I still hated it, but I’d learned to use it. I popped my earbuds in and listened to music, drowning out the world, and processing it all. When processing became too much, I went back to the music and the thud of my feet on the pavement—the sharp knives in my lungs.
Anything was better than the worst-case scenario. Anything was better than him imagining her instead of me from the beginning.
Each morning I convinced myself a little more, that it really was an accident—a slip of the tongue in the heat of the moment. How many times had I called Ian by Erik’s name, and vice versa? Everyone did it. It could be explained away so easily.
Except, I couldn’t let it go that easily. What if it hadn’t been an excuse? What if I gave in and believed him, only to find out later I was wrong? It wasn’t like he’d admit it if it was true. Who did that? Who admitted they’d done something so terrible without being cornered? No one.
That doubt had kept me from calling him—from seeking him out for an explanation. Because I knew how much I wanted to believe him, and he wouldn’t even have to try before I begged for him to hold me again.
“Are you ready?” Erik asked, bringing me out of my thoughts.
I shook out my arms, rolling my head around my neck, and breathed as deep as my lungs could expand. One thing Daniel had given me that he couldn’t take away was the confidence that I could own my past. Not just accept it but own it. And I fully intended to.
“Yeah.”
“I’ll be right outside if you need me.”
He squeezed my hand and rounded the corner to a smaller seating area. He hadn’t wanted to be in the room to hear everything, and I didn’t want him to know all that had happened either. It would only weigh on him more than it already did. He also stayed away from the women as much as possible to help them feel comfortable in their readjustment.
I closed the doors behind me and smiled at the women as I made my way to the empty seat. Some smiled back. Some didn’t. Some looked healthy and almost at the end of their stay in Haven while others looked battered and on the brink of destruction at any moment.
“Hi, guys. I’m Hanna Brandt. My brother and I started Haven together.”
“You help run the charity thing,” one of the girls says. She had been one to share her story at the gala, and I envied her bravery, talking about her survival in front of hundreds to bring awareness.
“Yeah. I, uh, I’m also the catalyst for Haven. Me and my sister, Sofia.” A few met my eyes while others stared at their fidgeting hands, and I struggled to swallow past the lump in my throat. “She died when we were taken as teens.”
At that confession, everyone’s eyes snapped to mine, and I struggled to meet theirs. I took off my bracelets, setting them on the coffee table and laid my hands on my knees, not hiding the faint pink scars.
“I was shackled to a bed for almost the entire four months. And I fought like hell to break free for the first couple of weeks,” I said, explaining the marks. “Four months we survived—if you can call it that—until Sofia didn’t. I was rescued the next day.” Wetness leaked unbidden down my cheek, and I swiped it away.
“How?” one of them asked.
“Drug overdose.”
“Why are you telling us this?” another asked.
I laughed, not one-hundred percent sure I had a good answer. “Because I think I forgot how important it is to talk about it. Because sometimes it’s good to share with people who get it. Sometimes it’s good to feel not so alone. Because sometimes it feels good to know that you can. Even nine years later. Of course, we have top therapists and doctors here. But they don’t know for sure when they say you’ll make it through this. They will do their best and believe in you every step of the way, but even then, it’s a hope. They don’t understand the doubt, hurt, and anger because they didn’t feel it. They don’t understand the hope that lingers that maybe you won’t have to make it through this,” I whispered.
Some eyes dropped away, and I knew it was true. I’d hit that point a million times, hoping that if it just all ended, I wouldn’t have to feel the pain and shame anymore. Not everyone got that.
“They don’t understand that you did everything right. You didn’t leave a drink unattended. You never went anywhere alone. And yet, somehow, it still happened. They don’t understand the fear of waking back up in the hell we escaped.”
A few head nods encouraged me to keep going. “I guess I’m here because I found myself needing to talk about it. Because I realized that even though I handled it and accepted the past, shame and anger still had a tight hold of me. I think I just needed to be around people who really understood.
“I wanted to share with you that this place was founded by someone who does understand. Coming here at first feels great. You’re free—physically. But mentally, the battle has just begun. When I first talked about my captivity, I didn’t know how to explain to my therapist that there were days when men wouldn’t come to my bed, and I’d cry, almost wanting them to. Because if they came, then they still needed me. If they came, then I wasn’t trash that needed to be taken out. If they came, I was still useful and got another day with my sister.
“There were also days when I hoped that they would just come in and kill me. Probably more of those than the others. But Sofia always
