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ADULT CONTENT
This article contains adult content that may not be suitable for all readers.
Sexual References: Features sexual themes or language, without the depiction of sexual acts.
Sexually Explicit: Description of sexual acts.
Sexual Assault: Features non-consensual sexual acts.
Gore: Depiction of blood, gore or mutilation of body parts.
Child Abuse: Features severe mistreatment of children.
Self-Harm: Description of self-harm.
Suicide: Description of suicide.
Torture: Description of torture.
Depictions of non-consensual drugging.If you are above the age of 18+ and wish to read such content, then you may click Continue to view said content.
Trust is an illusion.
One would uphold it within their family, keeping a mutual bond built on a foundation reinforced with trust with their partner and children — maintaining the unspoken rule of secrets being kept as such. One would come to their partner to confide and to lift the weight off their chest, or lean into their partner's side, the warmth of their body a comforting weight against oneself.
Trust is an illusion.
A woman would sit alone in a bar, swirling the liquor around in her cocktail glass and reflecting on the busy day that had passed, not noticing a presence behind her. A man in his 30s — his hair combed and suit neatly pressed — would sit next to her and talk her up. With a gentle smile, calm facade, and smooth voice, he would coax her into opening up, promising that her secrets would be safe with him, but the malicious glint that sparkled in his eye told otherwise. He would offer another drink to her — She would suspect nothing.
Trust is an illusion.
One would return home from work, stumbling through the front door, attire dishevelled, and eyes glazed over. With a weak sigh, they would drop their bag on the table and collapse on the sofa, already dreading the chores of taking care of the children and cooking dinner. Their partner would pour them a cup of tea and massage their shoulders, slowly filtering out the tension from the long day — they would promise that they've got the evening covered.
Trn5t 1s an !Llusi0n.
Huh-?
The woman would take a sip as she slowly started opening up. The man, keeping up his smooth, charming demeanour, would offer advice to the woman, while sowing seeds of false trust in her impaired judgment. He would comfort the woman, promising to take care of her for the night, but the tone in his voice would suggest otherwise. In a smooth, suave manner, he would lead the woman outside the bar, towards his car, opening the passenger door for his guest.
T̸Я̷n̷ƨ̷t̷ ̵1̸5̸ ̶4̷И̴ ̴!̸1̴l̴u̵5̵I̴0̵И̴.̷
Hey-!
One would snuggle with their partner in a cozy blanket by the fireplace, where years of heavy words, heartfelt exchanges, and unspoken bonds took place. One would keep even the smallest promises to their children and partner, never forgetting birthdays, favours, or borrowed items. One would trust their partner to iron out the crinkles in their relationship — to go out of their way to strengthen the foundation of their connection. Trust is fickle, hard to build up, and easy to tear down.
-̴̪͂͛|̷̼̗̈̎-̷̬̌|̴͎̹̄-̴̺̊͆Ự̴̢͎̈́͝Š̸͈͌̓Ṫ̵̛̘̤͘ ̷̰̗̇̃Î̶̮̃Ŝ̵̜̃̃ ̵͔͌Ą̷̧̆̀̈́̎Ǹ̴̺͙̐̚ ̵̦͂Ǐ̸̦̭̂Ŀ̶̡̉̒Ḻ̸̰̏̈Ü̶̘̈́͗Ṥ̷͈͈̃]̸͙̒[̷̫̯̽̕Ơ̵̩̂̉͜͝[̸̫̂̕\̴̗̠̽]̸͓͕̓
W̶̹͝h̴͚̏a̴̦͆t̷͎̉ ̶̭̑á̸̯r̸̹̍e̶̪͗ ̶̫̑ȳ̶̡o̴̻̽u̵̲̽ ̴͕̈́d̷̪̓o̶̘̓i̸̹̐n̸̨̛g̶̢͋-̷͓̓?̸̳̒!̶͊͜
The man would drive the woman to his apartment complex and escort her inside, leading her through the labyrinthine hallways of the building. The tipsy woman would stumble through the halls, heavily relying on him to hold her up. The man would guide her through the door of his apartment, the door closing and locking with a gentle click. He had her in the palm of his hand — he was going to give her a good time. The man would guide her into the bedroom and close the door behind them.
7̴͔̓͝Ṛ̵̇͆Ứ̴͎̃́Ŝ̶̙͉̿͒Ț̷̯̒ ̶̘͚͌̒Ị̵̻̽Ŝ̵̻͓͗ ̶͙̋̈4̴͉͍͌̇{̴̠̪̐̇\̵̟̯͛́}̸̠́̀ ̶͕̝̽͛Ĭ̷̖̉Ŀ̶̜̀̄[̸̫̰͝_̸͎̅Ủ̵̩̓̚Ṥ̶͍͗̀]̵̙̃̌≮̢͓͂≯̮̓͒Ņ̸̭͒̉
Ḍ̵̗͌ó̸̯̾[̵̜͌\̵̫̑]̷͓̃'̸̎ͅ+̸̛͉ ̶̨̆'̸̦̚]̷̩̅[̷̲̈́'̵͓͝ȍ̷͔̆ử̷͈̆ċ̶̣́ĥ̴̤̀ ̸̜͒ṃ̸͚̑ḕ̴̬̇!̶͍̏ ̷̱͆Ģ̴̻̅ẹ̸̀̇ț̴͇͛ ̷̲͝ṓ̶̹̈́ᶠ̷̘̎|̷̜̽#̸͍̔ ̵͍̋/̷̰̅V̶͖̄\̶̟͠ề̷̲!̶͖̒
He would be a predator, toying with his prey, waiting for the right moment to pounce — watching, waiting, listening. He knew that the woman had fallen into his trap the moment he had offered her another drink at the bar — the moment she 7̷ṟ̸ȗ̴Z̶+̴ę̵|̵}̸ him. He would grab her wrists and throw her on the soft mattress. The man of courtesy and charm would be nowhere to be seen — the mask shattered and wiped from existence. She would struggle with futility, writhe and squirm like a fly caught in a spider's web. He would straddle her body, hold her wrists above her head in a bruising grip and lean in close, using his body weight to pin her down. The woman would barely register the violation before everything fades to black
She +̶ȓ̵ᵤ̵ṡ̴ť̴[̴-̷[̸)̴ him. He took her.
'̴͉̼͑̂͗]̴͖̈́͐̐[̶̲̋̊͝'̸̰̱̺̽̀͝Ṛ̸̲͕̠͠Û̵̧͊́͌Ș̶̢͖́̈́+̸̭̄͌͆ ̵͇̓1̵̦̻͍̏Ś̸̛͓͍ ̷̤̞̪͐͂̌Ǡ̶̡̖́̉͗Ṉ̵͔͎̤̌ ̸̫͒͋Ĭ̴̧͕̣́͘Ŀ̶̫̑͜Ḷ̸̭̟̣͂̈̈Ú̴̮̲̝͋̾͠$̴̧̂ͅͅḬ̸̜̞̥̒Ǒ̶̧̙̙̀[̷̠̃̐\̴̩̽̂]̸̝̀̂
Ĩ̶̮̇ ̵̼͋ț̴͎͗ŕ̸̯̈́ᵤ̷̰̾ș̴̼́-̶̯͘|̴͓̐-̷̛̰ᵉ̷̡̀(̶͙̈|̶̫̄ ̷̟̀ẙ̴͙̍ỗ̶͉̽ư̵̘̂!̴̹͗
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A little Rohypnol never hurt, right?