Years after the rape she would smell semen and sweat with no source of either. The scent would be as strong as it was on that July afternoon. Her heart rate would accelerate and she would attempt to control her breathing rate. Always she would check her nails for dirt. After the attack they had been ripped, broken and bleeding from clawing at the mud to escape. For that reason she would never wear nail polish. Seeing was believing. Otherwise she would be dragged back into a full blown flashback, checking herself for the blood that had run down her legs from the rips, seeing the face of her attackers on every man that walked by in the street. She had been hospitalized many times, lost in psychosis, fighting her torturers off again and again. But clean nails could stop the cycle. If her mind ever manufactured the dirt like it did for the smell she would be lost in that nightmare world once more; reliving, refighting, hurting, terrified.


Marcus had finished with her. She'd performed like a champ all night, now he just wanted her gone. So he did what he always did, told her he had a business trip and he'd call when he got back. She looked at him and smiled, climbing onto his lap and kissing him hard. "Why not?" he thought to himself, "one more round before I kick her out." His phone buzzed and he let it go. These girls were always so needy. Probably the chick from last night, she was so fine, and it had been her first time at the rodeo. So easy. He laid his hands around the girl's neck and squeezed to give her a choke, she was surprised, her eyes became round and her lips parted. Her legs moved, panicked, put he was in the zone, climax only minutes away. As his pleasure increased so did his grip, her eyes closed and her head lolled. That's what he wanted, ejaculation was instant. He dismounted and went for a shower, when he came back she was sitting on the side of the bed naked and crying. Pathetic.


There was so much more to survival than the persistence of the flesh. Long after Olivia's tears had dried and her abrasions healed her sense of self remained in tatters. She felt like a distortion what she once was, unable to find her way back. Each day was a thing in itself, she didn't dwell in the past or look to the future. Her loved ones wanted her back. They wanted the same girl they loved before, the girl who brought them sunshine. How could she tell them those rays just weren't there? That she was barely there? The doctor prescribed pills, the counsellor listened and had all the right words. But she had to accept she would be a different person from here on in. That person would be more cautious, less trusting of strangers, more fearful. But still she clung to her Bible and her God. He loved her and He would show her the way back to love. Perhaps one day she would find a way to help other survivors and be a voice for the broken, but not yet...not yet.


She had been ready with the knife. She lay under her blanket in her nightie not wearing underwear as instructed. He hadn't said anything about not having an eight inch blade. Once the door slammed behind her mother, off to another graveyard shift at the biscuit factory he made his move. Typically he liked it rough, she was to fight back a little but never scratch or scream. So choreographed. Her only lines were to admire his penis and beg for penetration, plea for her own rape. She was to start by lying on her front, pretending to sleep through the sodomy. This time when he flicked her over the cold steel came swiftly from under the pillow and was buried in his stomach right to the hilt. She looked at his stupid surprised eyes and gave it a twist for good measure. She shoved him as he rolled to one side, she'd been trapped under his bulk too many times already. He groaned and gurgled as he bled out, his skin greying as the light left his eyes. She was a murderer. Time to run...


He so hated it when they died too soon, but he had to punish them. They were dirty, their ways were filthy and wanton. If they refused his teaching he sliced them, if they fought back he sliced deeper. He was firm and fair; they were whiny and without morals. He picked them for their painted lips and short skirts, he felt drawn to their high heels and long legs. They made him think bad thoughts, unclean thoughts. They made him lustful and unchaste. Once he had forced himself upon them in the back of his white van they went to his "church" for the preaching. Naked and bound before the alter he defiled himself with them once more before fetching his Bible and his blade. "The beast and the ten horns you saw will hate the prostitute. They will bring her to ruin and leave her naked; they will eat her flesh and burn her with fire." Infused with the zeal of his deepest desires and the reflected power of God he proceeded to light the torches...

By Angela Abraham, @daisydescriptionari, December 8, 2014*.

That summers day saw the taking of not one, but two lives. Sabine didn't die, she wasn't harmed directly, but it was the day her daughter was taken into the forest by Byron. Maddison was found by the tracker dogs, bleeding but still alive. Over the next few weeks her wounds healed but her mind was shattered. She tried to hide it, wearing "smiles" almost as often as she did before, in truth they were simply crude imitations of what she recalled a smile to be. Sabine would find Maddison crying in dark places with wide eyes, shivering no matter if it was warm or cold; when she spoke to her it was as if she was calling her from another realm, a chasm yawning between them. Maddison was her life, she'd lived for her these past fifteen years since her father passed...

Thrillers / General

His coarse whisky tongue licked at her skin, stubby fingers curled in her hair. Every time Olivia closed her eyes he bashed her head backward onto the concrete demanding she open them. She didn't want to, she closed them over and over, anything rather than watch his face lit up with with power and lust. He became angry, his force less controlled, until finally blood ran from the back of her head onto the rain soaked ground and her head lolled like a doll. The man was finished anyway. He snorted and whispered close to her butterfly earrings, "Dead's better anyway, great ride toots" and left without a backward glance.


