
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/862224.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      The_X-Files
  Character:
      Tamar_Davis, Dana_Scully, Walter_Skinner, Fox_Mulder
  Additional Tags:
      may_be_triggering, to_say_more_would_spoil_it, Please_Don't_Hate_Me, NC17
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-06-29 Words: 4490
****** Quiet, He'll Hear You ******
by Dryad
Summary
     Fear can either be paralyzing or motivational.
Notes
     So...I can't post any tags for this fic because to do so would spoil
     it.
     Having said that, THIS FIC MAY BE TRIGGERING for...really bad things.
     None a lot of this is explicitly shown, but, y'know.
     If you're having a vulnerable day, you should probably skip this one.
     Not even joking.
     Originally written for the X_Files_Lyric_Wheel in 2005.
     ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
     Dedicated to my ex-roommate, Amy C. Because survival is the best
     revenge.
     ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
See the end of the work for more notes
~*~
 
Tamar huddled against the back wall, eyes streaming from the bright light as
she peeked through her fingers.
She didn't think he'd want her, she was dirty and could smell herself.
Sometimes he liked that, though.
She wiped her eyes with her free hand, watched him drag a new woman into the
room.
He let go, let the woman slump to the ground in a heap before approaching
Tamar. He unlocked the cuff around her wrist. Sniffing, he frowned and went
into the other room, returned a moment later with an empty bucket, a bar of
soap, and a rough cloth, which he threw on the ground. "Get clean, slop out."
Tamar took the bucket to the far corner where the other buckets were. They were
full, and stank far worse than she did. She brought cloth and soap to the open
pipe and began scrubbing off the grime and the sweat. Washing her hair was
always awkward, but it could be done if she did it with cupped hands.
The water drained away into a grill set into the ground. Sometimes the water
wouldn't go away, flooding the room until she was forced to perch on the rock
and hope he would arrive sooner than later. Once he didn't come for a long
time, and the cold water had risen over the rock. She'd cried and screamed
until her throat was sore, scared of the things in the water that she couldn't
see.
Later on she'd gotten sick, and he’d fed her yummy soup. That was good.
When she was done washing, eyes finally adjusted to the light, she snuck a
glance at the unmoving woman, then crept to the door to see what the man was
doing. He was at the stove, stirring something in a pot. Smelled like beans.
She hoped she would get some, because he hadn't left her any food the last
time, and she was very hungry.
Slop out, he'd said. Carefully grabbing the full buckets, she took them to the
toilet and dumped the contents, then washed them with sweet smelling liquid
soap. Pinching herself for luck, she stood on tip-toe and looked at the
reflection in the mirror, before brought the buckets back into her hole. She
had been tempted not to wash her hands, but she didn't want to risk the painful
consequences. He usually liked her clean when he came to her. Afterwards she
crept to the door again.
He added something to the pot, stirred once more, then poured the contents into
two bowls, one of which he put on the rough wooden floor. Tamar scooted back
into the room and took the bowl underneath the table as he sat down. The beans
were too hot to eat, so she blew on them instead. She had just fished out a
single bean when she heard a low moan. The chair scraped against the floor when
he got up, and vibrated as he stomped across the room with heavy, booted feet.
Heart pounding, Tamar concentrated on getting another bean, smooshing it
between two fingers, feeling the burn on her skin.
Another moan was cut off.
Tamar shoveled in the hot white paste, scorching her mouth, barely bothering to
chew. In her haste to fill her belly she forgot to remember where he was, and
nearly choked when two hands grabbed her around her hips. Splinters dug into
her knees as he pulled her back and kicked her legs together. Breathing in
nose-tickling dust and the smell of dry wood, she lay still, listening to the
rasp of
a zipper being drawn down.
The floor was cool and the air was warm. Tamar remembered grass between her
toes, and laughter, and trying to suck the flesh from a ripe peach through its
skin. The wood pricked her cheek, and two floorboards from her outflung hand a
daddy longlegs slowly made its way up the table leg. The spider jarred in her
vision, once, twice. Then a heavy weight draped itself across her back. There
was a steady, burning rhythm between her thighs. She could only take short,
shallow breaths. Thankfully, her body began to liquify, slickness easing the
pain and even beginning to turn it into small sparks of pleasure, not that she
would ever let him know such a thing was possible. She scarcely believed it
herself. It was the only thing she had, her secret.
