Life hasn't exactly been a walk in the park for America's ice princess Olivia Grace Whitmore.
Orphaned, abandoned and exploited, she wears a strong impenetrable armour of coldness and indifference.
But it all changes with a chance encounter with th...
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I felt the walls closing on me.
I could hear their humorless chuckles as I screamed to be let out. The thumping of my fists ricocheted around the container, and a sense of helplessness washed over me.
I didn't know what I had done to deserve this.
I wanted to hold my father's hand and embrace my mother's warmth, not be locked in this cage.
I couldn't breathe here.
They didn't care about my pleas or cries, instead, they fed on my agony. It had been days since they kidnapped me, and I realized no one was coming.
I was all alone.
As the stench of my own urine reached my nostrils, I was overwhelmed with dread and fear.
I didn't think I would survive.
But I did survive.
I opened my eyes before I got consumed by the darkness taking refuge in my mind. I sighed and sat up straight in my bed. Another sleepless night of me reliving that wretched memory.
But the unyielding despair and pain that always accompanied these nightmares were gone, instead, I felt numb and detached.
Getting locked in that compact room had served as a trigger to memories I'd rather keep suppressed. The sequence of events of that horrid week from a decade ago repeatedly played in my head. They had belittled me and physically abused me. They had locked me up in a freezer in the basement as punishment for my cries and insolence.
Instead of focusing on the dreadful memory of captivity, I held onto the memory of crying into my mother's arms, after being freed from the torture. I had fought enough demons inside my head to face my fears and trauma, and I wasn't going to succumb now.
I wasn't willing to fall into the vicious cycle of self-destruction again.
I had gone through many phases in my past, from anger to withdrawal. I had battled all of it with my mother's unrelenting affection and support. I had channeled my rage to my advantage, making myself stronger, and finding my solace in football.
I had learned that we could let the bad things that happened to us define who we are, or we could define who we are.
And I chose the latter.
If I would've let fear dictate my life, I would've never truly lived. So I had decided to screw fear, and tell my own goddamn story. The reigns of my life were no longer in possession of distressing flashbacks, but in my own hands.