Daniel could never smell cigarettes without recalling his rape. The odour took him back to his insides burning, ripped, bleeding. They took him back to lying half naked, shaking in the back-room of the youth centre. With every recollection he felt less of a man, less desire to see another dawn. He was six foot tall with popping muscles, yet a few inches of burning tobacco leaves were instant trauma. They were the man's creeping hands, his coarse stubble on his neck as he whispered words that could not be expunged from his mind by either alcohol or pain. On dark nights he'd thought of killing him, tracking him down and making him pay. But last Monday was different, the thoughts of revenge came in the daylight with no prompting from smells of any kind. It started to come together more like a plan, stages, equipment, an alibi...


Damage doesn't stop at one person, it rolls down generations. It's an emotional tornado that ruins lives yet to be called into existence. The rape of Tom's grandmother had closed her off emotionally from his mother and she in turn had been closed off from him. The trauma of one had transmitted to the next in a lack of nurturing, an inability to form the strength of loving bonds parents and children need. Had it not been for that fateful day fifty years previously when his grandmother had been brutalized beyond a recoverable point, his life might have turned out very differently, but we'll never know for sure...


In the room everything is brilliant white: tiled walls and floor, bed and linen. There is a man beneath the sheets, bald with electrodes attached to his scalp, his eyes showing rapid movement beneath the lids. He's raping another simulated victim, though he is unaware than he has been submerged into a computer generated scenario. Afterwards, instead of being able to flee the area, he will be forced to watch the aftermath of what he has done. He will sit across from the woman he raped and hear her testimony, watch her tears. He will listen to her family and friends about the devastation he has caused. Then he'll find himself in a new situation, a new victim, his favourite type.

After a hundred rounds, or if he stops offending, the man "wakes" to see his room; a choice between an open door to freedom or a loaded revolver. He may either flee or end his life. Should he raise the gun to his head and pull the trigger the simulation really comes to an end and the redemptive program begins. Should he try to leave with thoughts of finding a new victim he is incarcerated for the rest of his natural life with no possibility of parole. This means he never leaves the little white room, never waking, staying in a simulated life until his body withers from age. He will never again see another person, but spend his days in a log cabin in an unending wilderness, his only visitor being the simulation's mental health doctor.


Two years after, she still feels her tears running from her eyes. Every morning she wakes not knowing why. She sits for a minute and rewinds it in her head, playing it over and over again. She asks herself so many times if it was rape. After all, it was her boyfriend.

She could still smell the scent of semen. Semen that he left behind, along with the scars of her trauma. She could never let another man near her. After two years you would expect her to have forgotten but she could never escape from such an awful, horrific, distressing experience. This experience has caused PTSD. Her social life doesn't exist, her room walls are her best friends. They are covered in child hood memories which she uses to help calm her in the night. When I say calm her, I mean after her nightmares...

By jessiejane, November 14, 2015*.

Quin didn't hear the feet shuffling behind him. He was too busy finding his glasses in the dark. Not only had the power gone out, but he had managed to walk face first into a wall. He grabbed the glasses from the concrete and placed them securely on the bride of his nose. Finally he felt calm. Strong hands pushed him into the wall in front of him. It stung, and sent swells of pain through his body. A chin rested on his shoulder, whoever it was breathing onto his ear.
Quin opened his mouth to ask who it was, when lips clamped down on his ears. They were light at first, and then the person bit down harder. Quin squirmed against the wall. The teeth turned to a tongue. It slid over the rim of Quin's ear and caused him to cry out a bit. Two hands slid down his sides and landed on his waist, just above the hem of his jeans.
He didn't know what to do. He hoped that this was a cruel joke, a dream. The lips moved down to his neck and nipped at the tender skin. Quin knew this would be bad. His skin bruised so easily, he knew it would make a mark. It seemed like his captor did too. They began to suck at the skin furiously, until Quin let out a noise of panic.

By booksrbetterthanpeople, November 24, 2015*.

I am both the man society tells me I need, and the woman that society tells me I should be
I will not let the lumps on my chest define me
I will not let the slit between my legs determine what I can and can’t do
I will not let my genital tell me who I can and can’t love
I will not let his lips graze my skin if I do not wish them
I will not let his fingers enter me if I do not want them
I will not let a boy tell me he loves me as his hands slide towards the band of my skirt society says I should wear
I am the one who should be making the decisions
I am the one who says yes or no
I am the one who ends up eating all his lies
Swallowing mouth full after mouth as his fingers graze my skin and as the word no trees to come up and out of my throat he is the one who pushes it back down
The word no struggles to escape my throat as he shoves his lounge down it
The word cannot escape and neither can I
The silent tears run down my cheeks when he leans in and whispers don’t cry
He is wrong
No isn’t yes in disguise
He says he didn’t know what I meant when I said don’t touch me
He claims that I was sending him mixed messages when I wore those heels yet still said no.
He says that I wanted it
He said that I was asking for it
He said that he loved me
And I believed him

By bbyg_xoxo, November 7, 2017.