dear you

This is how I sat, hours before we met.


Dear you.

The twat that attacked me.

You thought it your place to get what you want.

You thought it was your right, to catch this blond British girl and ask her to perform your sexual desires.

Sure, I wasn’t in the safest place – I found this out from a local at the end of my trip, when I stepped foot back in the village near which we met. But I guess you showed me that place was not safe too.

You showed me to listen to the instinct I so strongly held.

You showed me to listen to it next time I feel it so heavily and intertwined in my heart. And this I have done – each and every time, in situations such as this.

I felt it coming. I knew where I was going was the wrong thing to do. The wrong place to go. I could feel it with every inch of my body as I stepped my sandy flip-flopped feet along the dusty Moroccan roads.

But I’d been told there was a beautiful beach there – up north. I’d read it in my book I’d bought the day before. It must be true, right?

But it wasn’t.

All I found was you.

All I found, as I begun to turn back, was rubbish ridden sea edges. Ruins of buildings that reached no higher than your head. I saw birds picking through the bits and bobs. I saw an old man sat on a wall, with a face that said it all. I watched the waves roll in, for a few minutes at least. I wanted to make the journey worth it – tried to feel like the beach I’d come across was a gift.

It sure was not.

Next it became hell. It became what I never in my mind had ever ever thought would happen to me. Ever. It was never even an angst that scurried my mind.

But it became true. In that very moment. Because of you.

You could have wanted more, but you didn’t. You could have taken my life, but you didn’t. You could have brought my trip to a swift end with nothing but bruises and hospital. But you didn’t.

But what you did want was terrifying. It was heart jerking, mind numbing, body swivelling, shivering and shaking.

It left me changed and new, from all I had known before. Scarred like I never thought I would know. Witness to what I never thought I would see. Acting the lead role in a show I never thought would be.

For now you’ve left me speechless. You’ve left me baffled with business I know not how to describe. But until I find words again, I will tell you the story of my day until it happened, using the few pictures I have below.

For the mean time, you prick, I hope you have found refuge in your own being and no-one else’s. I hope you have not performed that act upon anyone else’s but your own. I hope that my british breasts were all that you have known. I hope you know the hell actions like that bring. I hope you know that’s not what women deserve. I hope you know that because we look innocent doesn’t mean we’re yours. I hope you know how to live for yourself and fulfill your needs and have refrained the urge to act out that sick and twisted deed.

The pictures I want you to see. They’re nothing special, but they’re me:

The stroll along the harbour, I can’t remember if this was before or after.


The gates of which I walked through. To step outside the city walls. Weeks later I found out, this is not where you want to head. The fact that if I had known this before, I would never have met you, and that fills me with dread.


The Essouira beach, a morning doze, walk & sandy feet. Again I don’t know which day this happened, be it before or after I stumbled across you – you struck jackpot with me – but all I know is it was within short enough moments and near enough mileage, to feel connected to this crazy event.


The sand blew like no other, filling my eyes, nose, ears and mouth with tonnes of the grainy stuff. That’s partly why I left – the windy city, as it is known, was living up to its tourist name. Left to walk to the mystery beach that never came true and instead led me to you.



This is the path that descended to my perch. Where I sat and looked out at the ocean waves catching some last sunshine rays before I headed back to the safety of the village walls.


And there we have it, to name a few. A few of those moments that brought me to you. Here is the last in this weird little chain. And after all this is typed I don’t even know your name.


The thought of your face makes me feel sick. The thought of what came next makes me taste that sick. But one thing I do know, is I won’t let you win, this battle of resilience process and healing.

What happened was repulsive but that shock can fade – its just physical stuff left there. But it’s the terror, it’s the fact I thought I was going to die. It’s the fact I though you would be the last person I was going to see. It’s the feeling I had that no one would know anything happened until I didn’t return home fourteen days later. It’s the terror of what could have been. It’s the terror of what I had seen. It’s the terror of what I had been.

But this is coming back, this trust of life and myself and those I stumble across. It dwindles it passes, but it always comes back in its own determined way. So for the mean time:

Screw you. You sick and twisted and hideous bastard.

Note to readers – never do I normally get angry and vent. Or throw those words towards someone’s face. But please bare with me, because I feel it quite needed. These times to heal need to be full of anger and hatred and for me to truly FEEL. So that is what I am trying to do, but please excuse the French.



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