Soon enough he grunted and got off of her, slapped her lightly on the butt to
get her to move out of his way. She finished her food, licking the bowl clean
before rinsing and putting it in the sink. Ignoring her wet inner thighs, she
retreated to her room and waited for him to make the next move.
The best view of his location was in the up corner beyond the pipe. Tamar sat
on her heels, idly peeling skin from between her toes. The woman hadn't made a
sound for some time. Her hair was pretty, almost the red of the soup cans in
the kitchen.
The man finished eating and shoved away from the table. "Girl, clean."
Tamar did as she was told, surreptitiously swiping the bowl with her hand and
sucking her fingers before washing it. She was still hungry, even though her
stomach roiled at the same time.
So far he hadn't done to her what he'd done to the others, and the one time
he'd tried to make her do things, he'd gotten angry and beaten her because
she'd thrown up over him.
Someday, she knew, he'd hurt her too.
She put the bowl in the rack, turned to see where he was, and found him staring
at her. Was he ready again? It wouldn't be the first time he'd taken her twice
in a day. At least it didn't happen often, only when he brought others to the
room.
"Come here," he said.
She approached him slowly, not meeting his eyes. His feet were big, bigger than
hers, bigger than any feet she had ever seen in her entire life.
"You're a good girl, aren't you? You're my good girl. Sit on your Dada's lap."
One time, a long time ago, when she had first come here, before she got sick
and he fed her soup, she had refused to do what he wanted. He hadn't touched
her, and she learned her lesson. So now she did whatever he wanted.
His pants were soft against her thighs and butt, and when he pulled her close
she rested her head on his shoulder, because he liked that. His shirt was soft
too, and fuzzy on the collar. Usually he smelled the same every time he brought
a woman in, like sweat and smoke. He was different now, though. She took a few
cautious sniffs, wary of disturbing him. There was a sharp odor to him, a rank
sourness that made her uneasy.
His arms tightened around her once, twice, and then he shoved her to the floor.
"Get in your hole."
He slid the door shut after she scurried in, but didn't bother to cuff her to
the rock. The room plunged into familiar darkness. After awhile Tamar stepped
over the pipe to pee in the bucket. She splashed water between her legs to get
as much of him off of her as possible, wiped her skin free of the excess.
Then she crept to the woman, feeling blindly until her fingers touched
clothing, a shoe, a leg. The woman didn't move, but her breathing was steady.
Tamar squatted and peeled sticky hair away from the woman's face, rubbed her
back like her own momma used to do.
"Wha..."
Tamar leaned forward, made a little questioning noise in the back of her
throat, patted the woman's forehead with as much reassurance as she could
muster.
"Where, where am I?"
There was a dry cough, and then more questions.
"What is this place?"
Always the same words, over and over, no matter who spoke them, then the fear,
and the crying. Tamar helped the woman sit up, left her side to go the pipe and
bring her a swallow or two in her cupped hands.
"Thank you. Do you have a name? My name's - " a half-sob, then. "my name's
Dana."
"Shh."
"My head...god, I feel sick."
"Tamar," she croaked, throat scratchy from long disuse.
"I'm sorry?"
"Tamar," she repeated.
"Oh my god – Tamar Davies? Jesus Christ."
Tamar swallowed and quelled a sudden flood of tears as a warm foreign hand
found her knee. "Where Momma?"
"Water?"
This time she helped the woman crawl to the pipe, listened to her moaning and
retching all the while, showed her where the opening was, listened to her slurp
the cold liquid down. How did the woman know her name?
The woman slumped against Tamar, who laid her flat on the ground. She didn't
know what was wrong, and there was no way to find out until the light came back
on, so she lay down and snuggled up to the warmth and sweet smell. Oddly
enough, the woman smelled rank and sour too, although not like the man, or at
least, not in the same way. Not bitter. None of the women ever smelled bitter.
"Tell me," the woman gasped, a swift hitch of breath as she spoke. "tell me
about the man in the other room."
What was to tell?
"Talk to me, please – "
"Shh," Tamar whispered, touching the woman' arm. "Bat man, bat, man bat.
Momma."
