Give Me Peace

by M.K. Harper

I’ve come to learn that our hardest and happiest moments usually happen within the span of a few seconds. Whether it’s good news or a brash decision that holds life-altering consequences, we rarely see it coming. But it’s the tough ones that stand out the most. They make an impact. There’s no time to brace or prepare yourself—mentally or physically.

Twice now, I’ve been blissfully unaware of that impending transition from happy to not. I was ten the first time. Mom and I had gone to church that morning, something we didn’t get to do very often because of her hectic work schedule. After that, we stopped by the local mall for some food court pizza, browsed a few stores, then headed home. It’d been a perfectly normal day, but

A few extra seconds at the mall would’ve made all the difference, but what’s done is done. Sadly, no one has figured out how to rewrite history yet. We struggled to make ends meet for a while, but Mom never let on how dire our situation was. She didn’t have to, though. I was a curious and perceptive kid;

Four years later, on May 23rd, 2017, it happened again. I’ve replayed that day a thousand times trying to make sense of it, but I doubt I ever will. I was walking home, frustrated and embarrassed, when that bright red pickup slowed beside me. I didn’t question the offered ride, not when the person driving was as familiar to me as my own name. They’d been a staple in my life for as long as I could remember. I was hot, and the sour mood I’d been in only made it worse, so I graciously agreed.

Or perhaps, some sense of foreshadowing took place, and deep down I knew the girl I once was ceased to exist the second I accepted that ride. I grew more wary with every mile, and despite knowing that something wasn’t right, I kept quiet. That sixth sense everyone talks about tried to warn me, but I stupidly ignored it. I brushed it off as paranoia, convinced there was a reasonable answer for all the questions I couldn’t bring myself to ask. Like why we passed my street.

I regret not fighting back. At least if I had, I wouldn’t feel culpable in my own kidnapping. I tend to bite my tongue, choosing silence over the possibility of ruffling any feathers. Mom says I’m a peacekeeper, constantly downplaying my own feelings in place of everyone else’s. Truthfully, I just hate confrontation.

He's had this planned for a while. It wasn’t a spur of the moment decision. Based on his level of preparedness, taking me was a well-thought-out process. This room has everything needed to keep me contained. I’ve never been outspoken. Just the thought of causing a scene or being an inconvenience makes me anxious. I was taught ‘you catch more flies with honey’ and I’ve made it a point to apply that to my everyday life. I’m nice to everyone, even when they aren’t nice to me. The whole reason I’d been walking home that day instead of riding the bus was because I had, once again, tried to be friendly with the boy who’d bullied me since grade school. And look where it got me.

I pleaded with the man that coached my t-ball games and hosted the annual Easter egg hunt. The pillar of our community who radiated trustworthiness. And like the flip of a switch, I watched someone I didn’t recognize in the slightest emerge from those cold black eyes of his.

I needed it to be a dream. A horrible, therapy-worthy nightmare that I’d wake from at any second. As my hands were pinned behind me, any hopes of that faded into nothing.

numbness set in. Survival mode took over. I shut down and ignored what was happening to keep myself from shattering. He moaned at the agonized sounds I made, and when he’d finally gotten his fill, the camera was switched off. I have no idea how long he violated my body for, it could’ve been minutes or hours, but my chest ached from the onslaught. He hadn’t touched me below the waist, and for that, I was grateful,

With Mom’s job, we never skirted the topic. But it was always discussed in clear and concise, anatomically correct wording. I didn’t know sex. Why would I, I was fourteen? I’d barely had my period for a full year.

I’m not sure if the psychological torture was intentional, but it worked. I was kept in a constant state of dread, wondering if the next time would be the last time. The food he gave me was barely nutritional, and more often than not, expired. But it was food. Every time my stash would start to dwindle, the paranoia would set in. I’d ration my meals down to bites, just in case he didn’t come back before I ran out.

I always knew things would escalate. By my guess, I’d been there a year when it finally happened. Time had been hard to keep track of when there was no sense of day or night. He’d come for me, the visit starting no different than the ones before it. I’d grown used to him groping my chest, but when his dirty hand slipped lower, my vision blurred. For the first time in a long time, tears filled my eyes. I’d done everything in my power to mentally prepare myself for that moment, but once faced with it, I crumbled.

