The following story contains sensitive content, details of rape, and childhood trauma.

I wish I could say I was an innocent bystander in the gang-rape of my body just days before my fifteenth birthday. I wish I could say I was spiked with drugs — roofied — and carried away, unaware of what was happening to me. Oh, how I’ve wished that was my fate and not the fate that was delivered to me one frightful night in 1978. But it didn’t happen that way.

I shouldn’t have been there. I snuck out of the house to follow my older brother Tony to the pub. He wasn’t meant to be there either. He was two years older, yet had fewer privileges than I did. We looked the same age, so I had no trouble getting into pubs and clubs. It was the 70s in working-class Sydney. No one cared about underage drinking.

As I slipped through a side door, I spotted him playing pool with his mates, hoping he wouldn’t notice me. I wanted to spy on him in case I needed some future ammo. I could blackmail him with yet another stupid mistake he’d made.

But how would I tell Mum what he’s been up to? I’d only incriminate myself in the process. She wouldn’t be happy knowing I was in a place like that. In any case, I was sure I could get away with it if need be. As Mum’s only daughter, I was her favourite.

My intentions were twofold. I also hoped to see the cute boy I’d been crushing on. Tony would lose his shit if he knew, so I stayed hidden in the shadows. I was good at that with all the practice at home.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, he appeared before me—the cute boy, my dreamboat. I’d spent countless hours daydreaming about him.

“Marcia, right? Can I buy you a drink?”

It took all my will not to topple over. The room seemed to spin in his very presence. The cute boy not only knew my name, but he wanted to buy me a drink. Me! No boy ever noticed me unless they were throwing fat jokes my way. But I could tell he didn’t care about that. He must like me. Why else would he want to buy me a drink and hang out?

And nothing else mattered in our little hidden corner of the pub. We spoke for ages. I wasn’t sure how long had gone by, but I’d forgotten all about Tony.

Cute boy kept buying me drinks, and I had to keep up. I couldn’t let him think I was just a kid.

I was feeling quite woozy in my state of bliss. A mix of alcohol and being drunk on love made me chatty as hell. My shy, insecure alter ego, the wallflower, was taking a nap. I still couldn’t believe how this perfect night had turned out.

“Do you want to get some fresh air?” cute boy said with a smile.

Oh. My. Goodness. He wants to kiss me. I just knew it. He couldn’t risk it in the pub, not with Tony in the next bar or his mates possibly casing the joint.

Cute boy wasn’t one of Tony’s friends, nor did he even know him well, but everyone knew his reputation, and no one would dare mess with Tony’s little sister. It could be so annoying at times.

And so, we slipped out the side door of the pub into the fresh, crisp autumn night air. I was trying hard to stay steady on my feet; I’d had way too many Black Russians. I hoped he didn’t notice, so I kept rambling as we strolled like a silly wind-up toy.

With great anticipation, I pictured the moment we would stop. He would turn to me, pull me into his arms, and then the kiss I’d been waiting an eternity for would finally reach my lips.

I wasn’t paying attention to my surroundings, too caught up in his dreaminess. The chill helped clear my head slightly, but my summer dress made it impossible to stop shivering.

Soon, I imagined he’d take his jacket off and drape it around my shoulders like they do in the movies. Gentlemen did things like that.

When he suddenly stopped walking, I could hardly contain my excitement. It took all my strength not to launch myself into his arms and go in for that kiss. But nice girls don’t make the first move.

He looked at me then with the strangest expression—not the sort of look I expected just before a long-awaited kiss. I felt puzzled as I tried to read his face, but he turned and walked away without saying a word.

Like a lightning bolt shot through me, my alcohol haze lifted. What just happened?

The chilly darkness engulfed me as every detail came into focus. The half-moon cast faint shadows across the landscape, and I realised I was in a grassy vacant lot. I could see the pub like a tiny thumbnail in the distance. Had we really walked that far? The muffled sound of music and voices drifted on the wind, the only sign that civilisation existed.

I saw the faint outline of cute boy disappear into the overgrown grassland. I was about to call out, but my voice wasn’t working. I’d been nattering all night, and now I’d run out of words. What the hell?

He was gone.

Left for dead

Dumbfounded, my heart racing, I tried to follow in his direction, but a sudden, subliminal fear gripped me, locking my legs in place, unable to move. It felt as if invisible hands reached up through the soil, grabbing my ankles to keep me firmly rooted.

That’s when it hit me, as I saw them. Six figures emerged from the darkness, like apparitions, ghosts. Where had they come from? I couldn’t make out their faces, but I knew he wasn’t one of them. None were as tall as he was.

Every cell in my body screamed, urging me to run, yelling at me to do anything but stand there like a fool. I was held by some unseen force, bound in a straitjacket of my own making.

