Every night was a nightmare for me. My eyes never shut even for a millisecond. They were agape, piercing the wall of the room to see if there was a coming shadow. My heart raced at any slight sound.

"Tonight will be different."  I muttered under my breath. The clock had yawned to two, and I had not seen any masculine frame or shadow approaching my room —my unsafe refuge.

For the past two weeks, I had wished to feel myself in a cloth to know my body state. Only the duvet on my bed had covered my shame when I felt the dignity as a woman. But where was the dignity when it had been trampled upon? My eyes spoke without words. 

My room had only a Queen-size bed where my guest feasted on me and a long mirror where my imagination intertwined with my reality. I was Twenty, but I had lost count of how many men I had shared my dignity with. I  had attempted suicide but death declined to grant me passage. In my dilemma, I jolted by the slam of the door. A familiar figure entered the room. He had a recognizable body scent. I knew he came for what others did—to have me as a meal before the main meal.

I had no willpower so I lay on the bed on the bed spread out my legs for him to have his way.  But he was different, a fan of BDSM. He dragged me from the bed, pinned me to the wall, caressed my breast and left a painful pitch on my nipple before he let me out of him. I descended on the bed like an astronaut who was betrayed by gravity. I never knew how much he paid, but he rode on me as if he wanted to break a Guinness Book of Records as the Best Horse-Rider. 

My father's decision to give me into hand in marriage to Mr. Jackson as a way to pay him back his money was the worst decision he made. He had turned me into a sex worker in Belgium. Who could save me from this abyss?