The moment his greedy hand ghosted between my legs, I think another piece of me died. Every time after that, he pushed for more. The day his thick finger finally forced its way inside of me, I sobbed for hours. His assaults became relentless, each session going longer than the last.

When he made me orgasm for the first time, I was horrified. It was humiliating, and I felt so betrayed by my own body. My response was natural, but it didn’t make me hate myself any less. He licked the tears from my cheeks while chuckling at my distress. It was my lowest moment to-date. Every muscle went limp, my fight and will to live being ripped away from me. He loved that, knowing I’d been broken a little more.

Something clicked, and I realized that I would rather die fighting, than risk losing anything else. So when that lock twisted and the door swung open, I lunged. Teeth bared, arms swinging blindly, I gave it everything I had, determined to make it through that opening before he could close it. It was a stupid idea.

I can’t help but think that this is it. He’s finally going to kill me, or let nature take its course and do his dirty work for him. I’ve never been left for this long, and a small part of me welcomes whatever comes next. I’m so tired—the kind that can’t be fixed with a good night’s sleep or a hot meal.

As I lie here, my eyes wide open but unable to see a thing, I try to think of something good. It’s a game I’ve played for a while now, a way to keep myself grounded. When something awful happens, I list a reason to be thankful. Because even though I’m living any sane person’s version of Hell on Earth, I make it a point to remind myself that it could always be worse.

It’s sick, this psychological warfare that’s been waged. The idea that I could be thankful to this man for a single thing makes my skin crawl. How fucked is it that I’m appreciative he’s yet to fully rape me? I know what the statistics say. Most girls who’ve been in captivity for as long as I have don’t make it out alive. And when they do, they aren’t really living. They’re shells of who they once were, too broken to ever function normally.

Lochlan

I’ve spent more time in my office this past week than I ever have. Initially, when the twins splurged on this overpriced chair, I’d been pissed. We can’t afford to spend frivolously. At this point in the game, preserving our funds is crucial, knowing we’ll need every cent in the long run. Yet here I sit, appreciative of proper lumbar support at the ripe old age of twenty-eight.

Building a business from scratch, much less a private security and investigation firm, is no small feat. The idea took root when I was just a kid, but never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that we’d be where we are today. We’re still small fish in comparison to other agencies, but we’re doing it. We’re making a difference, and that’s all I’ve ever wanted.

SOTERIA,

We’re a ragtag bunch, but we’re family. We all have different reasons that led us to this point in our lives, some darker than others, but I couldn’t imagine my life without those four.

“We've got a lead. A solid one.” I close my eyes, relief flooding my system. A lead is far more preferable than a body. “A woman by the name of Sheena Wilcox phoned in the tip just a bit ago. She’s a CNA at Lyola Assisted Living. It seems one of her patients has been going on for a few days now about this girl that’s living under her porch.” Confusion swamps me, my eyebrows scrunching together as I try and make sense of Denvers statement.

“I should arrive before you. Might have enough time to scope out the place and get local authorities on site.” Denvers doesn’t seem too thrilled by that idea. He has jurisdiction, as the case went to him not long after Saylor went missing, but it’s always easier to play nice when you’re on someone else’s turf. “One more thing, Lochlan.” My spine straightens at the use of my first name.

three years ago. Ro and I were following a lead on the disappearance of a politician’s daughter. Her cellphone had pinged off a tower just before Laiken County, so we’d questioned the locals, hoping someone might've seen or heard something useful. The only thing we managed to find was Kade. He’d been a right asshole, shoving a crumpled manilla folder in my face, insistent that we look at the information he'd gathered on a local girl that'd been missing for two years. I’d been impressed with his effort and the thoroughness of his knowledge. Something about the desperate way he angrily demanded our help gave me pause, made me want to help him in whatever way I could. To this day, I still don’t know the full story, or why he’s taken it upon himself to bring Saylor home, but Kade’s dead set on trying his damndest.

even though it was an adjustment, we eventually found our groove. It wasn’t always easy, but we click more days than we don’t. He’s our brother—in all the ways that count—so it didn’t take long for his personal crusade to become our own.

