1,145 words, 6 minutes read time.
Playlist for this Post
I’m surrounded by sweat, bodies and metal. There is music. It is loud but somehow I can almost block it out. I’m good at that. This music is shit. But it’s meant to motivate. Beneath my feet the treadmill flows. My arms pump and I view the changing figures in neon red, wishing they were terrain, hedgerows, tarmac path, trees and trail instead.
There are bearded tattooed men doing weights, crashing them down, loud thumps to the floor, on blue mats compressed and depressed, as is their function. The guys groan as they push themselves. Muscles straining. Eyes bulging. Asses jutting. Shoulders squaring. Every ounce of maleness on display.
To who though?
What’s this for?
I avert my gaze. I don’t need to be reminded I am physically weaker and always will be.
Block them out Sam.
I increase my speed. I raise my chin, imagining harebell blue skies overhead. My hair is tied up, but I’m imagining it down. Flying behind me, flailing my shoulders because it’s long now. Really long. Longer than then.
Sam. Why are you thinking about this?
It’s over a year ago.
Please forget it.
Yeah but he touched my hair. Ripped it from the roots as he restrained me with it, wrapping it around his ugly fist. My titian curls. My glory.
Beast.
Probably sour faced, I reach for my water bottle and shoot a load down my throat. I choke. Beside me, another person steps onto a treadmill. His hands grip the sides as he inputs his preferences. My legs do their autopilot thing as I covertly observe his hands, knowing that they are handsome and yet wondering why I can’t admire this part of the human anatomy the way I used to before. Back when I would spend afternoons drawing them; an entire sketchbook of hands, all in pencil. Baby hands. Old hands. Fists. Palms. Fingers. Male. Female. In so many poses. So many ways. But not now.
Just run damn it!
No thinking.
It’s been half an hour. I’m well over 7k. I know I should slow. But instead I go faster. I sprint. My lungs are complaining. But fuck em.
Then…it happens.
I reach my limit. Legs on empty. Lungs so tired I can scarcely draw air. I gotta stop. I hit that big red square button and slow to a walk, head hanging down. I feel better. Tired but better.
Sigh.
‘You ok?’ the man says, walking on the treadmill beside me. I smile.
‘Yeah. Just pushed myself a bit too hard. But I’m good.’
‘You were going fast there.’
I laugh and grab my towel.
God my legs are like jelly.
I step off and fuck they almost crumple. But not due to my run.
No...
PLEASE, no.
But all the noes in the world won’t erase the fact that somehow he is here. Right over there. Seriously. Right fucking there. The one I’m destroying myself trying not to think about daily. On the machines working out. Carefree. Not a worry in the world – unlike me.
My mind is rushing to contain the breach. It’s all pouring in.
He’s a bastard iceberg and I’ve not got enough boats.
Doesn’t he live in Coleraine now? Why is he here? My mind is screaming. I’ve been telling myself I’m safe.
You’ve been telling yourself lies Samantha…
You’ve been afraid of this. Literally living on a knife edge. Always ready because not being ready or smart caused this.
These ragged bits of you. These bits that say that if not for fate you might not be here. You were weak. You are weak. Incapacitating chest pains were your hero that night. Preservation via indigestion. Not self.
Yes. And I hope he puked all goddamn night.
Move...
And do not collapse!
Just get home.
My legs don’t listen. One knee folds beneath me.
An arm grabs hold and hoists me up. I’m set down on one of the faux leather couches near the desk. My sweaty skin sticks. Pulls. Nips.
I don’t want touched.
I shoot a tight smile at the very young attendant hovering who thinks he’s saved me.
‘I’m good. I promise. Just pushed it too far. But thanks.’
He nods and assures me he’s there if I need him.
What a star.
I’m on the cusp of a panic attack. I’m seeing sparks and shimmering black dots of softened jet.
Breathe.
Yeah that’s what you said then didn’t you? As he pushed you face first into the bed and shoved his cock so hard inside you, it tore you open. Words didn’t matter then. They meant nothing. Words like breathe. Words like no. Words like stop. Even please. Words are the strongest thing I have. Stronger than my legs. Stronger than my arms that are less than half the size of yours Greg. Stronger than my cardiovascular system. Stronger than my neck that you almost broke, throwing me bodily onto the bed. But they weren’t enough. You made my words meaningless. And now here you are, invading my space when you should be in Coleraine – far, far away from me.
You need to go. Well one of us does.
There are goosebumps on my body. I’m trembling. I’m looking at everything and anything to find a distraction strong enough to contain me until I’m strong enough to leave. Posters. Equipment. Marks on the carpet. That dead bluebottle on the window sill, all iridescent and interesting until you realise what it is. I have to get out of here.
Now.
I must never come back.
That’s when it filters through. People are moving, rushing past but somehow in slow motion. The faceless young attendant is grabbing a case that looks like a defibrillator from behind the desk. He’s running, all thoughts of me forgotten as he races towards the gym area where you are, Greg.
You worthless piece of shit.
33.9 miles to get mutilated. That’s how far I drove that night.
All I can feel in this moment is my pulse.
You made me a thing.
The quiet and solitude I’m left with settles upon me for a moment. I drink it in and find a lea side. I am grateful for it, no matter where it came from.
Home beckons now I am feeling a little better. I grab my things and try to walk confidently through the gym on my way out.
And there he is – flat on his back – Greg, my rapist; the young attendant shocking his heart for what appears to be one last time. The guy that broke my heart and who almost broke my neck. Lifeless. Asystole. Like the fly in the window.
A husk.
Dead.
Gone.
If you’ve experienced sexual abuse or assault you can contact the following places for advice and support ;
National Sexual Assault Telephone Hotline at 1-800-656-4673.
https://rapecrisis.org.uk/get-help/want-to-talk/
© 2026, SamanthaJWright.com. All rights reserved.
Big hugs. Xxx