The Rape of Jane Doe
The
room is sterile and cold and white
White walls, white carpet,
White curtains pulled across the window
In the center of the room is a bed.
It too is white.
On the bed lays a women;
Naked, shivering, sobbing
Eyes glazed and vacant and dark,
Knees drawn fetally to her chest,
Hands clenched into a claw,
Knuckles white and bloodless.
The fingers are laced with long strands of hair
Ripped in torment from the ebony mass
That lays damp and heavy on her shoulders.
Her bottom lip is swollen and bruised
Bitten through in a futile attempt to muffle her
anguished cries;
Curses to God and Heaven and the guardians of her fate.
A solitary drop of scarlet blood
Obscenely stains the pristine pillow beneath her head.
Her nostrils fill with the odor of putrefaction;
It is the stench of her own flesh rotting.
Each place that he touched her is diseased and dying.
Shrill silent screams reverberate in the dark recess of her
brain;
A savage assault of lights and sounds that flash like a
hideous kaleidoscope;
Contorted, distorted, images, voices
Indignities manifested upon her broken body.
The shattering of her soul.
Tighter and tighter her knees are drawn
Until she completely disappears inside of herself.
Safe at last!
©D.W.Rickard 1998