The bastard made a sign out of cardboard, labeling me with the word ‘SLUT’, and forced me to parade down the street carrying it.
I didn’t want to. I fought him, begged him, but none of it mattered. He stood over me, sneering, waiting. “You want to act like a slut? Let’s make sure everyone knows.”
My hands shook as I gripped the edges of the sign, the cardboard rough against my fingertips. Every step down that street felt like a thousand needles piercing my skin.
People stared. Some laughed, some whispered, some just looked away, pretending they didn’t see. But I saw them. I felt every single pair of eyes burning into me.
I was so mad. Humiliated.
And all because I spoke to another man?
A simple conversation, nothing more. A polite exchange at the shop, a smile, a few words. But to him, that was betrayal. To him, that was enough.
I couldn’t believe how cruel he could be.
But I should have known.
After that, I was too ashamed to even leave the house. The thought of facing those same people again, of seeing their smirks, their judgment, their pity—I couldn’t do it.
And that’s what he wanted.
It was never just about punishing me. It was about making sure I stayed punished. About stripping away every bit of dignity, every bit of confidence, every bit of me.
But I won’t let him get away with it.
He wanted to break me.
But he’ll regret ever thinking he could.