Chapter 1: "Ride him harder, Layla."

“Ride him harder, Layla!”. 

My lips tremble violently as I heave, my eyes blinded by tears and my husband’s voice sinking a deep pike into my heart as he snaps at me again.

“I SAID to ride him harder!” 

My heart throbs and jabs at me as tears stream down my face. 

The old man below me has his eyes closed as he grunts in pleasure while my husband watches. I look to Clifford and in an act of foolishness I beg, my words barely coming out because the moment I open my mouth a sob overtakes me instead. 

Hoarse broken words come out and my lips tremble as I plead, “P… please Clifford.” 

A sob wracks my chest and I look away. The pain I'm feeling makes it hard to speak but the man I’m on grabs me by the neck, his fingers closing around my throat and forcing me to look at him, at his grinning face and his cruel smirk. I beg him too because maybe he might listen to me, maybe he’ll put a stop to this.

“Please,” the shame rolling through me makes me want to vanish, to tell myself I'm not here, but I have to look at him if I want him to see my pain. I open my eyes and stare into gray older ones as I croak out, “Please…. tell him to stop this.”

Clifford gets to me before I can say anything else. 

The sound of his slap echoes through the room and blinding pain courses through my face. I stumble off his friend, my hand flying to my cheek and my legs clasping together as I choke out another sob.

Clifford walks to me,  grabs me by the hair, and yanks on it until I’m forced to stare at him, crying uncontrollably as I see the disgust in his eyes.

“Do I have to remind you who owns you, Layla?”, I shake my head timidly but he shakes his in return.

“It’s obvious I need to, right?”

I don’t know what to say so I say nothing. I let my heart twist and curl up on the inside. I let it wither and break, I let it beat so fast….. that I wish it wasn’t beating anymore.

I let Clifford order me to get on top of his friend again.

“The faster you get him to release, the faster you can be done with this. You’re a woman, you should know how to do it.”

Clifford’s friend places his hands on my waist, running the back of his fingers down the curve of my hips. My sobs are muffled as they force their way out again but this time my husband is watching me intently. He’s watching every movement I make, every crease of pain my face expresses, every tremble of my lips and every tear that leaks freely from my eyes as I do what he’s asked me to do.

His friend comes with a loud groan, grabbing onto my waist and squeezing my skin so bad it hurts and pain shoots from them. I collapse on top of him, crying so hard I can’t hear what’s being said around me.

My mind closes in and I let it take me along with it as sorrowful emotions course through my heart. This is the life I live as the wife of a wealthy man.

A sob forces its way out my throat and my eyes sting as my heart twists.

This is the “better life” I was sold into. The life of an object. The life of a slave.

The man beneath me, a man who found me unbearingly desirable thirty minutes ago, pushes me away now, and when he stands, I see the stare he gives me. He chuckles as he pulls his pants up, face lined with age and belly protruding lightly. His scent is forever ingrained into my mind now.

He has a wife and kids at home. He has a family he loves, one that means something to him, so why me? Why do they do this to me? 

Clifford’s stern tone is laced into his words as he sneers at me.

“Clean yourself up Layla, and use the pills.” He hesitates for a minute before adding, “Thank you… for doing this.”

My heart sends a sharp jab of pain through my body and my mind makes the room spin so hard I feel like I'll run mad.

I scream. 

I scream and cry for hours on end after he leaves, and when I feel so disgusted by myself and my body that I can't stop my tears from leaking, I scrub my skin raw. 

The water is so hot it burns.

Red patches appear across each area I scrub and I don’t realize my skin is peeling until I see the blood. It runs in red, scarlet streams down my body and I sputter a sob, crouching in the shower and wishing I could join the blood in going down the drain.

A maid alerts them to my condition the moment I come out of the bathroom. Her scream sounds dull to me, like background noise as she exclaims.

“Oh my god! Oh my god, oh my god! Mrs Earl!”

I hit the floor with a thud as I pass out and when I wake up, I’m in the hospital. The doctor says it’s a mild burn, “nothing that won’t heal up.”

 My head tells me he’s saying that to mock me. 

I feel he’s saying those words to mock what’s happened to me, but like he says, my skin is better in a week.

I’m still beautiful, still pretty as a doll. 

Still Layla. 

Something in my head laughs at me and asks me why I think making myself disfigured would help. “He’d still whore you out regardless. He paid your parents well to get you, Layla.”

I ask for another week in the hospital and the doctor allows it. I can see the pity in his eyes when he looks at me. 

He sees the fear in my eyes. He sees the tears I’ve shed in this bed, deep heaving sobs that left me breathless.

He sees what I face in the hands of my husband, so he lets me stay the week, but he doesn’t report the abuse. He doesn’t do anything to help me.

On the day I leave the doctor stops me and looks into my eyes as he says “Take care of yourself, Mrs. Earl.”

The anger that courses through me is so sudden and prominent that I stare right back at him and reply in a low shaky voice, “I hope you rot in hell, and I hope your daughter one day knows what you allow to go on because of a rich man’s money..”

Tears break out of my eyes as I walk away and right outside, waiting for me with his eyes set on his watch and his stance impatient, is my husband, Mr. Clifford Earl, and I am Layla, his eighteen-year-old wife.