The whispers of their accusations, the cold reality of my concrete cell, the vast, impersonal bureaucracy that had condemned me â€" these were the fuel for my anger, the building blocks of my rebellion. Their attempt to imprison me had backfired spectacularly. They had underestimated my resilience, my cunning, and my unwavering determination to fight back. The cage had become my training ground, their silence my war cry, and their accusations my weapons. And I was ready to unleash them. The game had changed. Now, it was my turn to play.
The sterile white of the cell walls mocked the vivid crimson that still haunted my memories. They called it a "safe space," a place of "detention" while they investigated their ludicrous charges. Safe space. The irony was a bitter pill, swallowed daily alongside the tasteless gruel they provided. Safe from what, exactly? From the truth? From the justice they so readily denied me? My "safe space" was a cage built on the foundations of my past trauma, a past they conveniently ignored while attempting to erase my present.
The rape itself wasn't a singular event, a neatly packaged trauma ready for analysis and closure. It was a prolonged assault, a creeping violation that bled into the fabric of my being, staining my memories with a darkness that no amount of sunlight could ever erase. It began subtly, with escalating levels of abuse, each violation chipping away at my sense of self, eroding my confidence, my autonomy, my very right to exist. The initial shock gave way to a numb acceptance, a survival mechanism that allowed me to endure the unending night.
Each encounter was a meticulously planned violation, devoid of any shred of passion or connection. It was purely about control, about power, about the brutal assertion of dominance over a body deemed weak, vulnerable, expendable. There was no romance, no tenderness, no empathy. Just the cold, calculating precision of a predator dissecting its prey. The memory of the scent, the touch, the invasion â€" a nauseating cocktail of horror that continues to plague me. I can still feel the phantom weight of his body, the pressure of his hands, the suffocating terror that clung to me like a second skin.