&nbsp; &nbsp;The shaman had left the door of the hut unlocked. The bindings around my wrists and ankles had kept me pinned, spread-eagled, to the earthern floor for months, as his poultices warped my body, as my immobility atrophied my physique into something feeble and feminine. Now they were just loose enough. In hope and blind fear of that evil savage returning at any moment, I wriggle my slim limbs free and sprint out of their, running through dense jungle to the coast. The humiliating loincloth gives no support for my bouncing buttocks, merely a strip of leather wedged deep within my ass crack.<br /> My name is John Carter Smith. I'm an American. From Salt Lake City. Not that you'd ever think that to look at me. Able to twist my head for the first time since my imprisonment, I stare in horror at what has been done to me. They could show me on the pages of National Geographic, and nobody would ever be the wiser.<br /> Months ago, I came here, North Sentinel Island, to share the light of the Book of Mormon with the last uncontacted people in the world. It wasn't easy bribing the fisherman to smuggle me onto this place, but I was committed. I thought they could be converted. How naive I was.<br /> I stand on the shore, staring out at the tiny dots of fishing boats on the horizon. I wave my arms, bare chest jostling, screaming my lungs out. <br /> "HELP! HELP ME! FOR GOD'S SAKE, SOMEBODY PLEASE HELP ME!"<br /> Can any of them see me? Perhaps there's a research team out there, their long-distance cameras trained on me now. What would they even see if they did? Just some tribal girl, jumping and hollering in aggression against the outside world, just as the Sentinelese did to me when I first arrived here.<br /> They'd captured and castrated me. They'd pinned me out beneath the baking sun until my pasty pink skin was a deep, golden brown. Then they had begun to transform me - forcing me to drink bitter herbs, starving me until I couldn't refuse; slattering my skin in burning ointments that stripped away the body hair and forced my chest to swell into pert mounds. Then they'd tattooed me - no more than a sharpened piece of charcoal jabbing into my skin a thousand times, as they marked me as one of their own.<br /> On evenings, the women of the village would gather round my immobile form to braid my hair, cooing excitedly at me as they gestured towards the chief, a warrior with a muscular chest like a barrel and a gap-toothed smile that leered at me. I didn't speak a word of their language but, from their body language alone, I knew I was to become his bride.<br /> It is no use. The ocean stretches for miles. There is no escape.