THE NIGHT EVERYTHING BROKE

The night of April 10th,

The bash,
The laughter,
The trust,
The betrayal,

A “friend” invited me, promised me safety, assured me she would take care of me, but she locked me in a small, cramped room with seven men, familiar faces that turned into monsters as they stepped from behind a dark curtain, my innocence, my trust, my hope… all shattered in seconds.

They raped me,
One after another,
Taking turns with my body like it was a possession, a tool, a thing.

I begged,
I cried,
I screamed until my voice disappeared.

But no one came😭,

And when they were done, when my body could no longer fight, when my mind could no longer stay conscious… they dumped me, far from people, In the dark, In the cold rain. Like garbage.

I didn’t feel pain,
My body was numb,
My spirit was gone,
Only my heart kept beating, weak, broken, confused as to why I was still alive.

Days later, I woke up in a hospital.
Alive, but not living,
Awake, but not present,
Breathing, but not whole,

And then I learned I was pregnant.

I blamed the doctors,
I blamed the seven men,
I blamed myself every single day,

I cursed life,
I cursed God,
I cursed my existence,

I wanted to terminate it so badly. But something inside me, a whisper, a thread of hope, a fragile instinct, urged me to keep it, I thought maybe this was the beginning of healing. Maybe something good could grow from something so evil.

But eight months later… I lost the baby.

People talked,
People judged,
People stared,
People whispered things so cruel they still echo in my bones,

The people I hoped would support me never cared,
The people I turned to turned away,
The people who should have helped me… hurt me more,

But here I am,
Still breathing,
Still fighting,
Still trying to make sense of my life,

I am still trying to find my voice, to tell my story, to release the weight I have carried in silence for too many years.

And as for the seven men…

I would love to talk about them 
to name what they did,
to expose everything they took from me,
to reclaim my power,

but my hands are shaking.
My eyes are filled with tears I cannot dry,
My body is trembling under the memory,
I cannot do it today,
But one day…
one day, I will tell the story.

Because the story is mine,
The pain is mine,
The healing will be mine too,

And when I finally speak…
the world will listen.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

BENEATH THE QUIET HOURS

Image
1.THE SILENCE THAT RAISED ME I was born in the early 1990s, into a home defined by routine, responsibility, and a quiet, unspoken resilience. Life followed patterns that rarely changed. School mornings were short and efficient. We came home for lunch, and in the afternoons, we went back to the house again, long, quiet stretches of time where the world seemed to pause. Both of my parents worked full-time. My mother returned each evening carrying fatigue that spoke volumes without saying a word tiredness rooted in love, in sacrifice, in survival. My father’s presence was firmer, more distant, mostly reserved for weekends. His love was strict, measured, something we learned to recognize rather than feel openly. We were a large family, but never all in one place. My sister and our second-born brother stayed with our grandmother. Our eldest brother had already moved on to high school, stepping into a future we could only imagine from afar. At home, it was just me and our third-born br...
Read more

MY TURN

This chapter of my life is called MY TURN. Not because I suddenly became selfish, but because I have been selfless for too long. I gave until my hands were empty, loved until my chest was tired, stayed in places that were shrinking my spirit just to prove I was loyal. Now I choose me, not loudly, not for applause, but intentionally, I’m choosing my growth, even when it makes people uncomfortable. I’m choosing my peace, even when it looks like distance, choosing my healing, even when others prefer me broken because broken people are easier to control. For years, I was the “understanding one.”, the one who made excuses for disrespect, one who stayed silent to keep the room comfortable, who carried other people’s pain while bleeding quietly in corners, the one who showed up for everyone, even when nobody showed up for me, and look at me now, still standing, Still breathing, Still here, but this time, I’m standing differently. My back is straighter, My boundaries are louder than my mouth, ...
Read more

NEXT VICTIM

Coming from the same country doesn’t make you my friend. It doesn’t make you family. It doesn’t make you close. It just means we boarded different flights with the same passport. I treated her like a big sister, no, let’s be honest, like a mother. I listened, I nodded, I sat there quietly while she seasoned other women’s names like stew, one insult at a time. And the funny thing? I knew. Oh, I knew. When someone is that comfortable tearing others apart, it’s only a matter of time before you’re added to the menu. I just didn’t know when my name would be served. Spoiler alert: it was coming. 😂 There we were, at a party. Music loud. Food good. Laughter real. Greek-themed gowns everywhere, flowing, dramatic, giving Olympus realness. Women glowing, dancing, eating like they deserved joy. And me? I was present. Happy. Free. Unbothered. Or so I thought. Because while we were dancing and living, she was sitting. Not resting. Not enjoying. Sitting and strategizing. Plotting. Calculating. Like ...
Read more