Saylor’s grown on each of us, beyond just the loyalty we feel to help our friend. It was impossible to not get wrapped up in the blue-eyed girl with the button nose. Her pint-sized frame was enough to send our protective instincts into overdrive. She has fire, though. I’ve seen it a few times in the home videos we’ve been given access to. Saylor’s a champion for the underdog, always standing up for the weak and bullied. I can only hope she found some of that fight she reserves for everyone else. That she’s somehow still alive, and we aren’t headed towards a devastating conclusion.

From what we could tell, it’d been taken shortly after she was kidnapped. We were years late in finding it, and never came across another. That left us with two possible outcomes: she was already dead, or she’d been sold. Being so close to the coast, it made sense. It would’ve been too easy to traffic a young girl with that sort of access. The deep recesses of the internet are a vile place. Saylor’s photo had been discovered in a ‘meat market’,

Even with the information we gained, we never stopped searching. Kash and Krew have single-handedly wiped out a multitude of trafficking rings and flesh auctions, combing through each one for any sign of Saylor. It’s messed with their heads, all the twisted shit they’ve seen,

Denvers shouldn’t be far behind them.” I hate everything about this situation. All of the unknowns. I don’t know what to expect from the rest of the department, if Price’s deputies are going to go to bat for him or happily hand him over. It’s difficult to have faith in any of them when the man in charge is such a steaming pile of shit. Allegedly.

They’re here to execute a welfare check since the sheriff has been MIA. Last known sighting was after work on Friday, when he stopped by the nursing home. He failed to show up to work Monday morning, and after numerous attempts to reach him went unanswered, they finally received the go ahead for the search. So far, there’s no indication that they know anything about Saylor or the tip from the CNA, and I’d like to keep it that way. The less they know the better.”

“Is Sergeant Hannigan here?” I question Denvers. “Retired about a year ago.” His answer surprises me. Mainly because this is the first I’m hearing of it. Hannigan had been our local point of contact. He’d taken the initial statement from Saylor’s mom and filed the missing person’s report. We didn’t really have a reason to reach out, considering the case had been turned over to the FBI long before we came into the picture,

We can’t be this fucking close, only to walk away empty handed. Even if we don’t find Saylor alive, her remains would be better than nothing. It guts me to think that way, but we need closure. Kade especially. He’s burning the candle at both ends, trying to balance his everyday work with this inexplicable need that's eating him alive. This case has followed us for three years, a permanent fixture that we devote as much of our free time to as we can,

the second the deputy fully grasps the severity of the situation, he shuts down. The switch to him guarding his thoughts and emotions is damn near instantaneous, and who knows if that’s because he’s genuinely shocked by the circumstances, or if it's just a ploy to cover his own ass. He nods, handing the warrant back to Denvers before gesturing to his men to move aside.

He huffs at my dramatic declaration, but fuck anyone who thinks they’re going to stop me. We both know that bum knee of his can’t handle such a steep decline, so that rules him out. “We have procedures that need to be followed, Calloway. Protocols. You’re here because of me, which means it’s my ass on the line if you go in there all gung-ho and compromise a possible crime scene.” He gives me that look,

“Loch,” Ro calls out gruffly. I sigh at his hesitancy, knowing he’s worried about what I might find, but it needs to be me. There’s no way I’d send him in after everything he’s been through.

Just as I'm about to turn and call for Denvers to send someone to comb through the place, a tiny keyhole inside the bookshelf snags my attention. My gaze drops to the ground, noticing the faint arc where the concrete floor has been worn away.

The sight before me is so heart wrenching, I can’t process what I’m seeing. She’s here. Curled into a ball on that piece of shit mattress, the same one she’d been photographed on by the looks of it, Saylor’s petite form is engulfed by a dirty, blood-streaked baggy t-shirt. But the thing that has my breath suspended, my heart slowing to a nearly nonexistent thud, is the utter stillness.

