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As your awareness and memory begin to fade back into focus, the first thing that flashes through your groggy mind is his face, the look of him above you while it was happening. The reason it sticks in your mind, you think, is because of how thoroughly average it is: grey-black fur, soft muzzle without any classically distinct lines, neither particularly masculine or feminine or notable in any particular way. It looks, in fact, boring, and would seem to telegraph the sort of person whose neighbors would praise for how green their front lawn was, as there would be nothing more of interest to describe. It's not what you would have imagined at all: not some thing out of a story, not some gruff, dominant alpha male, all muscles and snarling, testosterone and unyielding dominance. No, just the kind of man you'd walk past on the street without taking even a second curios glance. The kind of guy who probably liked sweaters and wrote poems about his pet fish and had a girlfriend, if any, who was just as thoroughly unremarkable. In short, the sort of person that you'd never imagine in a million years would be the one who'd just finished raping you. And yet, as nondescript as it was, the look on his face, in his eyes, make it absolutely clear that that's what took place.

Your certainty that that's what took place, that you have been raped, soon finds additional confirmation as the rest of your senses slowly but surely return to their original clarity. Your vision is still a dim, blurry mess, your hearing still sounds like the world is murmuring in an echo chamber, and every part of your body feels leaden, but certain sensations like smell and touch are quickly returning. The most pertinent sensation, low in your abdomen, is a very particular sort of warmth, even now subtly fading, but clear enough in its identity - enough previous boyfriends and broken or skipped condoms have left you more than well aware of what that particular sensation signifies.

You feel the awareness expand, flowing out form your torso towards your extremities. Your blouse and bra are still on, as far as you can tell, although the top of the blouse feels looser than it should, like some of the buttons are undone. One of the bra cups is also slightly out of place, uncomfortable against your breast, shifted upward in a way that seems to indicate a hand slipping underneath. Below the edge of the blouse, though, from your hips on down, you feel completely naked, your skirt and panties gone, only the feel of rumpled sheets beneath you. Between your legs, you feel a subtle ache of the kind that often accompanies a prolonged encounter, and the familiar feeling of your inner lips pressing together, as they normally do, is more noticeable by virtue of its absence. Your mind, quickly shaking off the grogginess, knows that this means the man probably pulled out of you a minute or two ago, and was big enough, and stayed in you long enough, to stretch things fully open, although you know they will soon recover. It also means, though, that your rapist is probably still here, even within the room, and you desperately try to will your other senses back into focus, and to find enough strength to shake off whatever sedative is still coursing through your veins enough to at least lift your head up and figure out where you are, and just how much trouble you're in.

Even if you can't see him, you can certainly smell him. Whatever his other characteristics, his scent is unabashedly male, and you can smell it all around you, on your clothes, on your fur. Which meant that he hadn't just been fucking you, but on you, against you. You want to shiver in disgust, but your body still seems to lag in its intent to obey you. And there are other scents, too, more than one, but they are faint and intermingled enough that it's impossible to sort them out. You keep trying to move, desperately trying to be aware, but what returns instead is a portion of your memories, still muddled, but clear enough.

You can remember where you were - at a bar, albeit a safe, upscale sort of place, the kind that served wine in actual stemware along with the more usual libations. You'd been there to celebrate your co-worker's promotion, and it had been a work party for sure, sedate and safe, everyone around people you knew from work, or other patrons that had looked clean and professional and safe. You'd had one glass of wine, no one had touched it, you'd played everything safe, and had decided to stay a little longer after the party with a couple of your female coworkers, have just one more glass of that excellent wine, and call a cab to take you all home. Then they'd taken off for a moment to go to the ladies' room, and another group got up to leave, several people filing along behind you towards the door. In the midst of it, one of them had bumped roughly against your back, and as they walked away, you realized that the nudge for some reason felt like it stung more than it ought to. You'd gotten up, trying to reach back and rub out the soreness, but the room suddenly seemed to feel strange, not quite the right shape somehow, the motions of your arm immediately starting to feel uncoordinated. Then your legs turned to jelly, and you fell forward, but not very far, as someone reached out to catch you, pulling you in towards their chest. From that point, every thing seemed... fuzzy, like there was a strange sort of static across the rest of the memory, and the only thing more you could recall was a man's voice near your ear, commenting to someone that you'd had too much to drink and that he was fetching you a cab. From there, everything suddenly goes murky, although beneath it, you feel like there's some other recollection struggling to rise above the surface and into your perception.

