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It’s not that Pomni is afraid of being touched—
Wait, no.
That’s exactly what it is.
What is a knife without the fingers that wield it? A hand is capable of more atrocities than any weapon ever could be.
It’s not like every single touch frightens her, of course. Handshakes, brushing the fingers of another person when you’re grabbing something from them, accidentally bumping into someone on the street- touch happens all the time in everyday life, and she knows that. She’s fine with that.
But it’s when a simple touch starts to intrude a little too long over the boundary of the personal space bubble she always keeps around herself that she begins to grow uncomfortable.
A supportive clap on the back, a hand shaking her shoulder to get her attention, even warm embraces- those are the things that get her adrenaline pumping.
And it’s not just a matter of discomfort; it’s more like a visceral reaction. When a touch lingers, when it dares to penetrate that invisible barrier she maintains with utmost precision, it’s as if the world around her narrows down to a pinpoint focus. Her heart races, her palms grow sweaty, and she can’t think beyond those fingers gently resting upon her shoulder or back or head, just waiting for them to move lower.
Because to her, it’s not that they’re just touching her skin. Truthfully, it feels as though she doesn’t even have her skin at all anymore.
But to her, a hand touches not the skin, but the tender muscle that lay just beneath, the tendon and tissue and sinew.
And that sensation lingers like a fiery brand burned into her being, and she’s spent hours in the shower rubbing her flesh raw, but no amount of scrubbing will wash the smoke from her hair.
In those moments when her space is intruded upon, Pomni’s mind races through a complex maze of emotions and thoughts. Her inner dialogue is a battlefield between her desire to appear polite and her overwhelming need for personal boundaries. She doesn’t want to offend anyone, but her own discomfort gnaws at her like a persistent itch she can’t scratch because her hands are chained behind her back. The fear of coming off as rude is constantly at odds with the fear of being vulnerable and exposed.
And it’s not just the physical sensation that disturbs her. The emotional impact is just as profound. She can’t help but wonder about the intentions behind the extended touch. Was it accidental, a mere oversight on the other person’s part, or did it carry a hidden meaning? Were they just being friendly toward her, or was there something more sinister and disturbing they had in mind with her? The ambiguity torments her, and she often finds herself overanalyzing every little situation, searching for hidden motives in the most innocent of gestures.
Every attempt to bridge that gap, to reach out and offer comfort, is met with a paradoxical mix of longing and resistance. Pomni craves the warmth of human connection, the solace of a caring touch, and the closeness of an embrace, yet she also dreads it with every fiber of her being.
Pomni often finds herself rehearsing potential responses in her mind. She imagines herself calmly yet firmly, asserting her boundaries when someone oversteps them for too long or does something that makes her uncomfortable. She visualizes the words she will say, she keeps them ready on the tip of her tongue, but when the moment actually arrives, she stammers, she chokes, she fumbles, and, ultimately, she lets the person have their way with her until they finally leave her alone because she’s too much of a timid coward to defend herself.
Some things truly never change.
That being said, suddenly getting transported into a digital world full of people she doesn’t know is a bit disconcerting, to say the least, and not just because of the fact that she can’t leave.
Ever since she appeared in the Digital Circus, Pomni’s personal boundaries have been intruded upon more times than she can count. Usually done by Caine and Jax, though a few times by the others, too. Kinger has a tendency to get way too close for comfort, and Ragatha just seems to be an innately affectionate person (though, Ragatha has backed off ever since Pomni flinched so hard she nearly knocked herself over).
But it’s Caine and Jax who end up frightening Pomni the most. And she knows the blame isn’t to be put on them. There’s no way they could know what goes on inside her head. If anything, it’s her fault for being so goddamn anxious and sensitive. It’s her fault for overthinking something so innocuous. It’s her fault for not opening her mouth and telling them no.
(She doesn’t really bother saying “no” anymore.)
(She’s lost her trust in that word.)
(If they want to, they will.)
(Better to let them do what they want than to face something worse.)
(If it’s possible for there to be anything worse, of course.)
