In the dark underground garage, a masked man with a weapon lurked in the corner. Aidan's mom didn't know, seeing danger approaching.
I didn't care about my safety, rushing in front of the attacker to let Aidan's mom escape.
Aidan's mom worried about my safety, calling the police while running.
When the police arrived, the attackers were gone.
Aidan's mom feared for my safety, urging her son and the police to find me.
When the police found me, it was three days later.
They found me in an abandoned building. The attackers had long gone.
When the police found me, my clothes were disheveled, deeply traumatized, signs of violation.
Aidan's mom hugged me, guilt filling her eyes. "Sweetie, you've suffered."
Aidan, seeing me like that, his eyes welled up.
Trembling, he held my hand. "Lucie, it's okay now; it's all over. Can I take you home?"
I was diagnosed with PTSD and struggled with severe mental illness, even considering suicide.
After the news broke, public opinion turned against me.
News of the suspected assault instantly topped the trending charts.
I faced online harassment, scrutiny, afraid to even step outside.
Every time I close my eyes, scary images pop into my head.