Despite yourself, you find your mind straining to recall more, even though you know that it can't be anything good. There's something else to focus on now, though. Beside you, not touching but surely close enough, someone else is moving on the bed, and you can feel the springs shifting under you as they move. You still can't hear enough to know what's going on, though, and your head refuses to rise from the pillow where it lays. Surely it's him, it has to be him, but for now nothing happens. Is he watching? Waiting? Your sense of desperation increases, and as it does you feel a wave of panicked tension shoot through your extremities as your body somehow conjures up a burst of adrenaline. It's still not enough to counteract much of anything, but your limbs feel slightly less heavy, your perceptions slightly sharper, and it is just enough to jar loose another snippet of memory. It isn't much: just the feel of your body leaning slumped against the edge of a doorway, looking into a dim, sparse, swirling room, a bed with white sheets in the center. Someone is stomping on the heels of your shoes, forcing them to let go, your ankle turning uncomfortably as one of them falls away. A hand grips your skirt, tugging down, and you feel it sliding off, pulling down along your thighs, feeling suddenly, horribly exposed, and then the tiny snippet of it fades back into the dark swamp that still weighs heavily on your mind.

You can hear the sounds of the room a little clearer now, still indistinct and echoing, sounding like the background noise buried beneath the music at a bustling nightclub. Everything is still horribly indistinct, but you can make out a voice coming from off to your side - two of them, somehow, not enough for words, but one lower-pitched and one higher. You still can't quite figure out what it means, but your eyes are at least starting to come mostly back into focus, staring up at the white stucco of an anonymous ceiling, unevenly lit, with a blossom of light in one corner of it and fading across the rest.

You redouble your efforts to move, but as you do, another fragment of memory breaks free, triggered somehow by what you've just seen. You remember looking up at the ceiling before, watching it rock and swirl in your vision as you felt your body collapse down onto the bed, bouncing gently against the springs. Then the view shifts, and for a moment you're looking down along your own body, your blouse in disarray, and below it the triangle of your panties leading your eyes to the point where they dip down from view between your legs. It is the same point where they meet an arm, and the inverted palm of a hand, covered in fur that's not quite black, twisting and coiling like a serpent in your confused vision. Then there's the sensation of pressure against your crotch, fingers shoving in against your panties, moving about like they're searching for something. Then, one of them traces along a contour and finds the outline of your clit where it presses up against the fabric, and the fingers converge, mashing roughly at it. You feel it popping in and out of its hood, the rough pressure on it sending a shock of pain shooting down through your inert legs, and you hear the sound of yourself crying out ringing through your skull. Then the memory shatters instantly, and you feel yourself gasp, a sharp intake of breath that's the most rapid motion you can recall making since your awareness returned.

Things are a little bit lighter now, though, and as you feel the bed moving more rapidly, you begin to turn your head slowly, trying to look over to the side. You see the edge of the ceiling, and the top of a closet door rising up to meet it. Just turning your head, though, seems to require an immense amount of effort, and you have to pause partway through. Still, it's just enough to see the top of someone's head bobbing occasionally into view, enough to see a patch of dark-colored fur and a single, fuzzy ear with a small chunk taken out of the very tip, a feature that you realize you can suddenly remember, lurking above your visions of the man's face. You weren't wrong, then. The man who raped you is still in the room, still in the bed next to you, moving about, doing... something.

