Legendary // H.S

30.

TW: sexual assault, trauma

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'Something's on my mind

Always in my headspace'

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Happiness is an inevitably fleeting moment. Like a bubble that rises ready to burst. When it does, the protection of it disappears and the danger of the outside elements return. They tell you not to strive for happiness because of this, rather to find comfort in peace. But peace is just as fragile. It can end as soon as it begins. Allowing humans to feel such joy and contentment when it can be taken away so soon is cruel, but it's life. It's unsettling. An illusion.

These positive feelings never last long. It's not possible. That's why it's so painful when reality crashes in and you're met with that same dread that you forgot for a while. Dread of the past, the present and the future. It controls you; it maims you. There's nothing you can do to stop it.

Just like fear.

The shadow of fear is dark. It completely envelopes you in your most vulnerable moments. It's toxic, poisonous. Once fear enters your blood stream there's only so long until it completely controls you and takes over your psyche. Some say it's a myth. I say it's the realest thing any of us on this god forsaken earth can feel.

At night is when I'm most scared. I lay tossing and turning in my sheets while I'm forced to face the things that frighten me most. Memories that I've tried to conceal, emotions I've ran from. The looming figure of pain and having to face it, knowing that you cannot erase what scares you. It is permanent.

My nightmares have been recurrent ever since it happened. Once my eyes close and my mind relaxes the demons enter and attack. Sometimes they don't materialise, but nine times out of ten I awake in a sweat, panicked by what I've endured. This is why I hate being alone in the nights. But at the same time, the prospect of someone seeing how weak I am only increases the anxieties I already hold. I don't want them to see just how utterly broken I am, despite the front I maintain. I make people believe that I'm ok, truly, that I'm perfectly fine. It's quite the opposite, though. Instead, I walk around with the knowledge of what happened and the fact that those I turned to chose to not believe me and insist that I was at fault. That ruins a person.

In these nightmares, it's all so vivid. Every single detail is there and feels like I'm back in the room. I'm reliving it again and again and again. The smells, the sounds, the sights. All of it is crystal clear. I can't shake just how real it is. Each evening, this is what I face. This is what I live through.

There are rough hands on me, forcing me down. They're so callous against my own soft skin, so dry and cracked. They scratch against me and make me scream out. The strength behind them is intense. I try to push them away but to no avail. With every push their grip tightens. Eventually one covers my mouth, my wet lips bringing moisture to the dry cells. I can feel them peeling. My lips are pushed against one with no way of subsiding the sickness that rises the longer it's there.

It hurts, the way he holds my body in place. I'm encased under him. No matter how hard I try to wriggle underneath, there's little chance of me escaping. It's uncomfortable having his full weight on me when I'm so much smaller. I was younger, too. Barely 17. Not that he noticed in the moment. The only thing he saw was a woman to use.

In his heavy breathing that invades my nostrils, I smell alcohol. A malty and dry scent. Beer. It seeps out of his pores and into my own the longer he keeps his hands on me. I try to hold my breath at times to stop the bile that threatens to come out of my mouth the longer I have to endure it. It's like I'm inside a brewery with how strong it is. But I'm not. I'm not surrounded by people that could prevent this. No, I'm alone and helpless. I worry the odour will never wash off of me.