WARNING: The short story you may read ahead is a combination of both fiction and non-fiction. I've tried to justify it as much as possible. The stuff you read down below is my way of putting it, but it contains many statements from the person itself. Although its based on real incident, its just my way I imagined the person's life to be.

PLEASE NOTE IT AGAIN THAT, THIS PIECE IS SOMETHING I WROTE MYSELF. PARTLY FROM MY IMAGINATION AND MOST OF IT FROM WHAT I'VE READ ABOUT IT.

I wrote this only to let out what I felt, reading the article. This issue isn't something unheard of or its not unknown to the human race. It's important that issue be taken under strict law reinforcement to ensure a actually independent and safe world.

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"I MUST stay quiet, I must stay quiet. I need somebody to hear me but I must stay quiet. Good girl, Daddy will be proud."

When she lifted her pen off the page, she stared at her words in shock. Did she really mean to write that?

In the beginning, she had refused to trust her new diary, as if it might somehow betray her in the same way he had. But now she'd begun to pour herself onto its blank pages. In neat, loopy letters she alluded to her unspeakable secret. Her diary was only four months old, she was 13, but already it was her best friend, her only friend. Yet now that ­she was finding her voice, her new friend was becoming dangerous. If he found it, he would know she was spilling their secret, the one she was forced to hide from her mother, from her older sister, from the world.

She checked her earlier entries. They also contained too many clues. The previous month she had written.
"I am trying to scrub away the dirt, scrub, scrub, keep on scrubbing and maybe one day I will be clean, or will I be dirty forever? I scrub until I have no skin left, I am raw and bleeding ... there's no use, the dirt won't go, I am a dirty disgusting girl."

He would know what that meant; her father was many things but he wasn't stupid. She had two choices: to stop ­writing or keep going and see where her diary took her. She chose to take the journey because anywhere else was better than here.Homework, diary, dinner, clean teeth, bed. Each night she prayed that the nightly routine would end there. But once or twice each week, since she was eight years old, something else had happened.

"I am lying in bed, I am pretending to be asleep," she had written when she was 14. "He runs his hands through my hair, but then he starts touching me and I try not to breathe. He's breathing all over me now and I start screaming in my head, a terrible scream - I've never heard anything like it in real life. It feels like I am using every bit of energy I have in my body, every single muscle, to scream. I want it to stop, I promised myself that next time I'd scream out loud but no sound is coming out. I'm paralysed."

The tears brimmed in her eyes as her gaze ran through the words she had written years back.

"I thought I must be having crazy nightmares, that it wasn't real. I NEVER let myself think about WHO it was. I only started to comprehend it all in the last few years and ever since, life has been so hard ... it's not OK, I am not OK. Do you understand?"

The scar was still fresh in her soul though it had faded physically.

"I go through patches of dissociating and having flashbacks, have ongoing sleep difficulties that only respond to medication and also experience suicidal periods. I'm scared of not having the future I dreamt of.thought about that night-the shame, the fear-would fade in time. But that hadn't happened. Instead, the things that I remembered, these little details, seemed to grow stronger, to the point where I could feel their weight in my chest. Nothing, however stuck with me more than the memory of stepping into that dark room and what I found there, and how the light then took that nightmare and made it real.

It's been a long time now but each time i get the worst of my breakdowns . The pain is unbearable, each time hurting in a way it never had before while clean tears stream down my flushed face in pure hysteria. I stay that way for what seems like hours but could only been a minute unable to breathe; crying and crying and then I go unmoved. I feel nothing. Not a movement of the face, no aching, no flutter of the heart, twitch of the fingers, nothing. I still don't know what is worse, feeling everything so intensely or nothing at all."

But one thing she realised over years as she penned it it down

"She is beautiful. She is a daughter, a sister, a friend...she carries her pain within her, and goes on every day pretending to be fine, pretending to be ok. She is the student struggling day in and day out to make ends meet. She is the model, hiding the truth from every snapshot. She is the mother, teaching her daughters the dangers of parties. She is me. She is you. She is women everywhere. This is not a new phenomenom, it has gone on for centuries. But we now have the right to talk about it, we can come together to support each other and when one of us feels like we are falling, slipping down into that famiiar deep, dark hole...we now have other survivors to pick us up and support us until we can stand on our own 2 feet again. Revel in this...for this is a new concept. I am not ashamed, and neither should you be. Look around you, the sad fact is majority of women you know have experienced this sorrow. We have no need to be shamed, for we did not do this to ourselves. When a thief goes in and robs a store...do we chastise the owner? Do we stand there and look at them an say ' You should not have made money today! You should not have displayed what you own! Yo should be ashamed! ' No, we do not. Therefore, neither should we chastise women who have been raped! We punish the theives, we shame THEM! We scold them and say 'You had no right to take this! You had no right to enter their property and take what rightfully belongs to them!' So, my women, my strong, beautiful, courageous women... be not ashamed. Take pride in our strength and our support and remember if we are all alone, then we are all together in that too.

I can explain myself: If you want to be safe, walk in the middle of the street. I'm not joking. You've been told to look both ways before crossing the street, and the sidewalk is your friend, right? Wrong. I've spent years walking sidewalks at night. I've looked around me when it was dark, when there were men following me, creeping out of alleyways, attempting to goad me into speaking to them and shouting obscenities at me when I wouldn't, and I suddenly realised that the only place left to go was the middle of street. But why would I risk it? Because the odds are in my favour. In the world, someone is killed in a car accident on average every 12.5 minutes, while someone is raped on average every 2.5 minutes. Even when factoring in that, one, I am generously including ALL car-related accidents and not just those involving accidents, and two, that the vast majorities of rapes still go unreported ... And, thus, this is now the way I live my life: out in the open, in the middle of everything, because the middle of the street is actually the safest place to walk.

Many other thoughts and feelings were now a part of her life along with this horror that she had gone and was going through. Day one was a nightmare; day two was overwrought with emotion, anger, blame, sadness, fear; day three, She wished for courage, and found a numb shell and overwhelming exhaustion. She found that many of her emotional experiences and daily dealings are not her own, following an experience that was not her own...it was chosen for her at the very violent hands of another. However, from the second she left the hospital and called the first friend who picked up the phone and was there to listen, she had found that maybe there is hope that in sharing this horrible secret there is strength for her and the hundreds of thousands of yearly sexual assault victims. 60% of cases are not reported, and undoubtedly a large majority of those survivors go on to live in shame rather than have that light around their dark circle...joining hands, for them...so they will know...they are not alone...they will survive and continue to survive...for themselves and for others. There will always be hope.

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This is a real life incident that happened a few years back and I came across through it now.

Can we imagine the ordeal of a girl going through this? And to make things worse the inhumane, cruel creature to do such a heinous thing be her own father?

The one who she thought and had full faith in,that he will protect her from every evil glint and shadow that might surround her.

Most people often or most of the time blame girls for letting this happen by pointing out towards her dressing, her attitude and her independent nature. Why?

Everyone is guilty until proven innocent but in this case, a girl is blamed to be a liar, until she's proven honest.

People throw remarks such as "She's lying about being raped, it's just because she wants media attention" and I hate judgemental people like these with a passion.

Why the eff would a girl lie about something like this!

I can just keep venting my anger on this endlessly but then this won't change the bitter truth about the society.

~Shabistaah