After a gray rainy Sunday, the sun starts going down. The road is still soaked and the

streets are empty. You’re on your way to get your weekly dose from your usual dealer, who lives

ten minutes walking distance from your home. How many countless times have you walked this

way? It’s so plain and familiar. You pass the plane trees, the little red bricked house, your aunt’s

favorite restaurant with bougainvillea growing up on the walls, and the narrow small street before

reaching the main square. Carefree and tranquil, you walk down this usual path. Dark and humid, a

brisk wind gently lashes your cheeks. You slightly turn your head to your left, and you see them.

Two shadows in the early evening glancing towards you with dark piercing eyes. One takes out a

packet of Marlboro red from the back pocket of his faded worn out jeans. You return your focus on

the path and feel a little lump in your throat. You walk steadily ahead without looking over your

shoulder. You hear the sound of an igniting lighter and footsteps 20 feet away. You feel the blood

pressure jumping up and your chest aching. Your pace quickens, their footsteps too. You speed up

even more, their breathing too. You turn to look behind you, you feel hunted, you start running.

It took less than a minute. The ground is hard and wet. The fresh evening breeze gives you

goosebumps and you start shaking. Your long light blue dress and your jean jacket are getting dirty

in the after rain muddy waters, but you don’t even notice it. You’re trapped. You try as hard as you

can, but you can’t escape. And you know it. Four hands are holding you down, wanting you to be

motionless and tamed. You agitate, you struggle. You try to scream but your tight vocal cords

won’t let the sound come out. You’re paralyzed. Slowly, you feel your heart caving in. Through

your heavy tears, you fight not to give up. You don’t want to sacrifice, you don’t want to be used.

Your nose is runny, your face is red and soaked, you’re sweaty. You close your eyes and clench

teeth, “None of this is real.” But who could hear your prayers? The hands grip you harder, but you

can’t feel the hurt anymore, you’re terrified. The clouds have left and given room to the moon and

stars. Tonight they’ll be your witnesses. You look around, you look at the night sky. You would

like to disappear, you would like to die. You wish you were home, you wish you’d never start

smoking pot. You feel the strangers’ looks, their complicity, their smile. “Open.” The terror grows.

You start kicking. The one facing you stops your wild legs almost effortlessly. You tighten your

legs with all your strength. Your desperate cries grow louder. You’re caged. “Open,” he repeats.

But you don’t want to open. He brings his swollen cruddy fingers to his mouth to take the lit

cigaret hanging on the edge of his chapped lips and puts it on your thigh, “Open.”

 

Marine Vignoni was born in Stockholm in 1995. She was raised on the French Riviera by a

Swedish/Hungarian mother, and a French/Italian father. Marine enjoys traveling, and she relishes

 discovering new cultures and mindsets. She’s fluent in three languages and studies Business. She

eats honey with a spoon and eats lemons.