The first time wasn't so bad. There was a moment where, as he was bearing down on me, and I realized I was helpless to stop whatever he was going to do, images of everything he could do flashed unwillingly through my mind. The setting, the circumstances – alone, at his mercy, in a dark alley – made it impossible not to imagine. Logical or not, the horror of such a prospect intensified as soon as he touched me (gently, as if so confident my body belonged to him that he didn't need to enforce his possession by a show of force), and kept growing as he promised he wasn't going to do what you'd expect but something even worse, break me in a way far worse than either that or death. What was he talking about? What could he have in mind?! I was still picturing the most obvious possibility in my head when I lost consciousness. There was a second of panic after I woke up with no idea of what he'd done to me while I was out.

But he hadn't done anything. My body was unharmed, my soul intact. He just wanted me to know that he could, that I was powerless to stop him. It worked. But I was able to shake it off, fight through it, overcome the fear, start living my life again. I was okay as long as I remembered that nothing permanent had happened. The nightmares didn't last long.

The second time was harder. There's something more daunting about being tied up, thrown in the back of a van, and driven to the middle of nowhere – it prolongs the time when you feel all your power and control being drained away drop by drop, for the fear to slowly fill you up in its place. In spite of my rage and fury at the time, at the back of my mind was the thought of what usually happens to girls in this situation. The memories of his persistent courtship – the bouquets, the expensive gifts, the invitations, the hunger in his eyes when he tried to seduce me into joining him – didn't help. That had been Bolin's first assumption – was that what he had really been after all along?! The likelihood of it didn't matter – if he wanted that, there was nothing I could do to stop him!

I tried to tell myself I was panicking, it was crazy, but it got worse when he started taking me to the basement. He'd already stolen complete control of my body – wasn't that enough? Why bring me here? What was he going to do out here?! Nothing I could do... couldn't move, couldn't resist... Had he brought other girls here? He could get away with it, knowing no one would believe her, just like the poor girl in that play. He could do anything he wanted with me, just as he did with my blood. This body I inhabited didn't obey me anymore – it obeyed him, bowed to his will, belonged to him, and he'd use it as he pleased.

Afterwards, when I could think about it all clearly, I was sure he had nothing like that in mind, but that didn't make it any easier to recall. Every time I remembered being lowered into that basement, I wrapped my arms around myself and shuddered, wishing I could jump out of the flesh and blood he had taken for his own and played with so expertly.

I wonder how long those nightmares would have lasted if it hadn't been for the third time. This one went farther than the other two had. He actually reached inside me and ripped out a piece of my soul; I'm sure it only lasted for a second or two, like those times I'd seen him do it before, but it felt like an eternity. This isn't happening, this isn't happening, this isn't happening! I screamed frantically in my mind. It couldn't be! Not to me! Anything but this, please, anything but this! My worst nightmare, the one thing I knew I couldn't survive! Please just kill me! In my mind, I begged him to kill me. But it wasn't my life he wanted; it was my soul, and I couldn't stop him from taking it. I could feel something precious and essential within me shattering, and there was nothing I could do to hold it together while he held this body in his relentless grip. He took what he wanted from me with no hindrance, no hesitation, as if it was his right. He would destroy whatever part of me he pleased and no more.

My body lived; my soul was dead. Deformed. Like a wrecked, empty ghost ship still floating on the sea. I couldn't bear to go on existing in this body, the vehicle he'd used to invade my soul, knowing how he'd handled it, how he'd contaminated the blood in my veins with his influence. I should have fought harder, should have gotten away, shouldn't have let him do it! If only I hadn't been so weak! But I had, and I hated my body for submitting to him! I could still feel his presence within me, filling the empty space where there had once been strength and power, the power he'd taken, leaving me trapped in this filthy prison. There were some moments where the whole experience still felt unreal, others when it felt as vivid as if it was happening all over again, but there was never a moment when I didn't feel unclean.

I didn't even have the will to conceal the pain – I, who loathed showing the slightest sign of weakness. I knew that was the only reason he thought he loved me. He pitied me. I couldn't bear to have him pity me! I couldn't bear to let him touch me! I vaguely recalled how much I would have wanted that touch in the past; now, my whole body shrank from it. My face still remembered the last time a man touched it like that, and every limb, every nerve, tensed up in anticipation of some new attack. Nausea and panic rose up inside me at the very thought of him holding me in his arms, kissing me, anything else. No more! Never again! He was so young, healthy, handsome, and whole, had so much to live for – how could I ever be worthy of him again, as unclean as I was now? I ran from his touch. From him.

But there was nowhere to run. No escape. The desperate energy racing through my veins slowly wore off, leaving me overwhelmed with exhaustion. I was too tired to run, to even want to run. All I wanted was to lie down and sleep. Forever. I looked down the cliff and wished for the courage to stop the pain. Please, someone, anyone, end this! Set me free!

