whenever anyone spoke about it, they would say how amazing it would be. Oh how they had dreamed of the undescribable sensation. the truest symbol of love and affection, bonding two souls together…

until it happened, until it was too late. With my stomach in knots, I wanted to cry. I wanted to run so far away that I would be invisible to the rest of the world. I wanted to die. I wanted to disappear into an abyss of Darkness.

I had tried to leave, but instead he forcefully lunged himself at me. Using his whole bodyweight to pin my arms above my head. Holding me so tightly, that it left a bruise. He told me “if you try to leave again, or tell anyone, I will find you and tie you up to this Pole. So I can f*** you whenever I want”.

the weights tied around my ankles grew stronger. Too afraid to move. Too scared to scream. Too much pain to speak up. Because I feared his next kick, his next threat, his knife, I feared where my next bruise will be. And how many more minutes it is going to take before I’m beaten again. I realised I could do nothing. With no escaping the real world, my mind broke down: paralyzing me with fear, as there was nothing else I could do. To panicked to come up with anything.

I wished to die. Wishing to hide away in a deep dark hole where no one could find me. Instead I was alone next to the person whom I rather had killed me, rather than do what he had done.

What was meant to be a “symbol of love and affection” was stolen from me. I will never get back my innocence. Never get back the person I once was. Just another whore. That’s what society says right?

This madness all began mid June 2017. This was when the stalking began. I didn’t even know his name untill two months later. But he knew everything about me. He would follow me, hiding around corners, in the back of every place I went. He had a collection of photos of me on his iPad. Some that he took from his stalking sessions, some that he screenshotted off Facebook and Instagram.

Two months later, in August he sent me a friend request. This was how I learned his name. he gave me the creeps since the beginning. He messaged me constantly asking me where I was, who I was talking to, what I was thinking about. And his irritating voice gave me headaches. The only reason I would talk to him was because we played truth or dare. I wouldn’t call what we had a friendship, it was more like a snake luring a mouse into the trap, but the mouse knew that the snake was a snake. And the mouse didn’t like the snake, but it had nothing better to do, so it played truth or dare with the snake. Because the mouse thought it was in more control than it actually had.

On August 18th The snake dared the mouse to kiss his cheek. So I did. I’d kissed other people as dares, and that didn’t mean anything, so this should’ve be the same. But this time I was wrong: Kissing that pimply red face started an unwanted relationship.

I didn’t really know what happened. Sure, we would talk, but I didn’t like him. Not even as a friend. Whenever he tried talking to me at school I would try and talk to one of my friends. Avoiding talking to that snake. But he wouldn’t allow it. As far as he was concerned I was his property. And no one else could have my attention.

By the second week of this unwanted “relationship” the abuse began. If I said something he didn’t like, I’d get punched. Every time I left to go to class I’d get kicked. Each time I cried I’d get slapped. But the bruises all over my body, “no he didn’t do that. I’m just super clumsy” I’d lie. I hate lying. I hate it with a passion. I only lie when there is no other option. This… this had no other option.

I soon learned that there was nothing to do to stop this monster. I couldn’t displease him, or else I would get beaten again. So I would say things that he would want to hear. And I stopped telling him to leave me alone. Because I was afraid. Scared, alone, and miserable. As a result of his constant manipulation I eventually got used to the fact that everything was my fault. And that the beatings was what I deserved. I got used to saying sorry after someone was unhappy, even if it wasn’t my fault. A habit built off of fear.

I didn’t want anyone to know. The last thing I wanted was for everyone to be up in my face questioning me. Or give me pitty and feel sorry for me. Or make a big deal out of things. I didn’t want anyone to know anything. In my mind, if I ignored my problems for long enough it would go away. And I wasn’t ready to confront the problem. Never was. I just wanted everything to stop. To have a moment of silence within the constant noise of reality.