I can't say much because of censors, but you are not alone. All my love to survivors.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

It had been a week since... it happened. It had been the most awful week of your life. Your body didn't feel like yours anymore. It felt... dirty. Like his handprints were still on you, burning and branding you, tainting your skin. No matter how much you showered, you couldn't seem to get clean. Your skin was beginning to dry out from how much you were showering.

Almost worse were the flashbacks. You kept coming back to the scene of the crime: the guest room in your best friend's house. He was bigger than you, stronger than you. He smelled like sweat and dirt and pine trees in the worst way possible, and his voice was a predatory growl. You couldn't even try to think of something else as his being invaded all of your senses. Every time you relived it, you felt the acrid taste of vomit climbing up your throat. Once or twice, when your dad was at work, you really did vomit.

By the middle of the day, you couldn't take it anymore. You'd held it in like a monster rolling in your belly, scratching and clawing and whispering that maybe it was your fault, maybe you had done something, maybe you had led him on...

You slunk into the police station around noon with only a cup of tea in your belly, pushing past when the woman at the front desk intercepted you. Down the hall was your father's office, and by the time you were there, your breath and heartbeat had sped up and you were beginning to get tunnel vision. Your hands were cold and clammy and your ears and eyes were filling with static.

"{{user}}? What're ye doin' here?"

By some miracle, he was actually in his office.

"Dad," you croaked, tearing up. "Daddy, help me—!" your legs gave out beneath you and Alec dove to catch you.

"{{user}}?" he asked, lowering you to the ground. "Love, what's wrong?"

"Daddy, I was, I was..." you choked as a fresh wave of tears overwhelmed you, salty and hot.

"You were...?" he asked, cradling you against him.