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A year or so ago,I messed up.
And honestly,I messed upwas putting it mildly.
See, I was going to therapy, like I was supposed to, and one thing the therapist kept mentioning was that it seemed like there was something I was still bottling inside me.
Because… of course there was.
I couldn’t exactly tell her about the Garden. About being abducted as a child, having my memories stripped from me, being trained as a Rose who specialized in the perverse pleasures of men.
And Ireallycouldn’t explain being abducted fromthatversion of hell only to be immersed in one that was even more horrific - no need for me to be lucid, willing, or hell… even upright.
All my therapist knew was… sex trafficking.
And she also knew that no amount of whatever tools she had in her arsenal would get me to talk through the details of that with her, so she’d encouraged me to write it out.
Not like an assignment to turn in, but something just for me. It could be journal entries, diary, or fictionalization, whatever I wanted it to be. As long as I got some of the noise out of my head, and onto metaphorical paper, so that my thoughts were no longer so disjointed.
That fragmentation had made the triggers so much easier to run into, that merging them for my mental health was a no-brainer.
So I wrote.
Not with paper and pen, but with my laptop and keys.
At first, it was all just a step above gibberish, but eventually it started coming together.
There was a story there.
A scared little girl, the big sister who tried her best to be strong, but she was just a kid too. The trauma of seeing their father killed in front of them, being taken, separated, made to forget each other.
Being reprogrammed to something intended only as a product, to fulfill a service to a customer.
The tough sister used as a killer, the weak sister used as a pet.
And then, realizing that even in that life where she wasn’t free, that the little girl—not so little anymore - was privileged. She received specific protection most of the others didn’t get.
Eventually she would know that was simply a monster’s attempt at feigning motherly care, but in the meantime it was accepted as normal.
Until she was taken to be used again.
As a method of revenge - a bargaining chip.
Resigned to an inevitable, sad death, and maybe even prepared to do it herself.
Until her sister came to rescue her.
I labored over it for weeks, barely sleeping, barely eating, just needing to get it all down.
Out.
Once I finally came out of that frantic state, once I’d read it all back and re-experienced all the horror… I convinced myself that the world needed to see it.
It wasn’t justmystory, it was the story of many dozens of others.
Maybe someone would see it and know they weren’t as alone in the world as they might feel.
So… I put it on a fiction site, and then, finally, I slept.
I played with my niece, and had meals with sister and Pen, and I talked to Tempest -another former Rose - on the phone. And I just…lived.
