They snatched me in a noisy and crowded street.
A thousand pair of eyes, but not one blinked.
Two thousand feet, but not one moved.
A thousand voices, but not one screamed.
Only one scream was heard. Mine.
Loud. Shocked. Surprised. Full of anguish.
A scream that silenced the noisy, chaotic street.
The ride in the car felt dark and deathly.
Darker than the windows of the car.
Darker than the fake black leather seats.
Deathly with my earnest prayers for a death, rather than a miracle.
These men took their time.
Each man had his time.
My screams, tears, and pain.
in their abuse, laughter, and pleasure.
How can the pain of one human,
be the source of pleasure in another?
How can the shame and humiliation of one human,
be the sense of pride and achievement in another?
Why do I call them men?
Can I even call them animals?
These are the filth, the scum which even the earth shudders to embrace.
These are the puss that oozes from dead, rotten, maggot infested corpses.
I will walk the streets in fear and shame;
trapped in my pain and anger, bound by the scars of the crime.
They will walk the streets free and a strange pride.
I was not proof enough that they committed such a heinous crime.