‘m 17 now, but the scars of that day still linger, a constant reminder of the innocence that was brutally stolen from me. I was just 12 years old, a naive and trusting child, when the auto-rickshaw driver’s hands violated my body and shattered my soul.
I remember the sound of his voice, the smell of his sweat, the feeling of his rough hands on my skin. I remember the helplessness, the fear, the shame. I remember feeling like I was going to die, like my world was crashing down around me.
After that day, everything changed. The colors faded, the music stopped, and the laughter silenced. I became a shell of my former self, a hollow, broken girl who didn’t know how to pick up the pieces of her shattered heart. I stopped going to school, stopped seeing my friends, stopped living.
The trauma of that day has haunted me for years, a constant companion that I couldn’t shake off. I’ve had nightmares, flashbacks, and anxiety attacks. I’ve felt like I’m drowning in a sea of shame and guilt, like I’m suffocating under the weight of my own secrets.
Even now, at 17, the memories still haunt me. I still wake up in the middle of the night, my heart racing, my sheets soaked with sweat. I still feel like I’m not good enough, like I’m not worthy of love or respect. I still feel like I’m living in the shadow of that monster, like I’m forever trapped in that auto-rickshaw, reliving the horror over and over again.
But I’m trying to break free, I’m trying to heal. I’m trying to learn to love myself again, to forgive myself for something that wasn’t my fault. I’m trying to find my voice, to speak out against the silence that has held me captive for so long. I’m trying to rise up from the ashes, to reclaim my life, my body, my soul.
It’s a hard journey, a painful journey, but I know I’m not alone. I know that there are others out there who have suffered like me, who have been broken like me. And I know that together, we can heal, we can rise, we can overcome.
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