I made my rapist breakfast

The morning after I was raped
I made my rapist breakfast.
Two slices of toast ,  
with cheese and marmite  
and a coffee to wash it down  
There was no talking,
just the birds chirping away
in the background
creating a background hum.
 
It wasn’t like what you might see
in the movies,
or read about in news headlines;
There was no scream down a back alley,
Police cordons,
or manhunt for a suspect
 
Just a man who held me hostage  
in my own home,  
for days
without a gun.
 
For you see;
When a road rage of a man
reached inside of me  whilst I was sleeping;  
when he scooped out my agency with his fingers
and then proceeded  
to hold me down  
by the neck
whilst finishing his deed
 
It was not the lioness inside of me  
that rose
in protection  
to fight back  
 
But rather the deer
struck by the headlights
All I knew to do in that moment
was to freeze.
 
11 months on,  
and I can still hear that teaspoon
clinking in my ears  
from when I stirred his coffee.  
 
Even with the bed and bedding replaced,
skin scrubbed repeatedly,
multiple new medications  
and therapy engaged in,
The walls of what I once called my home
still echo
his name.
 
The morning after I was raped
I made my rapist breakfast.
In my defence  
Your honour;
Freezing is how I’m still here to tell the story
of how that man violated me
and then ate his breakfast,
without even choking  
on remorse,
guilt,
or shame.