Again and again, the officers pulled me from the hole and restrained me on the barrel. Over and over, the man who reeked of onions returned and defiled my body. Sometimes his visits were quick. A few thrusts and done. Other times, I thought the never-ending torture would rip me in half.

Whenever the officers came, I fought and screamed and begged for news about Ashley. Had he returned? Was he well? Did he find his feral pirate? How long had it been? I pleaded for answers until they stuffed the gag into my mouth.

They never spoke. Not a word between them and certainly not one offered to me. But I didn’t need conversation to understand the intentions of men.

Women existed to them as nothing more than vessels for pleasure. Worthless slaves for whomever they answered to. It didn’t matter how much pain they caused me. My health was of no concern as long as I was breathing when we reached England. If I died incidentally… Well, they would still have a body to deliver. Ashley would still receive his promotion.

They would never be punished for the horrendous murders of my fellow captives. The laws of Englishmen didn’t protect African slaves or rebellious pirates. There would be no justice.

Every time they returned, they restrained me, gagged and blindfolded, to the barrel and scrubbed my body with vinegar water to kill the stench of death. Then the other man would come, and it would be only him and his terrible cruelty. Afterward, I was chained in the black hole with the decaying bodies.

As the days passed, the air became absolutely pestilential. How many days? How often did they come? The displacement of time had a way of fracturing the mind. Some days, I struggled to hold onto a thread of rational thought.

They fed me bites of fish after every violation. My hunger pangs remained the least of my torments, and my throat never felt parched beyond what I could handle. They came often enough to keep me hydrated.

Daily visits, I decided. The constant pain between my legs suggested that some of those visits occurred multiple times a day.

I’d been in here long enough that my stitches needed to be removed. When the tight, itchy skin became unbearable, I spent hours twisting unnaturally in my shackles and using the broken edge of a fingernail to pick the threads from the underside of my foot.

Giving up would’ve been so much easier. But I didn’t know how to do that.

By dint of stubborn will, I thrashed and snarled every time they came. Twice, they struck me so hard I lost awareness and woke in a fog upon the barrel. Each time they sent me back to the hole, I was weaker, more depleted, the desire to live gradually draining from my bones.