This is the story that shaped the course of my life. A story that, in many ways, made me the woman I am today, for better and for worse. Growing up in a Christian household, sex was a taboo subject. My relationship with my mother was distant and I never felt comfortable approaching the topic with her.
When I turned 15, curiosity got the better of me. Before I knew it, I was throwing myself into the arms of men who didn’t care to know my name, let alone whether I was old enough to consent. Around the same time, I fell in with the wrong crowd at school. The girls I hung out with often boasted about their sexual escapades, and over time, their influence began to shape me in ways I didn’t fully understand.
One evening after school, one of those friends invited me and two other girls to hang out with her new boyfriend and his friends. The plan was simple: head to his flat in South London, watch TV, listen to music, and just… chill. I didn’t drink at the time, so I knew I’d stay sober – a small comfort, considering how far I’d gone off the rails in recent months. Being drunk in a stranger’s flat, surrounded by men I didn’t know, was a line I wasn’t willing to cross.
When we arrived, the smell of weed hit me immediately. My friend’s boyfriend greeted us and led us to the living room, where four or five men in their mid-20s were playing video games, smoking and listening to music. I sat down, kept to myself, and tried to ignore the uneasy feeling I felt. Something about the atmosphere felt off, but I told myself it was too late to leave. We’d only just arrived, why cause a fuss over a feeling I couldn’t quite explain?
In hindsight, I should have listened to my gut. It never lies.
After a while, I got up to use the toilet and asked one of the men to point me in the right direction. As I walked toward the bathroom, I sensed him following close behind. I didn’t turn around, but I felt his presence, too close, too deliberate. I stepped inside the bathroom, and before I could even find the light switch, he was there, inside, shutting the door quietly behind him.
I froze.
My heart raced, but I couldn’t speak. The room wasn’t completely pitch black. One peculiar feature of the flat (which I didn’t notice until later): the walls on the left side didn’t reach the ceiling. There was a gap. Remember this detail, it will become significant in a few minutes.
He stood tall in front of me, his hand reached for me, gesturing for me to lie down on the floor.
Again, I froze.
What followed was one of the most terrifying moments of my life. Within a matter of seconds, I lay there, on the filthy bathroom floor, as he pulled down his trousers and boxers. He got down beside me, undressed my lower half and began doing the unimaginable.
I was still frozen. And by then, in excruciating pain.
The details of what happened next are forever engraved into my memory, forever altering my brain chemistry. As he assaulted me, I looked up and saw the gap between the wall and the ceiling. One of the men had climbed up and was standing there, watching. Worse, he was laughing.
In that moment, I found the strength and courage to push my aggressor and beg him to stop. I screamed that someone was watching, that I didn’t want any of this. But instead of stopping, he put his hand over my mouth to keep me silent, looked up and told his friend to go away.
The ordeal continued.
I’ve chosen to block out some of what happened next. Those memories disgust me, reducing me to nothing more than an object, a disposable, dehumanised thing. I simply returned to the living room, my friends were still there, loud music still on (no wonder they hadn’t heard my screams) and I chose to stay quiet the entire evening. That silence never really left me. Until much later.
Looking back, what strikes me most is my inability to react. It’s true what they say about freezing during sexual assault. Your body disassociates, and for those few minutes, you’re not yourself. It took years of therapy to understand why I froze instead of fighting back the moment he entered that bathroom uninvited.
Months later, I was raped again. The circumstances were different, but the trauma was just as devastating, even in my adult years. I won’t go into the details, but the scars it left are still with me today.
I reported my attackers to the police in 2019, over fifteen years after it happened. What took me so long? The shame I carried all those years made me feel responsible, as if I had brought it on myself. Maybe if I hadn’t gone to that flat, none of it would have happened. Maybe if I hadn’t worn that skirt, maybe if I had fought them… maybe, maybe…
However the kind police officer who took my statements, and my incredible therapist, both reassured me: it wasn’t my fault. At 15, I was still a child. I was followed, cornered, and violated without consent. Fighting back could have put me in even greater danger.
I am a survivor. I know the courage it takes to speak out against such violence. I know the lingering pain, shame, and heartache that follow you for years. I know how it changes the way you see yourself and how it chips away at your mental health, your confidence. I know all of it because I’ve lived it, and I’ve survived to tell my story.
Sometimes, survival is the quietest form of courage. A strength that whispers when the world expects you to scream.
Liven Elle 
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