Read Online My Story by Chris Stewart, Elizabeth Smart - Free Book Online Page B

small sapling had started to grow out of the side of the stump. A few leaves. A single branch, smaller than my pinky finger. I stared at the sapling as it struggled to find a place to grow. Over the summer, I would stare at that tiny tree for hours, admiring its determination. Its mother tree had been cut away, leaving it as the only spot of green surrounded by bare dirt and plastic tarps and tents. Its bed was hot and dry and dusty. Yet it kept on fighting to survive.
    I resolved once again: Whatever it takes to survive!
    Eventually, the man looked at me. “You will call me Immanuel,” he said. He nodded to the woman. “You will call her Hephzibah.” I turned to look at her. It was an ugly name. Harsh and unnatural. It seemed to fit.
    “Shearjashub,” he called me, pointing in my direction.
    “My name is Elizabeth Smart,” I answered.
    The man ignored me and started talking. Soon I was to learn a couple of things. First, my captor had many names. Second, he liked to talk. A lot. About his life. About his writings. About his purpose. Anything about himself. He and Hephzibah had kept extensive records of “the path they had taken,” and it became obvious that I was going to hear it all.
    I didn’t know who he was, I didn’t know his real name, but I recognized him. I remembered he had come to our house to help with some repairs. My parents had tried to help him. Over time, I learned that my captor had changed his name from Brian David Mitchell to David Shirlson and finally to Immanuel David Isaiah. Although I was told to simply address him by Immanuel. The woman had gone from Wanda Barzee to Elladah Shirlson to Hephzibah Elladah Isaiah.
    During most of my captivity, I called them Immanuel and Hephzibah. But I have a hard time thinking of them by these names anymore. Too loaded with ugly baggage. Brian David Mitchell and Wanda Barzee are more comfortable to me now.
    “You are her handmaiden,” Mitchell then told me as he pointed to Barzee. “You are the second wife.”
    I looked at them. The word crazy rolled around my head.
    “She is your mother wife. You are her handmaiden.”
    I couldn’t wrap my mind around it. Mother wife! Handmaiden! I had no idea what that meant.
    Soon I was to learn. To him, a handmaiden was a sex toy. To her, it was a slave.
    *
    Lunchtime approached. The woman got up and started fixing food to eat. I watched her for a moment through puffy eyes.
    I knew that the man could kill me anytime he wanted. He certainly had the physical capability. He could kill me with nothing but a twist of his hands. No one would ever know. Nobody was there to protect me. Nobody was there to take care of me. I had to watch out for myself.
    My mind started turning. Okay, I thought to myself, I can’t fight them all the time. If I do, they’ll keep me cabled. I’ll never have a chance to escape.
    I thought back on a girl I knew in junior high. She was a friend to the Polynesian kids, the Mexicans, the Caucasians. She was friends with everyone. She was just so nice. So I thought, Okay, I can be like her. I can make this situation the best that I can for myself. Nobody wants to be around a crybaby. Nobody wants to be around a sad sack. If I am miserable and whiny and don’t carry my weight, then he will be far more likely to kill me. What was there to stop him? If I’m going to survive this, then I have to step up. I have to try to help myself.
    I continued thinking.
    If I did as they told me, if I didn’t always fight him, then maybe it would be harder for him to hurt me. If I could get them to trust me just a little, maybe they would let me off the cable. Maybe they’d realize how much they were hurting me. Maybe they would come to like me, maybe even come to care about me. Then maybe they would let me go.
    So I got up and walked over to where they were seated in the tarped area in front of the tent. They had set a tablecloth on some of the plastic containers. She had started to grate carrots and cut up