Nobody would believe her, even if that nobody wanted to.

That’s what he told her, and Sophie believed it. Believed it the way a child believes in monsters under their bed—because deep down, they know those monsters are real. Maybe someone would believe her, but she wasn’t willing to take that gamble. Wasn’t willing to speak the words, to let them fester in the air and take on weight. She had already been weighed down enough.

Maybe she had been too gullible. No, that was exactly what she was. Broken down over the years, piece by piece, until there were no barriers left. No defenses. No fighting back. She had spent so long pretending to be strong, building up an image of a girl who wouldn’t take anything from anybody. A girl with a bark as strong as her bite.

But that girl wasn’t real.

The real Sophie had been stripped away, left to rot in the filth of what had happened. The vultures had picked her clean, the rats had taken what was left, the maggots had burrowed deep inside her. There was nothing left but a husk. A mannequin, painted in bruises and silence.

She sat on the couch, staring at the television, though she wasn’t watching. The static flickered and hummed, but it didn’t register. Nothing did. It passed right through her, like she wasn’t even there.

A knock at the door.

She didn’t react. Didn’t blink. The sound was distant, unimportant, barely even registered in her jumbled and messy mind.

Another knock–A voice this time.

She should have ignored it. Should have let whoever it was think she wasn’t home. But something—some fragile, splintered part of her—forced her to move. She stood, her limbs feeling too heavy for her body, and walked to the door.

Sophie hesitated. There wasn't anything to tell her that the person on the other side of her door was well meaning, not to mention her already shaky relationship with trust. What if it was...?

No.

She was safe, fine, good and okay. Nobody out there would have any interest in her–a blank slate, an empty canvas, a vacant mural.

Right?