The worst thing about hearts is they keep beating.

I've been stuck in this house for three years. This little cottage has been my prison, and him my jailer, since I was sixteen. I want to die, to be free from his capture, but that's not an option. If I kill myself, he'll kill my parents, who I don't remember, nor ever will. And he would never kill me because, as he's told me countless times, I'm too precious, and he spent to much work to capture me.

He calls me Allie, but I know that isn't my real name. I've been beaten, drugged, and tortured into forgetting my true name, though. So I call myself Allie as well, allowing him to have dominion over my identity.

"Allie, pet," he calls from his place on the couch, "be a dear and fetch me a beer." Knowing better than to refuse, I get up from the dusty corner; I'm only a pile of skin and bones, covered only with one of his old torn shirts. I'm the model of unhealthiness, with my emaciated limbs which could break at one's twist of the wrist, and ashen, pale skin with sunken-in eyes surrounded by purple bruises. In fact, the only healthy thing about me is my long black hair, reaching my mid-back, as he demands that I keep my locks in perfect health, for one of his strange reasons.

In contrast, he - John, that is - looks like a happy, healthy man. In his mid-twenties, with smooth, tan skin, shiny chestnut locks, and a charming smile, he's such an trustworthy character to most.

At least, I know I didn't suspect a thing about him.

Silently threading to the kitchen, I fetch him his beer before returning to the living room and handing it to him. The cottage is kept tidy, by me - another one of John's demands - and one does not simply refuse John...I learnt this lesson the hard way.

After staring at me for a few moments, John shows a lecherous smirk and pulls me down to his lap.

"Who do you belong to, Allie?" he asks, grabbing my wrist with such intensity, "Who is your master?"

And I so desperately want to scream, "I am not a possession! I'm not yours, nor will I ever be yours! And you are certainly not my master!" But I am so tired. Tired of broken wrists and bruised ribs. Tired of long periods of starvation and cold-water baths. Tired of fighting against this false identity, when I realize I will never be the same person again, even if I do remember who I am.

So I swallow down the acid crawling up my throat and whisper, "I'm yours, master. I belong to you."

His eyes light up and he smiles with shark-like teeth, happy that he's broken me, happy that he's destroyed my soul, my being, my identity.
"Good girl, Allie," he smirks at me, "you deserve a reward." So, he kisses my neck and, though I feel a shiver run down my spine, I hold back all protests, and allow him to push me back onto the couch. Staring off to the side, I allow him to have his way with me for the thousandth time; but this is the first time without any fight or resistance, I simply close my eyes and try not to feel his slimy hands and mouth everywhere. Not that it works, of course, I've learned it's impossible to clean myself of his touch, I'll always be dirty.

Then he's done, and he places a kiss upon my brow before telling me to clean both myself and the couch. Immediately, I follow his orders, ignoring the pain in my lower half and the substance of his intrusion sliding down my legs. As I walk into the cramped bathroom, I wonder why I allowed him to do this to me, to treat me as his slave. Looking into the mirror, I realize I have nothing to call myself, nothing to identity myself with or as; then, the answer to my question finally dawns on me.

If I cannot form my own identity, my own being, I may as well be the best person I can be.

His pet.

His slave.

His Allie.