Someone did, and I thought that was the end of it. I dared to believe it was. I could love. I could let him love me, let him hold me and kiss me without cringing. Everything seemed completely fixed.

I was wrong, of course. My soul was whole again, but like a broken vase glued back together, it wasn't like new. Something was still wrong deep down. Something inside me was still afraid, still resisted submitting to another man, even in love, still hated to be touched, still felt threatened. And it fought back. Pushed him away. My heart and mind wanted him, but my body didn't. So although part of me consciously accepted, invited, and returned his advances, another part of me resisted them, took every opportunity to ward him off and chase him away, counterattacked on instinct, defended myself while unable to recognize there was nothing to defend against. While the part of me that loved him held on, the part of me that saw him as just another threat refused to let me. Without meaning to, without planning to, without wanting to, I kept driving him away.

I could tell he wanted me. All of me. My heart and mind wanted all of him, but my body always froze before we could go too far. I never knew all of him. He never pressed me, never asked questions, just followed my lead. I never could have explained it anyway because I didn't know it myself. I didn't understand why I was always angry at him for no reason, why I always felt defensive around him, why I treated him like an enemy. My body saw him as the enemy and would not surrender in any capacity, no matter how trivial. No wonder it didn't last.

The third time was the first one that really caused any long-term consequences. The fourth time was almost nothing by comparison; I'd almost gotten used to it by then. It wouldn't have been so bad if he hadn't dragged it out so long, slowly breaking my soul piece by piece, life by life, memory by memory, crushing one piece after another. I really should have been able to stop this one – it was the first time I was free to move, free to fight. I tried. Every motion was agonizing, the slightest movement became harder and harder to make with each blow, but I kept trying. Kept getting up, getting knocked down, and getting up again, like a slave trying to escape the cracks of a whip. It didn't matter – I could do nothing to fend off the blows. Nothing to protect my soul. All I could do was watch him destroy me, as helpless and defenseless as ever. Having my soul ripped out of me hurt worse the second time, but I think that was only because it was done by someone I'd once looked up to, loved, and trusted. The worst of the damage was healed much more quickly this time, and I was able to do it myself, more or less. I felt much stronger, more in control, more whole than I had after the last time. I felt like I could go on living, and I did. I put it behind me. I was sure that would be the last time. I never expected that the worst was yet to come.

I guess I should count the night they drugged me and stole me from my bed. When I saw a man outside my window and another hoist me over his shoulder, the most likely reason why men would break into a young girl's room in the middle of the night but not kill her instantly jumped into my mind. Logic insisted it was unlikely, but I thought of it nevertheless. I thought of it the day he told me of his plan to kidnap and brainwash me years ago. What would they have made me do? Not kill me. Not take over the world – they didn't want that. Not assassinate anyone – they were perfectly capable of that without me. Force me to marry someone? To bear someone's child? I didn't know at the time, and I don't count that failure – it was stopped before anything could happen. It left no impression on me other than anger. It didn't even make me afraid of them.

I had no idea how bad the fifth time would be, when he finally had me at his mercy. At first, all I saw when I came to was the image of my father falling off the cliff, and I was too blind with rage to see my position as anything more than an obstacle between me and revenge. It wasn't until I saw the drug rise out of the bowl that I realized how thoroughly trapped I was, that I was once again unable to move a muscle to defend myself or resist in any way. It wasn't until I saw it coming towards me, wondering in sheer terror how they were going to get it in me, that I realized most of my clothes were gone – my armbands, my fur, my skirt, my boots, my socks, even my hair ties. My pants rolled up above my knees. The only woman below me had no arms – which of the men surrounding me had done that to me? How many of them had touched me? What had they seen? What else had they done?!

There were many of them this time, but they had no names and no identities, didn't speak, did nothing but follow orders – in my mind, they were merely extensions of the leader who had brought me here, and all my fear focused on him. His voice was the one I heard throughout the entire ordeal – the voice that had the power to bring pain or relief, life or death, the voice that controlled my destiny, the voice that ordered I writhe and scream in agony as a foreign invader was forced into my body. Before that instant when the heinous substance finally penetrated my flesh, I never knew what fear or pain was.

I couldn't stop him, but I tried to resist, despite my wish for the release of death, despite the voices telling me it was futile, that I had no will of my own anymore and no control over this body that was no longer mine but his to handle and dispose of as he saw fit. I would die when and how he willed it; I would feel whatever pain he wished me to feel. I resisted, knowing it made no difference, that my fate was not mine to choose, that my soul was not mine to keep. He wanted my soul, and he would have it; he would destroy it in whatever painful way he desired, this soul that now obeyed his order to rise up and fight no matter how I tried to hold it back. Wake up – defend her, he commanded with his poison. No! I demanded helplessly. It refused to obey me. Whatever he wanted from me, he would get. Whatever he wanted my soul or body to do, they would do.