You shift your head lower, even as your mind, still affected by the drugs, continues its strange, wandering recollections, the memories almost like living hallucinations playing out in front of your eyes whenever your eyelids drift closed. You drift back to that single, static vision of his face, glaring down at you with that preternaturally satisfied smile, and as you look at it, you begin to feel as though it is moving back and forth in your field of view, up and down, over and over, in a particular, rhythmic motion, one that you realize must be the sway of his body going through the motions of raping you.

The vision fades momentarily, and you will your head to keep turning, although it only seems to move incrementally. It's just enough to move it past some balance point, though, and the weight of your head at that angle is enough to tilt it down the rest of the way, giving you a pillow's eye view of what's happening next to you. And that, for the first time, is when you see her.

She's a vixen with a cute, wide-eyed face, clearly at least several years younger than you are, perhaps a freshman in college or a sophomore at the most. She is maybe a few feet away from you, and like you prone on her back against the sheets. Her back is arched higher, though, and while you can't see her hands, the angle of her arms seem to indicate that they are tied together behind her back. The only clothes standing out against her vibrant orange fur are a bra and a pair of panties. Both are plain, white cotton, and as soon as you see them, you know that her circumstances are different. This wasn't a girl out having a night on the town - if she had been, she would have been wearing something silky or slinky, even if just to feel sexy regardless of what might have happened later in the evening. No, that was the sort of thing you'd wear if you were going to the library to study, or to your dorm room to casually hang out and watch TV. Which meant that the girl hadn't been drunkenly seduced or led back here, but actually grabbed up from somewhere.

In fact, you realize, she doesn't seem to be drugged at all - her eyes are clear and aware, her head darting back and forth, her body struggling vigorously against the sheets even as the bed shifts again, and the dark-furred man looms back over her. He's a mutt, for sure, with just enough Husky ancestry to be barely noticeable in the lines of his body, wearing nothing beyond a pair of loose black boxers that are already tented near the middle, just barely to one side. You watch him look down at her impassively, nothing more than a slight smile on his face, as she glances up, panic clear on her face. She can only seem to look at him for a moment, her eyes flicking over in your direction, and then back up at him, over and over. And one one of those glances, a lingering, meaningful one, you realize the depth of her terror. As much as you can't recall her being there, you're suddenly sure that she was there the entire time, watching every single thing that was done to you. She's not just worrying about what might happen. She's already seen what this guy is capable of.

You struggle to do something, anything, but everything is still a tremendous struggle to move even an inch, and about all that happens is that your jaw sets as a strange buzzing adds to the echoing din in your ears. You look back down and see that the man has some sort of vibrating thing in his hand, not quite a sex toy but close to it. Apparently done with manual stimulation, you watch as the thing blurs in his hand from the vibration, watching it arc down to press in against the woman's crotch, dipping out of view behind her thigh. She squirms violently against it, her whole body trying to scoot back on the bed, and the echoes of her voice reach a louder, more desperate pitch before her body suddenly stiffens, legs jerking for a few moments in an oddly disjointed manner before lying still. You're not sure if it is the toy causing her to somehow climax within seconds of its touch, or if the reaction is just due to pure overstimulation, but the man simply smiles and pulls the thing away. In its place, you can see something tracing slowly up the fabric, darkening it slightly as it wicks up past her crotch and curves up along the fibers before stopping just above the base of her abdomen. It doesn't take much consideration to know what that signifies; the toy has done its job, at least what the man wanted it for.

You watch as he sets it aside, and then pulls the panties down, the woman suddenly squirming and struggling anew as he yanks them past her thighs, getting tangled up for a moment around her knees before he holds her legs down and pulls them the rest of the way off. The woman tries to get a kick in as he unhooks them from around her ankles, but there isn't enough force behind it, and the man doesn't even wince as it impacts against his stomach. He simply grabs her flailing legs and presses them back down against the sheets before yanking her thighs apart.