There’s no one to blame but herself for this.
After all, she’s the one who taught the dog how to tuck its tail and whine.
But there’s a difference she’s noticed between the way Caine and Jax interact with her. Caine truly doesn’t seem to realize how uncomfortable he’s making her. Jax, on the other hand, does seem to realize it, and she thinks he relishes in her discomfort. There’s no way he can know exactly why she gets so uneasy, but he goes out of his way to physically touch her somehow, and it makes her wonder if he would stop even if he did know.
For the most part, Pomni just…lets it happen. She’s too shy to stand for herself or do anything meaningful against the constant touching. There’s a bit between her teeth that tastes like copper, and it’s her own hands that yank on the reins, gagging back anything she may want to say.
But one day, she finally broke.
She isn’t really sure why this happened, truthfully. It’s not like it was a bad day or anything like that (not that there are ever any “good days” when she’s trapped in this virtual hell), and she mostly felt the same as she always did. But something inside of her, maybe the last hanging thread of her willpower, snapped.
Caine puts his arm around Pomni’s shoulders as he’s chortling about something, and something wild and rabid consumes Pomni’s head.
“Don’t TOUCH ME!”
The cry that rips itself out of Pomni’s throat is as impossible to ignore as a bone breaking in half, and for a moment, she wonders if it actually had come from her in the first place. She’s never been a very loud person, and she rarely ever yells, so such a shriek seems so unlike her.
She jerks away, reeling across the floor, unsteady on her own feet, and scrunches her body up, pulling her arms close to her chest, which is heaving up and down. Her breathing has turned erratic, and she can’t control it. Animal panic fills her, and she wants to run. She needs to run.
The tent has gone uncomfortably still, every pair of eyes bearing straight into her. They all wear the same expression- complete shock. After all, she’s never been anything but timid and meek. Her voice is always a weak squeak, never getting much louder than a shrill squeal.
Caine, the one who had unwittingly triggered this reaction, seems genuinely astonished. His initial jovial expression has been replaced by one of surprise. His hands, which had pulled away from her like he’d been burned, are now suspended awkwardly in the air as if he doesn’t quite know what to do with them anymore.
Jax, on the other hand, remains an enigma. His reaction is harder to read. He’s definitely stunned, that she can tell, though she doesn’t know if that’s because he’s actually concerned or if he just got startled. His eyes, always keen and observant, seem to take in every nuance of Pomni’s distress. Now that he’s seen her break, he’s faced with a situation he may not have expected.
The others, too, have their own unique responses. Ragatha, who had been so openly affectionate, is now the one most visibly concerned. Gangle is hiding behind Kinger, as she must have gotten frightened by such a loud and sudden yell. Zooble’s curious gaze has turned into something bordering on admiration, as though they’ve found a new facet of Pomni that they hadn’t known existed.
The sheer weight of this single moment has shifted the dynamics of their little digital world.
The silence lingers, the stares unwavering, and their eyes hurt almost as much as their hands will.
Caine is the first to recover from the shock. He stammers awkwardly for a moment, fumbling for something to say after being shrieked at in the face, and then he splutters out, “Haha, silly Pomni! There isn’t any need to shout like that!”
He truly doesn’t seem to understand the magnitude of her fear. She knows this because he reaches for her again, and she has even more of a visceral reaction.
She’s an animal that’s been nursed by her own blood, and now she perceives comfort as harm. Everyone that has ever touched her has left her skin scarred.
“I said no! I SAID NO!”
She is screaming. Howling. Dog-on-dog violence because only a hound can react so rabidly, and there have been filthy teeth lodged in her throat for as long as she can remember. Pinned down to the dirt, eyes rolled skyward, with foamy drool frothing at her lips.
She doesn’t think these words she’s screeching are entirely directed toward Caine. Or anyone in this tent.
Caine recoils from her fully, his eyes a mixture of confusion and concern. He’s trying to comprehend the sudden transformation of the timid Pomni into this ferocious, frenzied creature.
Her harsh, hysterical cry echoes off through the tent, and the silence prevails. The stares remain, and Pomni can’t take it anymore.
