She was seventeen when the world cracked open.
The man was nobody she knew. A face among many, a voice with a careless ease that lured her guard away. He smiled as though he meant no harm, spoke as though trust was natural. But the mask slipped too late. The assault came sudden, merciless, and when her cries tore into the night, the darkness swallowed them whole. No one answered. No one came. Only silence remained—and in it, her sense of self splintered.
Days blurred into weeks before the changes revealed themselves. A sickness that would not ease. A weariness that pressed against her bones. The whisper of a life forming where there had been only violence. She turned to her boyfriend, seeking comfort, hoping love might soften the edges of what had happened. But his heart twisted cruel.
“You’re lying,” he spat. “You wanted this.”
His words were knives. Their home became a storm of accusations, his anger the thunder she could never escape. And one night, in his rage, he locked the door and left her imprisoned within four silent walls.
That evening, the pain began. At first a dull ache, then sharper, faster, until it cut through her with every breath. She bent double, hands clutching her stomach, bewildered, afraid. Then came the blood—thick, rushing, endless. Crimson on the floor, crimson on her hands, crimson stealing the air from her lungs. She screamed until her throat burned, begged for someone to hear, but the house was empty. Time stretched, cruel and indifferent. By the time the lock turned again, the child she carried was gone.
Years passed. Slowly, she rebuilt. Stone by stone, shard by shard, she pieced together a life from what had been broken. Love found her again—real this time, gentle, enduring. She bore a son whose laughter turned shadows into light, whose small fingers wrapped around hers as though he had always known she needed anchoring. His smile mended wounds she thought would remain raw forever. And yet, in the hushed stillness of night, the shadows returned.
Sometimes she pictured the child she lost. A tiny face imagined but never seen, arms she would never hold. Grief was there, deep and sharp. Yet threaded through it was something else—relief. Relief that she would not be bound for life to the man who stole her innocence, nor to the boy who shattered her trust. But that relief carried guilt, heavy and silent. She never spoke it aloud. Who could understand? Who would not judge?
So she kept it within, locked away with the other memories. And sometimes, when the night pressed in too close, she whispered into the dark:
“I’m sorry.”
Hoping the words might travel somewhere unseen. Hoping the child she had lost might hear.
————
Author’s Note
This piece, like much of my darker writing, is drawn from lived experience. It may be unexpected to those who know me today, but I do not write for pity, or to unsettle, or to invite judgement. I write to heal. This is my story alone.
If you or someone you love has been affected by sexual violence, please know that you are not alone. In the UK, you can contact Rape Crisis
or call their helpline on 0808 802 9999 for confidential support.
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Very powerful