Broken (part 1)

I was broken.  I knew it and he knew it. Exactly when it happened I wasn’t sure. That isn’t true, I knew exactly when it happened.  This is that voyage.  When he first took me and brought me here, even through the fear and despair, a part of me felt it could survive intact.
The room he put me in had a concrete shelf with a mattress on it and a bucket in the corner. There was one deep window high in the wall that let in some light in the afternoon and a drain in the center of the gently sloped floors.
There were two doors in the room.  One that led “out”, where ever out was.  I knew this because it had a smaller door in it that food came through.  The second was a utilitarian bathroom that I only got access to once a day.  There was no shower head, but water fountained out of the shower wall when I came in. The same for the sink.  And of course, my one chance for a real toilet every day.
The bucket was always changed out when I came back into the room.  The room was always clean and I was expected to stay clean too.  I didn’t have to worry about clothes, he took those when he left me in here.  He got angry if I didn’t stay clean.  That was my first form of resistance, refusing to shower.  His voice came to me, for in those first weeks he almost never came in the room, telling me his expectations.  When I refused he warned me there would be consequences.  That is when he beat me for the first time.  It is almost funny how bad I felt that first beating was.  If I only knew, if I only knew I would break, there was so much I could have avoided.
He left me bruised, welts all over my body, crying in a heap on the floor that night.  The next day I was forced into the shower and scrubbed so hard I was sure I would bleed.  And when he brought me back into the room he took the mattress with him as he left.
Those first few weeks were long, slow, excruciating hours of boredom with only meals and my one trip to the bathroom to mark the passing of the days.  My welts subsided, the bruises yellowing and finally fading away with little change.  Any attempts at communication were ignored.
Then one day he came in looking down on me.  My nine year old frame obviously no match for his.  He calmly explained what was about to happen.  He stood there in front of me with no clothes on, his swollen dick pointing towards me.   What could I do?  I quailed inside, part of me wanted to resist, but my nine year old brain didn’t know what to.  
He picked me up and put me on my concrete bed, now I knew why I wasn’t simply made to sleep on the floor, and on my knees he took me from behind.  I don’t think he was intentionally rough, I just don’t think he really cared one way or the other about me.  As he filled my ass, my skin tore to accommodate him and he spit on his shaft.  The saliva mixing with my blood to make a lubricant for his thrusting.  He took his time fucking my ass until with one last violent thrust, he came deep inside me.  He stood there with his dick inside of me until he started to become flaccid, then he pulled out and commanded me to take a shower.
I numbly went to the shower and washed off, just standing under the water.  Then I washed off again.  Was this to be my new life?  How long could I take this?  When I came back in the room my mattress was back and there was a tray of food at the door.  I ignored the food and went to the bed.  I pulled the mattress off on the floor and curled up on it facing the wall.  But it was a very long time before I fell asleep.
The next day there was a fresh tray of food waiting, but I just lay on the mattress. This was to be my next attempt to defy him.  I would starve myself.  
After two days of this I guess he had enough of me.  He told me I needed to eat.  His voice once again warned me of noncompliance.  I felt I could take his beating so I ignored him.  After all, my bruises were all gone.
But when he came in the room he wasn’t empty handed.  He had a whip with serrated edges on it and a bottle.  He proceeded to flail at me until I was bloody all over.  He took the bottle, I thought he was going to rinse away the trails of blood.  But it was alcohol, and the already excruciating pain doubled.  He waited a few minutes and then proceeded to force me to eat, one bite at a time, until he was satisfied.  As he left he said stop making me angry, it will only get worse for you if you don’t.  Then I was alone, shivering in pain on my blood soaked mattress.