She lay in bed, sheet pulled up to her eyes which were squeezed shut in a primeval act of defiance. The sun shone through anyway, the flimsy curtains whispering in the hint of a breeze that is the breath of a new day. She threw her body over onto her stomach burying her face in the pillow, daring the new day to follow her, knowing that this way, face buried and eyes squeezed shut she could ignore the call of life.
But for how long?
Her mind tortured her soul, replaying her misery chord by chord, sob by sob and humiliation by humiliation. Every simple pleasure in the start of her day had been taken from her, wrenched from her silently and wordlessly in the dead of the air around her.
Violated – defiled – desecrated – abused.
She had shared her soul, freely and openly. It would be wrong to claim she had shared her most intimate secrets in an act of love, although most others would understand this concept more. The physical violation of a body, mind and soul by a partner who had claimed her heart and love would be understood, sympathised with and she would be cradled in the warmth and love of those around her as they strived to look after her and heal her broken mind and body. But her soul had been desecrated at a deeper level than physical.
They came in the dead of time itself, neither night nor day, all pervading, all intruding, all encroaching and all destroying. Her mind portrayed them as wearing unseen masks of white, shiny blankness, plastic smiles of thin lifeless lips, stoic noses that never ran with the infections of flu and with eyes peering lewdly through the perfectly round holes that gave them some life and form. Their eyes are black and cruel, the masks cover their gender, form and squalid imperfections. Through those perfect round holes they bore into her soul and defiled her every thought, love, hate, fear, excitement, sadness… Their liquid black eyes shifted through the detritus of her soul desecrating her emotions, rights and privacy.
They sought wealth, she knew that. They rummaged through the drawers of her privacy with no regard for the emotions they were damaging, they cared not for her soul or her life or her being. She was merely the portal but entry through that portal necessitated the violation of her mind and soul and for that she lay with her head burrowed in the pillow not wanting to start a new day. To them she was just collateral damage, inconsequential and insignificant. To them her thoughts and dreams and hopes and fears were nothing and warranted less than a sideways glance but they had entered her soul and despite their lack of interest or concern for her, she still felt:
Violated – sullied – despoiled – ravaged.
Ultimately she had won, she had risen from within the midst of their very own stench and vileness and she had defended her property, her access to physical, tangible wealth and she had thwarted their mealy mouthed, mispronounced and badly written attempts to distract the kindness and love of others by diverting their sponsorship funds into their own filthy dirty, grubby and sordid pockets. They had taken not a penny but they had tried and in that attempt the foulest of the foul of modern creatures, the hackers, had violated her space, her life, her soul.
For within the hallowed halls of Microsoft, Windows, Google, Yahoo and most sacred of all Dropbox lives her soul and every morning she religiously rises at 6am alongside the sun and she writes. For she is a writer and therefore her castle is her computer, her life blood is her computer, her best friend is her computer, her priest and confessor is her computer, her lover is her computer. Her soul resides within her computer.
To the faceless hackers that trampled her soul underfoot seeking and searching a way to line their grubby pockets she feels a loathing and distaste that forces bile to rise in her throat. That anyone would seek to steal from vulnerable and poverty stricken kids that have little chance in life without the lifeline of sponsorship for their education is despicable in the extreme but she challenges them. These faceless beings hiding behind the white plastic mask of technology, she challenges them to reflect on the sordid violation of her soul and the worthiness of their filthy path.
As she rises from underneath the sheet and pulls aside the flimsy curtain she smiles at the early warmth of the sun before she sits and faces the blank screen of her soul. She takes comfort knowing that ultimately the faceless invaders that hide behind the anonymity of technology cannot and will not sleep easy at night for she has her own powers. Powers she invokes from the depth of the pillow, powers that seep into the dead of darkness and disrupt, damage, destroy and violate the sleep of those that have entered her soul. For that entry is a two way portal and she travels back through daily it to enter the souls of her attackers.
They will not sleep easy of that she is sure.