"We have...have to – "
"Shh," Tamar repeated, curling up as close as possible to her heat.
"Tamar, do you know... do you know how long you've been here?"
Tamar shrugged, then realized the woman couldn't see and said, "No."
"God. Mm, tell me what you remember."
Tamar frowned. There was the peach, and laughter in the garden. The softness of
her torn blue blankie. Momma's curly dark hair, her large brown eyes. The cream
colored bug. "Momma, Momma."
"Have you ever been outside this room?"
"Yeah. I go room."
"And that's all?"
"Yeah."
"Shit. I, mm, I don't know what happened to your mother. Do you remember the
rest of your family?"
Tamar shook her head again. "No."
The woman sighed again, spoke softly. "You and your mother, mm, disappeared ten
years ago while driving from Ohio to Maine to visit your grandparents. You have
a father, uh, a father, and two older sisters who love you very much and can't
wait to see you again. We have to get out of here as soon as possible, okay?"
No one leaves, Tamar wanted to say. Her heart raced at the influx of new
information. She didn't know what a year was, but a father and sisters sounded
intriguing. Maybe they looked like Momma?
No one left, though.
Ever.
She'd cleaned up the bathroom and the kitchen after he was done with the other
women. She'd heard the groans, felt the sharp white bits under her feet, had
seen the red sticky on the walls, washed the grey lumps off the bathtub.
Momma had told her to shhh
~ quiet, he'll hear you ~
Tamar was glad the other women were gone. None of them had liked her. They
screamed when she touched them in the dark of the room, and some of them had
hit her even though she had done nothing to them. And all of them had fought
the man, kicking and biting, clutching at nothing as he dragged them out of the
room.
Usually he shouted at her to get back in her hole, but one time he hadn't, and
she hovered in the doorway, listening to the heavy silence that followed the
fight. Heart pounding in her throat, she had tip-toed towards the bathroom,
wanting to see but not wanting him to notice her. Rounding the corner, she saw
that the woman was naked, bent over the sink. The man stood between her legs,
pants around his ankles, his hands around her neck. The red sticky flowed from
the woman's nose and mouth, splattering everywhere as she clawed at his arms,
flailing wildly for something to grab onto.
He looked directly at Tamar and she froze, breath catching in her throat. His
eyes crossed as his hips smacked the woman's butt over and over again. As he
did so, the woman choked and went limp.
Tamar began to back away as the man grinned and smashed the woman's head
against the sink. Gathering her hair in one hand he tried to lift her head back
up, but Tamar could see that the faucet handle had gone into her eye, and her
head was caught.
She had gone back to the room, closed the door, and crammed herself into the
corner on the high ground on the other side of the pipe. Shivering, she had
stuck her thumb in her mouth and tried to remember how the peach tasted.
Maybe if Dana was good, the man wouldn't hurt her.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"When you are held captive, people
somehow expect you to spit in your
captor's face and get killed."
Patty Hearst
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 
There was a little bit between her fingers, a rough edge that hurt when she
pulled on it. She left it alone, pressing her fingertips along her scalp,
searching for more scabs that were ready to be picked off. Dana was quiet, but
not cold quiet.
Maybe Dana thought leaving was bad.
Now there were sore spots on her head, so Tamar felt behind her ears, then her
armpits and below her knees, between her legs. There was nothing there, no
stray hairs to pull out or dry skin to rub away.
After awhile, she drew her legs up, put her cheek on her knees and slept.
"Shh."
Tamar fully woke when something touched her shoulder.
"Shh," Dana repeated. "It's time to go."
When Dana tugged on her shoulder Tamar stood up, and when Dana grabbed her
wrist and pulled, Tamar followed her to the door, but when Dana cracked open
the door and said, "Come on," Tamar refused.
"Can go," she fiercely whispered back, planting her feet and trying to jerk her
arm out of Dana's grasp. "Can go!"
"We have to," Dana answered. She sounded like the man did before he hit or
kicked, soft and low. "Tamar, we can't stay here, we have to go now."
No matter how hard she plucked at Dana's fingers on her wrist, the woman still
managed to bring her into the big room. Even so, Tamar wasn't stupid - she made
no sound as she fought. Dana was stronger, though, and Tamar stopped only when
Dana stopped in front of another door.
