There is a specific kind of trauma in the mundane—the shadow of a wooden spatula, the physical memory of gagging, the way a routine check-up curdles into a battlefield. It’s messed up because it’s a betrayal of trust disguised as "for your own good." The doctor doesn’t just break her will; he enjoys the breaking. He notices her beauty, then he destroys her dignity. It’s a predatory gaze masked by a medical license.
Writing from the heart, drawing from the depths, healing in the process.