Run. Run. Run! The voice in my head echoed.

It was too late. They shoved me to the ground with such force that I wondered if something had broken in my chest. They snickered and laughed as I tried to cover my knees with my pathetic dress. I wanted to stand, but it felt pointless. They just kept pushing me down.

I started crying, begging them, telling them they had the wrong girl. It was all a terrible mistake, and they should let me go.

“I’m…I’m…with someone…he…”

“Shut up, you fat slut. Make another sound, and you’re dead, bitch,” they joined in for a group laugh.

I knew then it was hopeless. I was hopeless. Knowing I was about to die, right there, in that field of no return, I succumbed. And so, I did as they asked and shut up while they got on with the business of rape.

The ground was cold, so cold. I could smell the earth and the putrid odour of rotting leaves. I imagined I’d be under them soon. Surely, they’d bury me there when they were finished with me.

It happened one by one. The first one shoved the side of my face into the dirt and kept it there, not wanting me to witness his crime. Dirt filled my mouth, and I could taste the decay, as if centuries of filth had lain dormant, just waiting for this shocking disturbance.

When he finished, I thought it was over. I wasn’t dead. How was that possible? But it wasn’t over.

I felt the weight of the second one. He was much heavier. I knew then they would each take their turn, and I wouldn't escape the horror of that moment. I was trying to stifle my sobs as snot and dirt threatened to choke me. Maybe I’d die from that.

“Shut up, you dumb bitch,” one of them said. “If you don’t stop that blubbering, we’ll really give it to you.” And another kicked my foot hard for emphasis.

And, like a sudden rush of willpower, I squeezed my eyes shut and silenced the noise—dead silence. I went inside myself and spoke to her, my inner voice.

Please help me. Take me away from here. Make me invisible. Please take me away… take me away… take me away. I chanted over and over in my head.

And she did.

I felt myself being lifted, and I could hear her voice so clearly.

You don’t have to feel it, Marce. Come with me, my dear. You’ll be safe up here. I’ll take you away, just as you wish.

And there I was, high above it all. I was the stars, the moon, and the sky looking down on that pathetic girl with dirt on her face and her underpants around her ankles, held down by her arms and legs like a starfish adrift in a black sea of nothingness.

There was no hope for that girl, a twisted, broken doll destined for the rubbish tip. I didn’t want to see her anymore, so I ascended higher, soaring into the night sky. I swear I saw the blinking lights of my city far below, scattered in all directions like fairy dust in a hellish fairy tale.

When I came back to Earth, I was alone. They were gone. I wasn’t dead. Somehow, I found my way home and sneaked back into my room. I didn’t tell my mum, too ashamed and scared I’d get into trouble.

I eventually turned to Tony when rage set in. I wanted revenge. I wanted them dead, and I knew Tony would do it. He’d protect my honour and set things right in the world again.

But that didn’t happen.

Tony called me a slut. He heard I’d been gang-banging boys like a cheap whore. One of those boys must have known him indirectly and spun the story to protect himself. To protect all of them. He believed them, no matter how much I pleaded and begged him to listen.

“If you ever dob on me again, I’ll tell Mum what you did, and she’ll know you’re a slut too.” He spat the words at me, and I broke anew. It seemed worse than the rape – somehow.

And I never spoke another word about it, to him or anyone.

Tony and I grew close over the years. I can’t recall how that event was swept under the carpet as our adult relationship developed. The aftermath is blurry. I don’t remember feeling forgiveness, not at that time. I pushed it from my mind, and I suppose he did too. He died before I could ask, before we could discuss the truth and his disregard for me.

I’d be in my 40s before I truly faced it again with a therapist who somehow pried it from my psyche. Only then did I realise it wasn’t my fault, nor did I deserve it. I’d always assumed I had after what Tony said.

And here I am, decades later, able to write these words and share this story. Who knows, maybe someone will read it who carries the same shameful burden, unable to let it go, thinking she too is to blame for some horrendous violation of her mind, body and spirit.

Well, I am here to tell you that you are not to blame and never were.

And know that peace is on the other side of forgiveness. It’s a real thing. It is possible.

Author’s note:

I don’t fully remember my ‘time in the sky.’ In my mind, it was a miracle. I’ve never been able to duplicate it, even though there have been times I wish I could.

I had no idea about ‘Dissociative Disorder’ until a therapist named Joy — can you believe it — enlightened and educated me about it.

So, there is the science, but I’ll take the miracle, thanks Joy.

I know this might be tough for some of you to read, so I am grateful you did. Thank you, friends.

A version of this story was published in my memoir, Every Shitty Thing. I also wrote another version for Medium.

© Marcia Abboud 2025 | All rights reserved

Some Kind of Life is my personal Substack publication. To receive new posts and support my work, please consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.