It's all too clear what's about to happen, and yet you can barely move yourself - all you can manage is to lay there, eyes open, filled with anticipatory dread as the ache within yourself throbs back to the surface. You can't abide what the man is about to do, but neither can you stop it. All you can do is try to call out, to tell him to stop abusing her, but all you can manage to eke out, is a weak, rasping whisper:

"S... sto..."

It's not much, but it's loud enough, and suddenly both of them are looking over at you. The girl's face is still a mask of panic, but her ears are flattened in something almost reminiscent of guilt, and you quickly guess why: she was just as immobile and helpless when the man had been attacking you. In fact, as you look more closely, there's a ring of mussed, disturbed fur around her muzzle that seems to be missing several small patches, as though it had recently been taped shut, and probably why you couldn't recall even hearing her before.

The man, though, just keeps that slight, awful grin on his muzzle, leering back at you. Then he speaks, for the first time you can recall since the bar, and the tone of his voice instantly matches your fragment of memory, slightly gruff but a little higher in pitch than most, just enough to be noticeable.

"Heh, like you could stop me," he replies, brief, arrogant, and dismissive. He only looks at you long enough to run his gaze down your body, his eyes seeming to linger in the vicinity of your crotch. "If I were you, I'd shut up and enjoy the break. There'll be more fun for you soon enough." And that's it - he turns back to the other woman, moving in between her legs, tugging his boxers down to reveal a penis that's average at best. Patches on it seem to shimmer weirdly in the light, though, and you realize what they are - dried-up splotches of your own juices still adhered to his skin.

You try to close your eyes, not wanting to watch as he looms above her, but as soon as you do his face is back in your vision, that horrible smile, that evil glint in his eyes, moving back and forth, back and forth, over and over and over again. The pace of it is regular, deliberate, unlike a canine, like you're supposed to feel every little thing about it, almost but not quite as if it's going in slow motion. As he moves, though, you realize that this time you can feel yourself moving too, that you can feel your breasts shifting back and forth as his chest squeezes in against them, the feel of the sheets shifting against you butt and lower back as the motion of his hips makes your own react in a similar fashion. And then, with each motion, you can remember the sensation of him moving inside you, but just barely, your insides somehow dulled by the effects of the drug. All you can really sense is the impact, a strange, dull thud as something hammers low in your belly, repeating on a seemingly endless loop. You can still feel his shaft sliding back and forth against the sides of your inner lips, but inside all you can recall feeling is more and more numb, even your clit seemingly dead to sensation after the earlier abuse. Then the thudding stops, and all you can feel is a single throb of heat slamming home like a dart between your legs before the world progressively dissolves back into grey.

You snap your eyes open, gasping again, your hearing finally resolving itself to a chorus of desperate, staccato screams. He's already begun taking her, during the few moments you were lost in your reverie, but there is nothing deliberate this time about his motions. He's between her legs, his muzzle shoved into the cleft between her breasts, dark eyes glinting evilly up at her terrified gaze, watching her body rock and shudder under him as his hips jerk spastically up and then slam forcefully back down, a rapid, relentless canine humping. Even with her whole body quivering, practically vibrating under the onslaught, you can see her still squirming her head and chest underneath him, still trying desperately to fight back, to get away, each hammerblow within her causing her to emit a shrill, piercing scream, loud and clear in your ears, each one making you cringe as you weakly watch the woman being pounded. Everything about it is horrible, and all you want to do is close your eyes and desperately blot it out, but as soon as you do you're instantly back into your own recollections of him on top of you, but this time with screams that you can't drown out. You snap your eyes back open, wanting to feel stronger, wanting to take some action against him, but while you find that you can actually move your arms and legs, at least a little, they're still far too weak and shaky to do much of anything beyond slowly bringing your own legs together.

