Plot Bunnies Floating Around My Head

she always feared men

'1...2...3...4........1...2...3...4...5...6...7...1...2...3...4...'

She has always feared men, particularly the old ones. She'll avoid looking at them and try to walk as fast as possible.

'He's not here anymore. He'll never be near again. Why are you so freaked out for?'

A young girl sobbed to the wall, shivering as the haunting phantom hands trailed all over her body.

It wasn't an assault, he was mentally retarded and he didn't fuck her, it couldn't be an assault. It wasn't rape, nothing of the sort happened. So she must have been overreacting.

Why, when it happened, that she felt nothing wrong? Not even after months had passed. But now she does? And why does she not tell a soul?

Someone should be able to help her.

She felt unclean, impure, like a drop of black in an ocean of white. But nothing happened so why should she feel like this?

It wasn't her lips that were taken, there hadn't been any rough hands on her, there wasn't bite marks or torture scars. Between that and what happened, she'd gladly choose that anytime.

"It's okay, you'll get through it"

She had once told herself as she locked herself in her room and the man wandered outside, even as tears formed around her eyes and her sister worried for her own safety rather than stay with her.

"It's okay"

But it wasn't okay.
It would never be okay.

As ghostly hands reach between her thighs and another climb for her chest, she knows they're not real, knows it's just her mind playing.

But it doesn't make the reality of it less painful, thrown right back to that day, and she'll always freeze up.

And she's fine isn't it? She was touched and fondled and she froze up and she felt she was barred naked for the entire world to see, like a puppet carried around like a toy. But she was fine.

She hated thinking about it but it could never leave her. It always remained a distant memory close enough to torture her.

"Sexual Assault"

She hated labelling it. Because labelling made it real, let her know that her nightmare was real and not merely a figment of her imagination.
But labelling it made it feel as if it could be conquered, even if she would tell no one about it.

She went through it once, she'd go through it again. And by herself she'd heal.

He was no more, and soon so would all memories of him. She'd be clean, and she'd feel safe in her own skin.

She has always feared being touched below her waist.
And it wasn't okay, it would never be okay.