"Please, please," Dana whispered, fumbling at the latch.
A sudden squeal pierced the air. Tamar froze, then clapped her free hand over
her ear.
"Shit!" Dana looked over Tamar's shoulder and then scrabbled for something in
her pants pocket. "God, please - "
Tinny babble came from down the hallway next to the big room. Voices, none of
which Tamar could understand were cut by static and the man, who occasionally
screamed "No!" and "Dammit!"
Whatever Dana was looking for in her pocket she must have found, for she stuck
something into the latch, jiggled it, and pulled the door open all the way.
Transfixed, Tamar stood open-mouthed and dumb.
She remembered.
The air was heavy with sweetness and the chalky-juicy odor of broken grass, the
floor of her hole when it was wet, and other things she couldn't put a name to.
There was wind on her face, warm and cool at the same time, grass and leaves
and bushes and clouds and crickets and birds.
She - no. It made her feel funny, like she was going to throw up.
Dana didn't care. She pried Tamar's hand from the door frame and pushed her
onto the flat stone serving as a step. It was cold and ever so slightly damp
under her feet.
Beyond the step was an area with a couple of bare patches of dirt, tall weeds,
and four mounds of the brightest green grass she had ever seen. Some ways away
were bushes and trees.
She hung back as Dana pulled her towards the treeline.
It was too much.
She wanted to go back inside.
Dana jerked on her wrist to make her go faster after a cry of sheer rage ripped
through the air. She stepped on a pebble and cried out and then she was on the
ground and her mouth was full of dirt.
"Shh, be quiet," Dana breathed.
Tamar struggled to get up, but Dana crawled on top of her and she could barely
breathe. Her ribs hurt.
"I know you're out there!" the man yelled. "I'm going to find you and fucking
kill you!"
She gulped in air and Dana promptly clapped a hand over her mouth, and when
Tamar moaned, pinched her nose shut with the other.
"I know who you are!" shouted the man.
"Shh," Dana tightened her grip.
Everything went black.
When she woke up, Dana was stroking her cheek. Dana looked bad. The whites of
her eyes were all red, and her face was black and blue. There were long bruises
on her throat.
Dana shifted and said, "It's time to go."
The sky had faded to darkness while Tamar slept, but not dark like night. She
shrank away from the trees when they touched her, but there was nothing she
could do about the things that snapped and poked her feet, the scratches on her
legs, or how cold she felt.
Eventually Dana stopped. "We'll camp here."
Tamar didn't know why here was better than any where else in the woods. They
had gone up and down, crossing two streams, passing through a couple of
clearings carpeted with tiny, tart, wild strawberries that made her even more
hungry than before. The trees were not as big, their trunks thinner, maybe the
width of her leg, not as thick as Dana's.
Sitting on her heels, she watched Dana limp around, gathering branches that
were on the ground and dragging them over to a nearby broken pine with one end
still on its foot. Dana placed the branches against the tree, then pushed
handfuls of dead leaves into the open space beneath.
"Get in."
Tamar obeyed, crawling in on hands and knees. It was better than outside, even
if the wind did come in, and things were creeping in the wood. Dana came in
after her, blocking the wind that came from the front, and Tamar found herself
almost comfortable. Besides, Dana was warm, hotter than she had been when the
man had first brought her to the hole.
Unlike her hole, the darkness here was filled with sound. Owls hooted, and
something else screamed every so often. There was a flurry of wings and then a
shrill squeal, followed by absolute silence. Once she thought she heard someone
walking nearby, crunching through the leaves, splashing through the nearby
stream. Just when she was about to nudge Dana the woman awoke with a start,
shifting to look out towards the noise. Whatever was out there must have
stopped, or gone away, for there were no more sounds and Dana went back to
sleep.
Tamar wished she could sleep as easily. Her eyes snapped open at every out of
the ordinary sound, even when Dana shifted, at the ghostly touches of insects
on her skin. She watched the long night lighten, until once again she could see
the forest that surrounded them.
Spears of sunlight lanced through the crowns of the trees when she heard the
first call. Dana hadn't moved, although she was still breathing, and Tamar
couldn't decide whether or not she felt safer next to Dana or not when the call
came again, and again, and again, seemingly from all directions.
