Gold - SPIKED: The story of a woman drugged with GhB and how she was turned into a criminal.

The story of a woman drugged with GhB and how she was turned into a criminal.

SHARRON GOLD

Copyright 2013 Sharron Gold

All rights reserved.

ISBN-13: 978-1484097137

ISBN-10:1484097130

www.sharrongold.com

"You have gone through this for a reason; its your purpose to warn others of the danger of the drug and to try to expose the criminals that did this to you and the many other victims of these wicked people." His Holiness the Dalai Lama.

The title Spiked derives from the spiked silver metal rod used in medieval times by nobility who feared for their lives. They would simply test their wine with a little silver spiked rod, if the metal turned black it meant that the drink was spiked with arsenic.

WIKEPEDIA-Gamma-Hydroxybutyric acid.
GhB is a date-rape drug. The sodium form of GhB has a salty taste, its colourless, odourless, and dissolves well in liquid. GhB is often used in cases of drug-related sexual assault, when the victim is disinhibited generally due to intoxication. It is difficult to establish how often GhB is used to facilitate rape as it is hard to detect in a urine sample after ten hours. Unfortunately, many victims only recall what has happened after that short window of opportunity. GhB takes away the natural instinct of fear.

All I will drink is water directly from the tap.
All I eat is food that Ive bought myself, prepared myself and am absolutely certain, has not left my sight.
I find myself constantly checking the doors, the windows. I plan routes of escape, just in case.
I sleep with a razor sharp knife under my pillow, a knife I wont hesitate a second to use.
Things that I previously did naturally without thoughtgoing for a hike, entering a supermarket, walking down the street I now do distractedly, scanning the area, looking for someone who doesn't fit in, or who fits in a little too well.
I discover instincts I never knew I had, instincts I've never needed before.
I have flashes, like snapshots, triggered off by a smell, a song on the radio, or just a single word. The sordid flashes are small pieces of a puzzle that are slowly coming together.
Each flash and memory is an experience I am forced to relive once again when all I really want is to forget, put the nightmare behind me.
It had shocked me when I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. My face drawn and haggard from all the weight I've lost.
My eyes full of terror, like a fox still alive, but caught in a snare. Im terrified and the more I unravel, the more afraid I become, aware of the danger I'd been in. The danger I am still in.
The bastards have done this before, and got away with it; they did it to me and will do it again. But I won't just sit back and let them this time.
The sting had been meticulously masterminded. They'd pulled it off flawlessly. Everything, right down to the very last detail had gone according to plan. That is everything but the pink bag, the bag that saved my life. I'm lucky, to have survived it. I only hope that my luck holds out long enough for me to tell you my story.

December 28th 2008

It snowed relentlessly all day. Maintenance crews were clearing the runway, unaccustomed to such a heavy downfall. Temperatures were stuck at the freezing mark.

In the main passenger terminal, chaos predominated, the waiting areas jammed with passengers because of flights delayed or cancelled. I wandered around the duty-free shop, picked up a bottle of Johnny Walker and put it in my basket.

On the way to the counter, I paused when the title of a book caught my attention. I picked it up, reading the back cover, and added it to the basket. Anything is worth a try, I thought.

As I headed back to the departure lounge, I heard the loudspeakers announcing that the Jet Airways evening flight to Mumbai would depart as scheduled from gate number seven.

I took a seat close to the gate, shoved the duty-free bag into my hand luggage and pulled out the book with the promising title, The Brain That Changes Itself.

Perhaps it can help me get my memory back. I worked as a script supervisor for over twenty years before quitting the business and opening up a boutique in a village in the Austrian Alps.

Script supervisors are responsible for the continuity of the storyline, the action and dialogue of a film. The job requires a lot of patience, an eye for detail and a perfect memory. What I recall, I recall clearly and in great detail.

Friends often tell me that I can play back a conversation with annoying accuracy.

I took my memory for granted until recently. I found myself incapable of remembering the simplest of things.

The Christmas of 2008 had been the first Id spent in England in years.

I normally flee to warmer climates as soon as the temperature drops. Rebecca, a close friend from my childhood days, went to a great effort to make it a memorable occasion in her countryside farmhouse. It had been wonderful to spend time with Rebecca and her family, but for some strange reason I just wasnt quite myself.

Theres nowhere like India for me. Its always been a country I consider my second home. I felt it was the medicine I needed.

The loudspeaker interrupted my thoughts with a woman's voice announcing that the plane was ready for boarding in English and then in Hindi.

The passengers rose from their seats eagerly, boarding passes in hand. I remained seated until everyone left the departure lounge.

When the last passenger disappeared, I picked up my hand luggage and headed to the boarding ramp. Half way down, I heard the sound of a late arrival hastily rushing towards the plane, trailing a noisy carry-on suitcase.

Almost missed the flight; the traffic was appalling. A little snow and the whole of London grinds to a halt.

I looked up to the friendly face of a man I guessed to be in his late thirties.

I can't wait to get out of the cold, he added enthusiastically.

He seemed eager to pursue a conversation, chatting away as we edged forward.

I work in Mumbai, security consultant, came back home for Christmas.

I live in Austria, I told him, taking a step forward. Its minus twenty degrees there at the moment.

Wait, let me guess, he said, eyeing me up and down.

Boutique owner, yes, you look like a fashion designer.

His words made me jolt; like a trigger went offonly what?

I don't believe it, youre close! I said, surprised. I do have a boutique.

I'm good at assessing people, he whispered, in a slow monotone voice. Its an important part of my job. I'm Sam by the way, he said, reaching out his hand.

I offered mine in return. Sharron, I replied, trying to work out where it was that I'd seen him before.

His eyes were unforgettably electric blue, his hair short and blond. The tight grey polo shirt subtly displayed his well-trained body. Over the shirt he wore a dark blue jacket that was definitely not from the rack.

The beige knee-length safari shorts gave the whole outfit a casual and sporty touch. Looking down at his pale legs, I thought he couldnt have been living in India very long.

As we entered the cabin, he turned to me, grinning.

Enjoy your flight and lots of luck finding an empty row.

I froze, his words, her words running through my head.

Seat preference? she'd asked.
I always wait until everyone has boarded the plane and look for an empty row, I had told her.
Handy bit of information must make a note of it! she'd added quietly, almost to herself.

I turned to face him and stared at him blankly.

I do the same myself, wait until everyone has boarded and look for an empty row, he said.