The Girl Who Survived the Night

I sat blankly on the couch, not saying a word, sunlight streaming through the window onto my body.

It was clearly a bright day, yet I felt a piercing cold, shivers running through me one after another as the memories I refused to recall surged back all at once.

Bang!

The ceramic cup slipped from my hand and shattered into pieces on the floor.

I could no longer control my emotions. I crouched down and burst into tears.

The half-length mirror in the house reflected what I looked like now—my neck covered in dense marks, a large split at the corner of my lips, my hair hanging down in a mess, utterly disheveled.

I felt filthy.

That was the only thought left in my mind.

“I’m filthy, I’m filthy, I’m filthy.

“Right… If I wash it off, I won’t be filthy anymore. If I wash clean, it’ll be fine.”

Ignoring the pain in my body, I rushed to my wardrobe.

Skipping past the dresses, I picked out a few long-sleeved tops and long pants.

I walked into the bathroom and turned on the tap.

The sound of water splashing against the floor echoed softly.

Those painful memories surged toward me again, and the overwhelming anguish made me wrap my arms around myself.

When I opened my eyes again, I saw a flood of scrolling comments.

[What kind of insane luck does the female lead have, ending up in bed with the nation’s heartthrob?]

[I just saw the male lead’s eight-pack abs. Damn it, she’s got it so good. Let me take her place for a couple of episodes.]

[Hehe, next the female lead is going to run away pregnant. A little baby is about to be born.]

I froze in place, too startled by the sudden scene to say anything.

Male lead, female lead… what was all this?

Before I could process it, one glaring, out-of-place comment forced its way into my sight:

[Call the police. Go to someone you trust. Whatever you do, don’t wash away the evidence.]

I repeated it under my breath, but my grandmother always said people don’t gossip about you unless you’ve given them a reason.

Whenever I wore a dress, she would lash out at me with harsh words.

I began to carefully recall that day.

It was raining outside, heavy drops pounding against the window, the trees rustling loudly in the wind. I was wearing a nightgown, with my favorite stuffed toy beside me.

It had clearly been such a beautiful day.

It must have been because I wore that nightgown.

It had to be the dress.

I tested the water temperature.

As long as I washed away this filth, no one would know me, and I could start over.

I couldn’t let anyone find out about this.

This comment was different from the others; it didn’t celebrate what had happened to me.

Very quickly, the person who posted it was attacked by the rest.

[What’s wrong with you? Isn’t this just something between a couple?]

[But the female lead and male lead don’t even know each other yet, and he went to the wrong hotel room and forced himself on her—that’s rape, isn’t it?]

[So what? They’re the official couple. It was bound to happen sooner or later. Maybe she enjoyed the experience.]

I took two steps back.

No, I didn’t want this.

No girl would want to be with a stranger like that.

No matter how talented or wealthy he was.

To me, he was just a stranger.

[The hymen doesn’t truly exist the way people think. Its proper name is the vaginal membrane. It isn’t a sealed layer—it already has openings to allow menstrual flow.

[Some girls’ membranes can change or tear from activities like squatting or dancing. Countless men take pride in being someone’s “first,” setting examples for others, while countless women are bound and judged because of this thin layer.]

…

The comments descended into chaos, but that bold, black-highlighted comment ignored the insults and posted another line.