As for the woman, though, all you can do is watch with a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach, feeling somehow violated all over again as your body sympathetically aches in time with her ravaging as it gets even worse - a few seconds later, her own body finally gives in to the overwhelming, pounding stimulation, her cries reduced to a series of weak, moaning little whimpers, her form instantly ceasing its squirming defiance to do little more than rock and shudder in response to each thrust. Just before he finishes off with one final, hammering impact that slams her hips down into the sheets, you see them begin to jerk and shudder to a separate, internal counterpoint, and even as he lies still between her thighs you can see her body bucking unwillingly beneath him as a forced climax continues to shiver through her. You see her eyes roll partially up, her eyelids still wide open as the bottom half of her eyeballs show solid white, rapidly twitching from side to side as her ravaged, overwhelmed body reacts in the only way it knows how. Finally, it stops, after nearly a minute of the man just lying motionless on top of her, and then he just gets up and pulls out unceremoniously, propping himself back up on his knees with his still-hard cock wagging back and forth in front of him, shaft slick with the woman's juices and head still streaked with grey-white gobs of his own cum. You look on, horrified, as he just crouches there, grinning in triumph, droplets of cum still dripping down from him onto the girl's stomach, and for a moment the room is oddly quiet, the only things sounding in your ears the audible sound of the man's panting, and the woman's weak, quiet sobbing.

Then the man shifts over, his hands slamming down on either side of the pillow, and all of a sudden he's looming over you again, cock hovering dangerously in the air just a couple of scant feet above your thighs. It's his face, though, that quickly grabs your attention, and despite his nondescript appearance, it's not hard to see the twisted pride and dominant overconfidence in his face as he sneers down at you.

"I wonder if you enjoyed the show, hmm? I'd check myself, but I think my dick's more than wet enough for right now." He leans closer, close enough so that your muzzles are nearly touching, close enough so that you can feel his hot, horrid breath puffing on your face as he speaks. "Because you know... that's the thing I like the most about bitches like you. The fact that, no matter what, you can't stop it from happening. Maybe it's some survival thing, hell if I know, but once I'm on top of you, there's nothing you can do to keep from getting fucked, nothing you can close or block, no muscles you can clench to stop it, nothing. And just knowing something's happening, or watching it happen to someone else, is enough to get you all wet and ready, even if you're fucking terrified. Just look at her, right? Practically paralyzed with fear watching me with you, but at the same time she can't help being so aroused that she nearly cums from me looking at her. Damn, if I didn't know better, I'd say that deep down, chicks actually want someone to rape them-"

Mercifully, he trails off, as a knocking sound comes from the bedroom door, and another voice sounds out from behind it. "Yo, Matt! You still in there keeping them entertained? We still gotta take our turns too, you know..." It's another voice, obviously masculine, but there's something slightly off about it. Maybe just a tinge too nervous for how casual it's trying to sound. Matt, if that's the guy's name, doesn't seem to notice, though, and is at least momentarily distracted from whatever it was he was planning to do atop you. He leans back up, hastily yanking his boxers back into place as he turns and yells back towards the door.

"You dumbshits better actually have the refreshments this time. I'm getting seriously parched from all of this..."

"Yeah, yeah, we've got beer and stuff, all right? Just take a fucking break and get over here to unlock the door."

"Door's unlocked," Matt replies, turning back to you, but the voice beyond the door continues.

"No i-it ain't! You're the one who probably locked it, wanted both bitches for yourself or something. We all worked to get them, so open it on up!"

"Fuck, you guys are dumbasses." At the very least, though, he seems to have forgotten all about you, jumping off the bed and opening the door, then stepping back as several people enter the room.

