They call the girl thrust aside on the sidewalk a victim. They had stalked her, they had come for her, they had gotten her. She lay in a pool of her own blood, hoping for death. Life would mean eternity of being called a victim. Constant embarrassment, constant guilt, constant reminders. It was one night. She knew it was wrong, but she wanted to put it beside her. Specks of dust covered her still body but the bruises could never disappear. They had become a part of her existence. It had become a part of her existence. The Friday night in the middle of January, her baggy pants being ripped off, the buckets of vomit that followed. The very thought of it made her sick, but the chanting made the pain worse. She could not stand it anymore. Victim, victim, victim. They called dead bodies victims. She wasn’t dead, yet. Could they not find a replacement for that word? Could they not compare her with death? Could they not pretend part of her was already gone? She wanted to go back to routine, but she knew they would not let her. The repeated tests would keep her at the hospital in a frantic search for the perpetuators. They wouldn’t come after her again, she knew. They said she was far too inexperienced even though it was her first time. She simply was not good enough. That’s how everyone thought of her. Victims could never be good enough, could they?