This all went on for two years, at which point I was quite heavily addicted, and basically bedded anyone Philippe selected. I am not proud of this, but I accept it as something I did at the time to get by. Still, I don’t accept the word victim. I am a survivor, as the word victim only means I pity myself and let myself be pitted by others, which is bad for my mental state, while to survive means you have had a bad time, but are willing to move on.
But back to the story.
In those two years I slowly fell out of love with Philippe, seeing him for the guy he was, and how he used me for money. We never talked about his debt anymore, and he didn’t get beaten up anymore, but still I stayed as I had grown dependent on him for drugs and, basically, I had no one else to lean on. I had no money, I couldn’t go home, and even if I had I am not sure if I would because I was ashamed of who I had become. It was a circle of no escape, and so at night when I was alone, sometimes after ‘a friend’ had ‘come over’, I would just cry in a seemingly endless waterfall of tears, until there were none to spill and I started to plan my escape.
This escape came in the form of John, a bald German, who came to visit and who seemed strangely kind of what I had grown accustomed to. He was nothing like the people I had ‘had’ until then, almost all slick and kinda creepy Italians, mostly over the age of 40. He asked me my age, and as usual I lied, and I saw he didn’t believe me. We had sex, yes, but he was uncommonly gentle and kind, almost as if he was afraid I would break at the slightest touch. After as we lay there he asked me questions, where I came from, how I had come to be there, and for some reason I trusted him enough to tell him the truth and begged him to take me away. And he did. When he left to go back to Germany he swung by in his car, I got in, and we just drove off as I left everything I owned behind, not daring to pack a bag and show my intent. It was not like I had a lot of stuff anyway, or at least anything I really treasured, and most really expensive gifts had been sold by then for drug money. They were just things, holding me down, and for a long time, driving in the shotgun seat his car with the windows rolled down, the sweet autumn air blowing in from the countryside, I had never felt so free. I felt my clothes stuck to me as if they were dirty rags, a remained of my past, and so I stripped them off and rode next to him naked, with the occasional trucker horn blowing as we passed them, and John, John just laughed about it all.