The Hands That Took

Trigger Waring: This piece contains themes of sexual assault. Hands that were meant to build, create, and protect. But somehow, yours only destroyed and claimed things that didn't belong to you. Now she has scars, hoping to find people & places that would love, hold, heal and nurture her

"The Hands That Took from Her," what can you say? What would you say?

There is a man in my uncle’s house. He visits sometimes. This time, he stays longer. He laughs too loudly. Stares too long. I know his type.

He says, Let’s go for a walk. I go. Not because I want to, but around here we don’t say no to our elders. You badly brought up child, they will say. He talks about my body like it belongs to him. He makes jokes that are not funny. I laugh anyway. It is safer to laugh. Small inappropriate talks to make me feel like he is the cool uncle, but he familiarises himself with his prey, ME

It’s late, it's dark, it's silent, everyone is away, and it's a safe space for him. I hear footsteps before I can process, then his hands. Too close. Too firm. Too familiar. I scream, I beg, I cry, I fight back, and then I freeze. I hold my breath; there is need to feel dead; dead people don't feel,

I feel my skin turn into something I do not want to live in. He thinks it is a game. Everything

happens so fast. How do I explain this the next morning? I am a victim, but I am ASHAMED. Talking about this means feeling; I dON’t wAnT To FeEL

But this is not the first time. It is not new. My body remembers before my mind does. The hands of the husband of my mother’s friend. The hands of a neighbor. Hands of a cousin. Hands of a male friend. Hands of a stranger in a crowd. I have carried them all. I have swallowed them whole and pretended they did not sit heavy inside me.

But this time, something breaks. Maybe it is me. Maybe it is the last thread holding me together.

I do not want this body. I do not want this history. I ask God, Why me? I wonder if He sees. If He

made a mistake putting me in this body, the one men feel so entitled to touch.

I do not have answers. Just the quiet. Just the weight of it all.

I wake up the next day. I pray I move. I breathe. I exist, and I hope. And maybe, somehow, that is

enough. "The Hands That Took from Her," I hope you regret and do better.

Written by Sharon Fru

Sharon Fru’s writing is deeply personal, sensitive, and worth sharing. Through her words, she explores the weight of experiences that often go unspoken, offering a space for reflection and connection. With a keen interest in behavioural science, she hopes to one day study the ways human experiences shape our thoughts, emotions, and actions.