This isn’t a blog, and yet it is. It’s an in-the-moment recollection of the worst night of my life.
TW: Graphic detail, sexual assault
The scent of damp bodily function wafted through the pitch dark room. Slow, heavy breaths scored the otherwise oppressive silence. The clenching fingers at war with the downy threads raging against each other, a single bead of sweat dropped down a glistening, furrowed brow. Breathing, unlike other instantly previous actions, was minimally consensual.
Nervous metatarsils gripped the cold, wooden panels forming the pathway of momentary escape. The racing thoughts conversed with the methodical, deliberate pace with which reprieve was gained. Solace found only in the hidden comfort of solitude, presence regained its autonomy after the ultimate yet temporary betrayal.
Being alone was figurative, as the violator remained immediately above the present state of the stripped. The past force exerted to gain physical superiority continued to press firmly into the crushed veins and nerves of exacerbated vulnerability. Muse’s cruel inspiration dripped through the ethereal blackness, much like the foreign wetness invading the chambers of once-held peace. In silence, there cannot be a calm that washes away those drops of unforgivable malice.
Eyes eventually close, parting bittersweetly with the shock-induced numbness before trauma truly sets in the system. A subconscious reprieve was the only savior from the uncaring hand of reality reinstating its monarchy over the peasant of cope. But, like all monarchs, long shall they live, cruel shall they reign.
But not tonight.