“Duncan and Woolard were pulling in as we left. The scene’s still secure.” I nod, grateful we didn’t just leave everything to the locals.

Without making it too obvious, I glance at Roan. He’s tense, his hands squeezed into fists at his sides. He’s exhibiting all the signs of a panic attack, but I know it’ll only make things worse if I try to intervene. Denvers steps out to take a call, but I keep watching Ro, choosing to stay silent for the time being. I know he prefers to work through shit on his own, and I have no problem with that, so long as he actually does. I’ve known Roan for nine years. Of all places, we met playing a video game. He was seventeen and I was nineteen.

He’s exhibiting all the signs of a panic attack, but I know it’ll only make things worse if I try to intervene. Denvers steps out to take a call, but I keep watching Ro, choosing to stay silent for the time being. I know he prefers to work through shit on his own, and I have no problem with that, so long as he actually does. I’ve known Roan for nine years. Of all places, we met playing a video game. He was seventeen and I was nineteen.

I learned he was born in Albania, but his family had moved to the States when he was eight. He didn’t remember much about living there, and never really knew what made his parents make such a drastic move. Turns out, his dad had gotten involved with the mafia. He’d accrued debts he wouldn’t have been able to pay in five lifetimes, much less one. So he packed up his family and ran. But people who traffic everything from guns to flesh aren’t the type of men you walk away from. Maybe if he had handed himself over as payment, they wouldn’t have hunted him down and demanded the life of his innocent daughter in return. Even more fucked up than that, is that Ro’s father agreed. He traded his own pathetic existence for his child’s. Elira had been four years younger than Roan, but he loved his baby sister fiercely.

Roan aka Ro's background explained/expanded in next bit--big guy/skyscraper, green eyes, dirty blond hair to shoulders, broad like linebacker, Albanian but hates anything related to culture due to his background, 2yrs younger than Loch but considers him his brother, everything changed when he was 16yrs old and younger sister died in front of him, calls her Little Fighter, has dimples in both cheeks when he really smiles

They had him hand over his kid, made the entire family watch as she was brutalized, and still took his life after making him believe it’d been spared. It fractured Ro, having to stand there, unable to do anything. His mom disappeared shortly after, her heartbreak turning her into someone he didn’t recognize. So, from the age of sixteen, Ro had been on his own, fixing his own problems and making his own way.

But I’d lived in a bubble. My parents have more money than they know what to do with, but it’s never been enough. They’ve chased career achievements my entire life, and that didn’t leave much time for me. I was never treated poorly, just indifferently. But every summer I’d vacation at my Nan’s house in the UK, and those trips plenty made up for the lack of affection I received at home. When Nan died, she willed me everything. Along with the trust from my parents, I was pretty set. I guess my superhero obsession, steady cash flow, and Ro’s fucked up childhood somehow led us to talking about what we’d do differently if given the chance. The changes we could make, miniscule or grand. We were still kids when we first tossed around the idea of SOTERIA,

Lochlan aka Loch's background--honey colored eyes, brown hair, wears contacts but uses black rimmed glasses when eyes get tired, oldest of the group with Ro next just 2yrs younger, parents were rich but not caring, gran loved him when he visited her in Britain, knows British slang but didn't take to the accent

Roan

Guilt is a nasty bitch. She’s had her claws sunk deep in my psyche for so goddamn long, I’m doubtful I’ll ever be rid of her. The pain of losing Elira has dulled over the years. It’s not as debilitating as it once was. Those early days, I barely left the bed. I lost all sense of purpose, and a few times, I debated if it was even worth it to keep putting up the good fight. It sounded so much easier to just follow her into the next life.

I’m once again that scrawny sixteen-year-old being held by two beefed up criminals as I’m forced to watch the desecration and death of my sister.

And like an obsessed lover, grief is always shadowing guilt. I’ve thought about that day so often, I have it memorized, picking it apart down to the minute Elira took her last breath. I’ve agonized over what I could’ve done differently. If I’d taken her for ice cream, then maybe we wouldn’t have been home when those Albanian fucks kicked the door in. Or if