Four more men in all walk through the door, and as you see them, your heart sinks as you know what their presence means. Two of them are sort of nondescript and mopey, dressed in casual college-kid clothes, a little younger than Matt and a little muscular. The other two, though, are bigger and older, canines that have a distinctly rougher edge and muscles that bulge out their shirts and coats. You wonder for a moment whether they're the ringleaders, and when you see one of their coats swing open to reveal the butt of a revolver tucked into the waistband, your heart begins to thud in your chest as a possible horrific future plays out rapidly in front of your mind: the pain and terror of each of them on top of you, and then the muzzle of the gun pressed against the side of your head, but there's no way out, no escape...

Then the jacket nudges open a little further, and you realize there's something else clipped to his belt next to the gun. It takes a moment to make it out, but you realize it's a little plaque of metal, in the shape of a shield, inset into a circle of leather. It is, you realize a badge.

Your eyes are suddenly darting around the group, picking up things you didn't notice before - the slouching posture of the two in front isn't just some sort of pose, but due to the fact that both of their hands are tucked down behind their hips, ostensibly handcuffed together, and the look of the other men as they glance around the room isn't predatory, but careful and tactical, making sure there aren't any hidden surprises. Matt, standing a few feet away from them, is looking at them warily, but hasn't spotted the same things that you have, at least not yet.

"Hey now, I thought we agreed we weren't gonna invite anyone else to play this time, that these two were for just us, so what gives?"

"Um, well..." one of the others says, looking guiltily away. "Actually..."

"You know what? Doesn't matter." He looks at the two other men with the same stupid, cocksure smile, not even realizing his own fate. "You guys can have sloppy fourths or whatever, and if you wanna watch, be my guest - the more people who get to see these bitches humiliated, the less likely they're gonna want to talk afterwards. Heck, probably shoulda taped it - hey, you got your cell on you, right, Ben? No way they go public with something like that hanging over them. Anyway, what I'm saying is, you want in, you can wait until we're all fuckin' finished."

While one of the detectives stands with the other guys and holds his gaze, the other one slowly edges around to the side, and is within a few feet of him while the first one speaks.

"Actually, I think you're more than finished," he says, casually flicking the edge of his jacket off his hip.

"The fuck you say?" Matt replies, looking livid, but suddenly goes pale as he glimpses what's on the man's belt.

"Oh yeah, you're done," the other detective chimes in as he reaches back towards the cuffs hanging on his belt. "What, you're actually surprised to see us? You really think the woman you grabbed didn't have friends that would call the cops when they disappeared? Or that the cab company doesn't have a GPS map that leads us right to your doorstep, your dumbass buddies, and the van they grabbed the other girl up with? You guys are idiots, and now you're done-"

The cop's speech is suddenly cut off as Matt's arm whips up, and you see that he's holding something inside it, something he must have grabbed up while trying to assess the situation, and as his hand slams into the detective's arm you realize it's another syringe. The detective yells, first grabbing at his arm, and then fumbling for his gun, before he all but folds over in half and collapses to the floor. The other one has his gun out, though, but one of the mopes slouches over even further and runs into him headfirst, the barrel jerking up into the air before going off with a loud report that rattles the walls and the world rapidly descends back into confusion. This time, though, with life and death suddenly on the line, the shock of the adrenaline slamming through your chest, jerks you upright, and before you can even think your body is in action, grabbing onto the other girl's arm and rolling both of you off of the bed. Then, suddenly, you're back on your feet, your legs still wobbly but moving forward with a newfound purpose, and nothing matters but running, running, getting away as fast as you can. You bounce off the doorjamb, the impact spinning your body around, and as you try to turn back you get a momentary glimpse of the scene, the detective doubled over and leaning against the wall a few feet away from the one prone on the ground, but his gun is still in his hands, and before the scene leaves your field of view the weapon booms twice more in quick succession, a divot of splinters blasting out of the closet door and a hammerblow that flinches Matt's chest back, slick, dark crimson blossoming out across his fur. Then there's just a hallway, a stumbling girl beside you barely held up by the one elbow you have locked around her own, and then running, running, through the front door, onto unfamiliar pavement that thuds beneath your feet, bushes, streetlamps, and then strobing, flashing lights, blue and white and red, men in uniforms running and screaming and loud reports as guns go off somewhere behind you, again and again. And then your legs give way, the world swirling again, and hands are lifting you up, settling you onto a stretcher, a blanket settling over you as the stars overhead spin rapidly around, leaving bright, trailing afterimages in your vision. Somewhere beyond you, you can hear the other girl crying, although you don't know if it's from panic or grief or relief. Then you realize that you're crying as well, the exertion and the remnants of the drugs draining your strength and sapping your consciousness, and as one final shot sounds, it seems fainter than it should be.