A dry crack sounded behind her and she twisted to see what was happening. The
view was broken by the greenery which Dana had woven through the branches, but
it didn't matter, because Dana was moving now, leaving Tamar even more chilled.
"Stay there and be quiet," said Dana. She carefully stood and took a step,
stumbling then catching herself against a tree on the next step. "Sir?"
Another person walked into the clearing, but Tamar could only see their legs
from where she was. Whoever it was, they were bigger than Dana. Then Dana sat
on the ground all at once, as if she were really tired, and a big man squatted
beside her. He made her drink from an orange bottle while he spoke into a small
gray box that gibbered back at him loudly.
After Dana motioned to her, Tamar crept out from under the branches. She was
stiff and cold and her feet still hurt.
She couldn't tell what the big man was thinking as she walked towards them, but
his face was all screwed up like he'd been hurt or pinched really hard. She
ignored Dana and went right up to him and huddled against him, figuring he
would like that. It was scary, because she didn't know what he might do, and
the man sometimes did and sometimes didn't like it when she did things before
he asked, and once she lost hearing in both ears when he hit her head after she
unbuttoned his pants when he hadn't told her to.
Instead of holding her, he took off his blue and white checked shirt, wrapping
it around her. He was tall and the shirt came to her knees.
"Tankoo," she said.
"You're welcome," he answered, his voice cracking with emotion.
Things happened like a dream after that.
The big man gave her something he called gorp to eat, but it was too hard for
her to chew, so he gave her a flat waxy wafer instead. After the first cautious
bite, she remembered it was called chocolate, and crammed half of it into her
mouth, holding the rest even though it made her hands sticky. It was good but
she threw up afterwards.
Despite her best efforts to stay by his side, the big man made her sit next to
Dana when the other people arrived. She kept waiting for the man to show up,
too.
But he never did.
After a while, the big man came and sat with her and Dana. She didn't
understand half of what he said. He gave her something salty and sweet to
drink, and then everyone stood up and started to walk in the same direction.
When she was too tired to walk any more, the big man carried her, and she fell
asleep against his shoulder.
 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"To a terrorized person, an open
door is not an open door."
Martin Symonds, M.D.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 
Her room was white, with a big picture window overlooking a little park. There
was a tall tree in the center of the park, and places where people sat when it
was sunny out. Inside, she had a soft bed and a bathroom that had a toilet and
a sink and a shower. She liked to stand in the shower until the water no longer
seemed hot. Or until the nurses came in and made her get out.
It was dark outside now, but she looked out of the window anyway, ignoring
everyone else in the room, even Dana.
"Is she, is she normal, Agent Scully?"
"As normal as can be expected, considering, Mr Davies."
Tamar could see the man they called her father sit down in one of the stuffed
chairs by the door as reflected by the window. He blew his nose and then wiped
his eyes with the used tissue.
"No, I mean...will she always look like that?"
Dana shrugged. "Ten years of malnutrition isn't easily corrected. The bald
patches on her scalp will probably grow back and her skin will readjust once
she spends some time outside, but she'll never be taller than she is now. It's
unlikely she'll ever have pubic hair."
"Christ," A tall girl named Leila tossed her hair over her shoulder. "What
about her teeth and her legs? She looks like a goddamned refugee."
"Lack of vitamin D," Dana said. "We used to call it Ricketts. She's already
been fitted for a pair of dentures, they should be ready within the next couple
of days. She has an appointment with the physiotherapist this afternoon for leg
braces and a physical exercise program to strengthen her musculature. She'll
need proper nutrition and as much time in the sun as she can stand, Mr Davies,
in order to prevent the onset of osteoperosis in later years."
"And her mental state?" asked the other woman, who had short yellow hair and
wore round glasses. She swayed towards Leila, but Leila twitched away.
"Leila," Tamar's father said. "Miranda was just asking."
"I don't give a shit what she's asking, she has no right to be here," Leila
spat.
"This is not - "
"Yasmin should be here, not your new wife," Leila continued, folding her arms
tightly against herself. "Yasmin should be here."
There was a short silence, then Dana shifted and said, "Are there any other
questions I can answer for you?"
"You think she's capable of doing rejoining normal society?" Miranda asked,
glancing at Leila.
