Mitchell never trusted me. He certainly never gave me an opportunity to escape. He and Barzee never left me alone a single moment. I slept within a few inches of them. We spent every waking hour within a few feet of one another. I was forced to use the bathroom without even the slightest hint of privacy. Mitchell never took me off the cable. I was nothing but a caged animal.
My faith was tested every day. And though I never really lost hope, as time went by I certainly began to recalibrate my expectations. I realized he was never going to let me go. I realized he was going to keep me cabled until he knew that he could trust me. Over time, I quit thinking or hoping that anyone would find me. Instead, I started thinking about the things I had to do in order to survive. I never quit thinking about my family, but I gradually began to accept that he would kill them if I ever left him or if I tried to escape. The only people I ever talked to were him and Barzee. Every day, it was the same thing. More threats. More fear. More abuse and pain. All this proved to me that Mitchell was a very dangerous man. Did I believe that he would kill me if he had to? Absolutely, I did. Did I believe that he would hunt me down and kill my family? There was no doubt in my mind. Did I think that he was capable of murder? It’s hard to be tortured and raped every day and believe that the man who is hurting you is not capable of anything worse. Did I think that he had friends who were willing to help him? It sure appeared he did. In fact, it seemed that he got everything he wanted. It seemed that he could lie or manipulate his way out of any situation. So yes, after a while, I started to believe some of the things he told me. Over time, I slipped deeper and deeper into pure survival mode until I came to measure every situation by only one thing: Was it going to help me to survive? That was the only thing that mattered. Whatever it took to live another day.
*
For the first week or ten days, I cried and cried. I couldn’t help it. The tears just flowed. It wasn’t an all day and all night kind of thing—Mitchell would have never put up with that—but when I was not busy helping with the meals or cleaning up or doing the dishes, or whatever else Barzee wanted me to do, I would sit on my bucket and the tears would soon come. I tried to keep myself together, and sometimes I could, but many times, I simply couldn’t help it. I cried for myself and the life that I had lost. I cried about the lost opportunities to be saved. I cried for my family. I cried for it all.
Finally, Mitchell had had enough. “Stop it!” he commanded. “You can’t cry anymore!”
I looked at him, wiping my eyes in fear.
“And quit talking about your parents. I don’t want to hear it anymore! Your parents or your family! I’m sick of it all. Yeah, yeah, I get it. We both get it!” He glanced angrily at Barzee. “You loved your parents. You loved your family. But this is your new life. You need to look forward and not back. So I mean it, I don’t want to hear your constant sniffling anymore!”
I wiped my tears away, but inside I was crying even more. He was so … heartless. So cold and unfeeling!
I turned around to hide my tears. And as I did, I remember thinking of my grandfather.
He is with me right now.
I don’t know where it came from, but the thought was crystal clear.
He is watching over me and protecting me. That is why Mitchell hasn’t killed me. Grandpa is keeping me safe.
Once again, I felt a flicker of hope. If my grandpa was protecting me, there had to be a reason. He wouldn’t have helped me come this far just to let me die after suffering through so much.
Soon after this, Mitchell told me he wanted to give me a blessing. He placed his hands on my head, called me by my real name, and said a prayer. He told me about my family. He said they were going to be okay. He mentioned my grandfather. He told me my dad was a good man but that my family had been misled.
All of this was intended to manipulate me and draw me in. All of it was intended to convince me that he was my friend. It was designed to tie me to him, to make me dependent on him for my hope and morale. It was designed to make me believe that he understood me, that he cared about me, and that he wanted me to be happy—that he wanted to trust me, but that I had to earn his trust. It was designed to make it harder and harder for me to remember my old life, to worry about my family, to care about him more.
None of that worked. There was no Stockholm syndrome going on with me. I never formed attachments to my captors or bonded with them in any way.
And though I was young, I wasn’t stupid. I knew the only reason Mitchell tried to comfort me through this blessing was that he wanted to shut me up.
20.
Cold Water