More often than not, terrible things happen.
This story had begun when she was a baby, just that no one knew it.
No one, except him.
That uncle, who also held and touched the baby, but not in the same affectionate manner as everyone else. There was something creepy, something sinister about it.
As she grew older, she still didn’t see it. His hugs were longer and tighter than necessary, but she took them as a sign of his affection for her.
No one saw it coming. He was a loved, trusted member of the family. He was, in fact, her favourite uncle.
Until the day she, now a teenager, found herself alone at home with him.
The man she had trusted the most turned out to be a demon.
After he had his way with her, he laughed at her. He told her he had probably done her a favour. And she wouldn’t dare to tell anyone… because who would believe her?
It was all her fault, wasn’t it? Her fault for being young and trusting and vulnerable.
Victim-blaming has always been an integral part of such cases.
“I’m sorry,” she tells the world. “Blame it on me.”