The mirror reflected a fractured portrait: a girl, then a woman, pieced together from shards of stolen moments. Thirteen, the touch that burned like frost, a violation masked as a lesson. Eighteen, the tearing, the silence, a body betrayed in the dead of night. Then, the years that followed, a cage built of words and fists, a constant chipping away at the fragile sculpture of self.
They told her, her worth was currency, minted in the curve of a hip, the downcast flutter of an eye. Submissive, they whispered, a virtue draped in chains. But the chains bit deep, leaving welts, that bloomed into bitter shame. The body, once a playground of childhood dreams, became a battlefield, a site of invasion. Every glance, every touch, a potential trigger, a phantom echo of past horrors.
The world blurred, edges softened by a haze of fear. Decisions became minefields, each step a gamble. Trust, a word that tasted like ash, a promise broken too many times. Relationships, a tightrope walk over a chasm of anxiety, the fear of falling, of being consumed again, always lurking.
The mind, a labyrinth of shadows, where whispers of self-blame echoed endlessly. “You asked for it. You deserved it. You are nothing.” The voice, once a melody of laughter, now a choked sob, trapped in the throat. Art became a refuge, a canvas smeared with the colors of pain, a song sung in the minor key of survival. Words, spilled onto paper, a desperate attempt to reclaim a narrative stolen by others.
Yet, amidst the ruins, a flicker of defiance. A stubborn, fragile spark that refused to be extinguished. The eyes, once downcast, began to rise, to meet the world with a defiant stare. The body, scarred but unbroken, began to move with a newfound strength, a silent declaration of resilience.
For within the fractured self, a battle raged. The lies, the whispers of worthlessness, clashed against the deep, primal instinct to survive, to reclaim dignity. The path to healing, a treacherous climb, a journey through the wreckage of trauma. But with each step, a new truth emerged: worth was not a commodity to be bartered, but an inherent birthright, a flame that could not be extinguished. The battleground within, a place where the echoes of pain were solely being replaced by the resounding roar of self-acceptance.
by Elizabeth Proett