Well Done, My Princess

by FunkToFunky

You feel physically sick, you glance at yourself, not yet a woman, although no longer a child. And so alone. So very alone. You convince yourself that it was your fault, the serial adulterer who was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

You rest your wary head onto your knees and wrap your angular arms around your gaunt, fragile frame to form a protective ark around the tainted soul within. Closing your beautiful, emerald eyes, you rock gently back and forth, the callous world surrounding you vanishing quickly from existence, barely leaving a reluctant trace of what used to be. You stare at the deep purple discoloration that has developed onto the wounded skin of your fragile biceps and incised wrists. A single tear trails down your impure cheek, though words do not escape from your reddened lips, for they do not earn your forgiveness. White does not mark you now.

A dread noise awakens you from the evaluation of your turmoil – the creak of the door receives no verbal answer from you but the sigh that crosses your mouth. The villain crouches down, laughs as you flinch from his touch and twirls your silky hair smoothly between his fingers – you do not protest vocally for stone skulks slowly through your veins. He bends down beside your trembling form and whispers four small words – "Well done, my princess," – and caresses the exposed skin of your neck with minute kisses. You instantly recoil towards the wall you now lean on, the perilous effects of the rohypnol that still lingers inside you decreasing. He chuckles coldly, smirking, his dark eyes resting onto your tremulous body with desire. Although, he has already had his fun.

You feel physically sick, you glance at yourself, not yet a woman, although no longer a child. And so alone. So very alone. You convince yourself that it was your fault, the serial adulterer who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. You should have seen his intentions first. You should have never accepted the drink. You should have stopped it. You think that everything about this night would fade – the fear, the shame, the disgust. But this is just the beginning.

You, now thirty four years of age, still shudder at the surreptitious memory that you have told no one. The things that you remember, these little details, seem to grow stronger, to the point where you can feel the lethal weight inside your chest. So, as a tear drips down your cheek, the hospital seemingly devoid of most life, you relive the agonizing recollections. You stepped into that dark room; you memorized how the light then took the nightmare and made it real.

What he did to you will never quite go away. It will always be there, niggling at the back of your mind.

Even if you want it too.

Jacqueline Naylor.