10

For the first time in a long time, it was at the tip of my tongue to scream out my past.

I wanted to scream to Santos that his best friend drugged me to the brink of death and raped me.

I wanted to scream to him that Jason, Marde, and Kain raped me.

I wanted to scream at him that his three friends betrayed him immediately after he stepped out of the States.

I wanted to scream at him that I came face-to-face to death from that drug.

I wanted to scream at him that I experienced the most excruciating pain of my life at the hands of his friends.

I wanted to scream at him that I became the sex addict I was today because I endured that godforsaken drug for hours—long hours!—all because I didn’t want any other man’s hands on my body apart from his.

As he held me up against the wall, smothering with anger and hurt, I wanted to scream all this at him, but in the end, I didn’t. I couldn’t.

Santos would never believe me. Ever.

I didn’t blame him. No man in his shoes would ever believe me.