understand that what I felt is not uncommon among victims of rape or abuse. Rape is such a violation; the feeling of worthlessness is almost universal. In addition, some women feel like they might have asked for it or deserved it in some way. They think it might have been their fault because of a low-cut shirt, or maybe they were flirting, or somehow they had communicated that they wanted it and then they didn’t want it anymore. There are lots of reasons why they might feel responsible.

But I was not confused. I knew what had just happened to me wasn’t my fault. I didn’t ask for this! I didn’t run away with this stranger. I didn’t marry him. None of this was my choosing.

But I still felt completely broken.

Imagine you have a beautiful crystal vase. Then imagine that you accidently knock it off the table and it shatters into pieces on the floor. We all understand it isn’t the vase’s fault that it was pushed off the table and shattered. But still, it is broken. It is worthless. You don’t want it anymore. So you sweep it up and throw away the pieces.

That is how I felt.

It wasn’t my fault. But I was broken. No one would want me anymore.

So even though I knew the bearded man could kill me at any time, I had already reached a point where I no longer cared.

I thought about other children I’d seen on the news, children who’d been kidnapped and didn’t come back. I thought they were the lucky ones. They were in a better place. I began to realize that there were some things worse than death.

I believe in a God who loves me. I’d never pictured Him as mean or vindictive or anything like that. I’d always pictured Him as a beautiful person, glowing with love and kindness, someone who understood exactly how I felt all the time, someone who loved me as one of his children. I think of Him as someone who comforts and loves everyone.

Even after I had been raped, I still thought of Him that way. He loves us all. Even me. Even still.

I would have happily gone to Him if I could have left that place of pain, if I could have left behind all those feelings of worthlessness and fear, if I could have left behind all of the feelings of darkness. I wanted to go home to this person who loved me, who would take care of me and protect me and never let me feel the hurt and pain again.

But even in the midst of all this emotion, it never occurred to me to take my own life. I knew I could never do that. If someone with a gun had said, “I’m going to shoot you,” I might have said, “Okay.” But if they had handed me a gun and told me to shoot myself, I would have recoiled at the thought. I could simply never do that, no matter whatever else I felt.

So I just closed my eyes and curled up into a tight ball of despair. I pushed toward the corner of the tent and cried myself to sleep.

The last thing I remember thinking before I drifted off was, Tonight I’m going to run.

*

I slept lightly for an hour or so, never really slipping away, always aware in the back of my mind where I was and the situation I was in. There was no rest in my brief sleep, no comfort, no solace. It was a weary sleep. Hard ground. Dirty blankets, sheets, and pillows. The horrible linen robe bunched around my body. I was in pain. I was bleeding. But it was infinitely better than being awake.