Not again! Everything within me revolted against another man taking control of me. I would destroy him this time, even if it destroyed me in the process. I would not let him make me afraid to use my power. I unleashed all my fury, fighting him with everything I had, wanting only the satisfaction of knowing he would die with me.

It would have been better if we had both died. Once again, I was forced to go on existing in a body that I hated for its weakness. Once again, my soul was broken, but this time, it felt beyond repair. All my power was still mine, but I felt more powerless than I ever had. My body had betrayed me, surrendered to the enemy, and I had no desire to continue to support it.

There was no stopping the nightmares now. They came vividly and relentlessly each night, torturing me until I awoke, screaming and sobbing. At first, many came running to my side, but they soon realized there was only one person I could let touch me without recoiling in horror, only one set of arms that could comfort me. I was ashamed to face the teachers and mentors I had let down. I couldn't stand to see the healthy, strong, confident, independent women I would never be; the lively, energetic, innocent little girls I used to be; or the men or boys at all.

That left only one person I could bear to be around, whom I instinctively sensed would understand how I felt, what I'd been through, and wouldn't judge me. She was always there when I asked for her. Whenever I needed her, she never left my side. She helped me with anything I needed throughout the day, from helping me dress to drying my tears, never forcing me to talk or to listen to empty advice. She sat by side at night, holding my hand until I fell asleep. When the inevitable always happened, she held me and stroked my hair, her steady, soothing voice assuring me she was there and I was safe and it was all over.

The next few weeks passed in a foggy haze of pain, fatigue, shame, and fear. One night, I was conscious as he ripped every single piece of my clothes off before once again chaining me by my hands and feet, but flat on my back on the ground, before I screamed myself awake. She touched my shoulder, and I swung at her and pulled away as if she'd hit me. She didn't try to touch me again until I'd calmed down and my frantic breathing had relaxed. "Why won't he leave me alone?!" I cried before letting her put her arms around me and laying my head on her shoulder.

"He's never going to hurt you again. Nobody is. I promise."

I raised my head, feebly wiped my face, and, choking on my own breath, whispered, "Is this... is this..." I lowered my head, unable to look her in the eye when I said it. "Is this what it feels like to be raped?" Her only answer was to let me bury my face in her shoulder again. "When will it stop?"

"I don't know. It takes time, but it will get better, I know it will."

No, it wouldn't. I raised my head again, thinking I must look so pathetic to her. "Look at me... he ruined me..."

She gripped my hand as if trying to take some of the pain. "No, he didn't. You're stronger than he is."

Another night, after reminding me how everyone cared about me and was there for me, she added, as if thinking it might cheer me up. "I think Mako misses you the most..."

"I can't!" I automatically snapped. I couldn't help it. I was suddenly seeing all four men – monsters! – who had brutalized me, held my body at their mercy. This body that was so beaten and torn and weak that no one could ever love it. I could still feel the chains on my wrists and ran my hands over each one to remind me they were gone. He had never hurt me, but I felt sick again at the thought of his hands anywhere on me. "Tell him I'm sorry," I sobbed.

"It's okay," she said without asking me to explain. "He'll understand."

Another night, while filling me in on how everyone was doing, she mentioned Bolin and Opal. Why did that make me think of him again? I was seeing us together as we'd been months ago and, at the same time, that day in the cave. I was seeing what Bolin and Opal now had, what I'd briefly had, what a woman should have, and what I would never have. I didn't let my mind connect the pieces. I just kept repeating, "I can't, I can't, I can't...", gripping my head in both hands and shaking it.

Another night, she mentioned how much better I was looking. He came up in the conversation again. It somehow got around to her saying how she knew I'd find someone else someday… At some point, the words burst out of my mouth: "I NEVER WANT A MAN TO TOUCH ME AGAIN!" She gasped and leaped back at the ferocity of my shriek. I threw myself down on the bed, breathing hard and turning away from her, as my own words slowly sank in.

"Don't tell anyone," I eventually whispered without moving.

"I won't."

I took a deep breath. "You're the only one I... the only one who can understand." Only another woman could understand. The boys were my other best and closest friends, but I could never tell them any of this.

I tried to tell myself I was being irrational, it wouldn't be the same thing, but my revulsion wouldn't go away. No more! Never again! Maybe it had been building up since the first time, but the last time had pushed me over the edge. I had never put the feeling into words until now. I would never – could never – know that type of love. Just one more thing they'd taken from me. My ability to love was ruined forever.

I was wrong.