"With therapy, special schooling, and support from her family, yes, I think
it's possible. It won't be easy, but it is possible."
Mr Davies got to his feet. "Alright. Tamar, we'll be back to visit you
tomorrow, okay? G'night, pumpkin."
Except for Dana, they shuffled out of the room, smiling scared.
Dana approached the bed and Tamar closed her eyes. She felt something touch her
hair, her cheek.
"It's okay, sweetie," Dana spoke low. "You've done what you had to do to
survive, and don't let anyone ever tell you differently. You will survive this
too, as I did."
Tamar heard the creak of the door and a man said, "Scully?"
"I'll be out in a minute, Mulder," Dana waited and then murmured, "Remember,
Tamar. You did what you had to do, and you will do what has to be done now.
Survive, and be well."
Warm breath washed over her face, and she felt the featherlight touch of lips
against her brow.
She slept.
 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
'In some cases, people may have considerable ambivalence over viewing a crime
as an actual crime (with a victim)...When the victim has had a long-standing
relationship or connection with the murderer, it is easier to place some blame
on the victim.'
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 
Author's notes: Rhyme courtesy of Rhi, who sent me the most amazing, most
perfect piece
Fairy Tale Rhyme from Buffy the Vampire Slayer:
Can't even shout, can't even cry,
The Gentlemen are coming by
Looking in windows, knocking on doors
Need to take seven and they might take yours.
Can't call to mom, can't say a word,
You're gonna die screaming but you won't be heard
 
~*~
End Notes
     I'm very proud of this piece. Took me two years to write, and even
     though it is flawed, I won't fix it because I was writing to the best
     of my abilities at the time and it's important to see how far you've
     come as a writer.
     It was extraordinarily difficult to write. One of my big dilemmas was
     how to portray what happened while a) using the voice of a character
     who doesn't have the words to describe what she's seen and
     experienced and b) not make it titillating to those who would
     perpetrate such acts. I eventually reached the conclusion that
     there's no way I could have written it without it being titillating
     to someone whose nature is twisted that way. I have to admit I feel
     guilty about that, too.
     I've never experienced any kind of abuse (though I was once grabbed
     on the street by someone I saw every day)(and when I told people
     about it, they mocked me, because the guy was old and seemed
     harmless)('seemed' being the operative word) and I wanted to explore
     some of the things I had read about in my crime textbooks. I don't
     know if I got it right, but judging from some of the comments I
     received, I was somewhat successful.
     In no way do I want to suggest that the one time rape is an
     experience the victim finds pleasure in. Having said that, however,
     it is my understanding that long term non-consensual sex between the
     same people can have that effect, which is to say, the body reacts to
     the stimuli even though the mind is in a completely different state
     (Trudy in When Rabbit Howls mentions this specifically). Role play of
     this nature between consenting adults is not to be confused with what
     I've written above.
     Finally, my story 'Birthday' is the companion piece to this tale, and
     can be found on The Grove and Gossamer. It was also written for the
     Lyric Wheel, and although it's a prequel, it should be read after
     Quiet.
     The following books were of great aid in the writing of this story:
     Sexual Homicide; Patterns and Motives - Robert Ressler, Ann Burgess,
     and John Douglass, The Free Press, 1992 (particularly chapters 13:
     "The Victim's Family and its Response to Trauma", and 14, "Victims:
     Lessons Learned for Responses to Sexual Violence".
     Stolen Lives - Oufkir, Malika. Miramax Press, 2002
     Patty Hearst quote - p.45 - The Perfect Victim: the True Story of
     'The Girl In The Box'. McGuire, Christine and Carla Norton. Virgin
     (UK), William Morris (US), 1992 - An extremely difficult read.
     Martin Symonds quote - p.149 – The Perfect Victim, McGuire and Norton
     Final quote, p. 194 - Sexual Homicide. Ressler, Burgess, and Douglas.
     The Free Press, 1992
     Why They Kill: The Discoveries of a Maverick Criminologist – Rhodes,
     Richard. Vintage, 2000
     The Gap Series. Donaldson, Stephen (My pathetic attempt at stripped
     writing was inspired by this series). Bantam, 1992-1997
     My full bibliography of recommended titles can be found here on
     Purity_Control.
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