You're still awake, though, just barely, and as the stretcher moves and the swirling stars are replaced by a bank of bright florescent lights and concerned people in light blue uniforms looking down at you, the memories come flooding back with clarity, playing out in their proper sequence from beginning to end, and as they do you can feel your sobs intensifying, becoming fully aware of the parts of you that are naked and vulnerable beneath the blanket, feeling the weakness and terror and violation flow through you all over again, and you can feel the agony just as clearly as your still-confused mind plays over the attack on the other woman as well. You realize, with a sick feeling in the pit of your stomach, that you've witnessed one of the most intimately awful moments of the woman's life, and you don't even know her name, only what one horrible man did to her. The memories, though, keep flowing unbidden, and this time they don't end with the feeling of the man thudding inside you, or the horrible scene of the vixen shuddering beneath him, but one single moment frozen in time, one weak man standing stock still in a barren bedroom, all the confidence and swagger drained from his face as blood wells out of his chest and spills down across his fur. You don't know for sure what it meant, or whether the man who raped you is wounded or all the way dead, but somehow it fits - as horrible as everything else was, he's the one who ultimately suffered the most violent, damaging, penetrating violation of his body, his physicality, his own unshakable sense of being. It's not really revenge, it's not nearly enough, but at least it's something.

As you lie back, watching the spinning lights above you slow and stabilize, a dozen nagging questions begin to bubble up into your just-awake-enough mind - what diseases he might have had, whether you're close enough to your next heat that there might actually be a risk of fertility, the kind of tests they'd have to do at the hospital once you arrived, whether someday in the future you would have to look across at a trio of sullen faces in court, whether you'll have to relive the awful memories once again in front of a box of random people who could decide their fate, or whether instead you'll visit a cemetery at some point in the future and spit on a trio of headstones. Such things, though, are all in the future, and for the moment, you realize that all you care about is the present. Maybe the future is uncertain, and maybe the recent past is now marred with fresh trauma that you will always relive in snippets and fragments, but right now you are warm, your heart still beats, you still draw breath, and no awful fate hangs over you. You are alive, a survivor, and for now, that's all that matters. Not the cops, not the rapists, not anything else.

In fact, there is only one person you can think about, a young vixen with bright fur and a face that you watched the innocence drain out of, bit by bit. More than anything, that's why you know you can't dwell on the trauma, and that you have to remain strong and live, no matter what. Horrible as it may be, there is one thing that now irrevocably joins you, and you know that whatever happens, you will seek her out and offer her your support. If she is too young to have the strength to get through this, you know that you will be the strength that she needs, without question. Out of everything, you know that what will hurt the most won't be what happened to you, but being powerless to stop what happened to her, and the only way you know to take back that power is to make sure she recovers and returns to being a strong, confident woman despite it. You won't give them, alive or dead, the satisfaction of having broken either one of you. No matter what, you will spite them, and make the power of their violations meaningless.

Knowing what you will do, you finally allow yourself to rest, and even though you know there will be trying days ahead, for now you are alive and safe, and as much as you know you need to remember, to never forget and never forgive, you are content to let the vivid memories fade back into the lingering bits of murky oblivion hovering and gradually vanishing from the corners of your mind. Either way, after all, Matt's story is over, and now it's time to take the narrative back - both for her sake, and your own...