I did not know whether it would save me.
I only knew that Marcus believed I had no witness.
So I made one.
At night, after the basement door closed, I lifted the panel and pressed record.
The phone captured footsteps on the stairs.
It captured the scrape of the tray.
It captured Marcus explaining how little food he planned to give me.
It captured the blows against the bars and the threats he made when he thought fear had made me silent.
It captured his mother unlocking the cage and discussing how long she thought I could survive.
It captured the sounds of sexual assault without turning my pain into something I had to narrate for an audience.
I did not record because I wanted to hear any of it again.
I recorded because I had learned that people like Marcus build their safety out of other people’s disbelief.
