Carl was sitting on the floor next to his bed, his knees tucked into his chest, his hands tightly gripping his hair while his feet dug into the carpet. It was one of those nights again, where the past clawed its way to the forefront of his mind, refusing to let go.

The room was dimly lit, the shadows playing tricks on the walls, and the silence was heavy, only broken by Carl's ragged breaths. He rocked slightly, his body a tense coil of suppressed anguish. Memories of the assault surfaced unbidden, the details sharp and vivid. He could almost feel the invasive touch, hear the taunting whispers that had haunted him for so long.

His fingers tightened in his hair, the pain a grounding sensation against the storm raging in his mind. Carl's chest heaved with silent sobs, the weight of the past pressing down on him like a physical burden. He had tried so hard to move forward, to leave it all behind, but nights like this proved how deep the scars ran.

The carpet beneath his feet provided a small comfort, its rough texture a reminder that he was here, now, and not back in that dark moment. But the solace was fleeting, as the ghosts of his trauma refused to be banished so easily. He felt trapped, caught in a relentless cycle of pain and memory.

Carl's eyes were squeezed shut, tears leaking from the corners. He didn't want to be this vulnerable, this broken, but the past held him in a vise-like grip. He was tired, so tired of fighting it, yet he couldn't find the strength to let go. The shame, the fear, the anger—they all swirled together, a toxic mix that left him feeling hollow and exposed.