547 days of silence

No one expected Adeline to wake up.

For 547 days, she had slept—body crushed, spine shattered, dreams stolen. Once the brightest presence in any room, a third-year medical student with laughter like sunlight, Adeline was now a husk. Her body was held together by machines. The doctors had gently encouraged the family to let her go. Even her organs had been discussed—donations in her name. A noble end, they had said.

Until her eyes fluttered open.

Gasps echoed. Her sister screamed. Her father fell to his knees. The impossible had happened.

For weeks, the house bloomed with joy. Neighbors came with food, relatives with tears and gifts. “You’re our miracle,” they’d say, eyes shining. Her younger brother read to her daily. Her mother wouldn’t leave her side. Everyone tiptoed around her, careful not to say the words.

But Adeline remembered.

She remembered everything.

One evening, she sat up straighter in her bed. The gift-wrapped books, soft pillows, and pastel blankets suddenly felt sickeningly sweet. Like dressing a corpse.

“Is my rapist still not caught?” she asked.

The room stilled.

Her mother dropped a cup. Her aunt sobbed into a towel. Her brother shook, silent.

“No,” her sister finally said. “The CCTV footage... it showed someone in a black hoodie, black pants, sneakers... face completely hidden. There were no fingerprints. Nothing.”

Adeline stared ahead, unblinking.

“I don’t even know what he looked like,” she whispered.

But inside, something cracked open. Not weakness. Not fear.

A primal thing.

A fire.



Six Months Later

She walked again.

First on crutches. Then a cane. Then, unaided, albeit with a slight limp. Her body was no longer the same—but her mind? Sharper than ever.

Adeline immersed herself in every detail of the case file her cousin—an intern at the precinct—smuggled to her. She watched the footage on loop. Noticed things the police didn’t. His limp. The way his right hand slightly trembled. His gait. His sneakers: a rare collector’s edition, released only for one month five years ago.

She trawled forums, resale platforms, subreddits. And then, she found him.

A man who posted anonymously, selling that very model. Same shoe size. From the same city.

She dug deeper. IP addresses. Linked accounts. Old usernames. His name surfaced like rot rising in water: Marlon Avery. Thirty-four. Freelance photographer. No priors. But a history of accusations that never stuck.

She knew it was him.

And she had a plan.

The Trap

Using a fake identity—Vivian DeWitt—Adeline created an online persona: a young woman offering paid modeling gigs for “edgy, exclusive” shoots. She offered him good money and a location—a rented cabin two hours away, staged perfectly. Cameras. Lights. Even a fake assistant.

Marlon arrived, intrigued, hungry.

The moment he stepped in, the door locked with a thunderous clank.

From the shadows, she emerged.

No makeup. No smile. Just surgical gloves and silence.

Marlon blinked. “You’re not—”

She tasered him mid-sentence.

Revenge

He awoke strapped to a chair, bound with medical tubing. A light buzzed above.

“Do you remember me?” she asked sweetly, tilting her head.

His mouth trembled. “Please—who are you? Wha—”

She punched him. Once. Then again. Not for answers—she didn’t need them.

“I remember every second,” she whispered. “Every. Second.”

What followed was not rage—it was science.

She knew pressure points, nerve clusters, how to cause pain without instant death. She used tools sterile and cruel: scalpels, clamps, needles. She made him feel every bone break, just as hers had.

“I was your project once,” she hissed. “Now, you’re mine.”

She recorded it all—blurred face, distorted audio. But his jacket was unmistakable. A relic worn during the assault, kept in deluded nostalgia.

When he begged for death, she whispered, “Not yet.”

She sculpted his corpse.

Propped him in the chair. Pried his eyes open. Carved words into his chest:
“Do You Believe Her Now?”

She displayed him in an abandoned gallery, anonymously emailing coordinates to major news outlets and feminist organizations.

By morning, he was global news.

The monster was dead.

And no one ever found her.


The New Beginning

Adeline dyed her hair. Changed her name. Applied back to med school—quietly, under a scholarship for trauma survivors.

She never talked about Marlon. She didn’t need to.

She made new friends. Shared coffee, late-night study sessions, silly dances in the library. Slowly, the light returned. Not the same blinding sunshine she once was, but something softer.

Warmer.

One evening, as cherry blossoms bloomed outside her dorm, a professor asked why she returned.

She smiled gently. “Because some lives are worth reclaiming.”

And she meant it.