She runs.
She doesn’t even know where she’s going, she just has to get away.
As if it will ever be that easy.
Her surroundings blur into an incomprehensible mosaic of colors as she sprints faster than she ever has in her entire life. The anomalous space of the tent twists and turns, but she doesn’t stop.
She’s never got the chance to run before.
The chaotic interior wild of her mind has broken free, merging with the insanity of this digital realm. In her desperation, she tries to rationalize the irrational, to find meaning in the madness. What is real? What is a construct? Who is she? Who was she? What happened to her skin after it was shucked off of her and their names were carved out in the girdle of her pelvis?
There’s no time for introspection. She’s not just running away from Caine, from Jax, from the others; she’s running away from herself. She’s fleeing the memories, the trauma, the pain, the self-doubt and self-hatred that she’s carried for so long.
But it’s no use.
Now she knows why she never ran.
Because it simply doesn’t matter.
She is always going to be caught.
Pomni trips, stumbles, then falls to the floor. She skitters, scampers, crawls, and crawling is something she is familiar with. Crawling across the filthy floor like the beast they turned into, braying and bleating for help, but the entire world has gone silent to her plight, and she’s left to be ravaged.
Skin-to-sinew. Sinew-to-bone. Bone-to-soul.
Pomni wedges herself in the corner of a corridor she is unfamiliar with (though, it’s not like she’s ever made an effort to explore this place), and she curls into a little ball in a desperate attempt to protect whatever skin may still be left on her useless body. She knows there’s little value lingering in and on her being, but she’s determined to defend it with all the ferocity of a dog with a bone.
But when she’s on the ground, she’s in the perfect position that prey should be, and she’s hounded. They’ve reared their ugly heads and started to snarl.
Knees pried open. Nails like claws dug into her thighs. Fingerprints on her skin are no different than bruises when they ache all the same.
Her breath catches harshly in her throat- she’s having a panic attack.
It’s like glass in her chest, tearing her tissue to pieces. The raw wounds adorning her insides are getting scraped open each time she breathes. She wants to stop breathing. She wants to escape this never-ending nightmare. She wants her body back.
Hyperventilating in a digital world feels even more vivid and intense than it does in real life. A digital pulse syncing with the erratic rhythm of her racing heart, and an intense, numbing buzz of pixels in each of her limbs causes a relentless sensory overload that pushes her further over the edge of insanity.
The walls around her distort, warp, and close in, suffocating her within a labyrinth of jagged lines and shifting colors, as if the code itself is designed to torment and torture. She starts to see faces in the glitches, then reaching, needy hands. Fingers, deformed and elongated, claw at her, desperate for her warmth.
And then, they touch.
And it’s real.
This time, Pomni can’t even muster a scream.
Pushing in, scraping out. Scratching away her identity and autonomy, writing their signatures in its place. Rearranging her guts, rearranging her entire life. Removing her skin, leaving her naked.
“Pomni?”
Over the sound of garbled growls of beasts in heat and the erratic wheeze of her own strained breathing, Pomni hears a voice. This one isn’t deep or throaty or moaning in her ear. This one is gentle, warm. From a woman.
Pomni peeks up ever so slightly, and she sees Ragatha standing there.
Like that, the hallway is back to normal. The walls are no longer bending and contorting. There are no glitching faces or grasping hands.
But she knows they were there. She can still feel the echo of their burning touch upon her skin.
“Pomni, are you alright?” Ragatha asks.
Pomni can’t muster any kind of response. Not a verbal one, at least.
“Is it okay if I sit?”
The request takes Pomni by surprise. She blinks blearily at Ragatha, then gives a small nod.
Ragatha sits cross-legged in front of her, not close enough to touch, but not far enough to where it’s awkward. She places her hands in her lap, where Pomni is able to see them clearly.
“You need to take deep breaths, honey,” Ragatha says. “In and out. Nice and easy.”
Pomni struggles, but she tries, she really does. This earns her a small smile from Ragatha.
“Very good. You’re doing amazing.”
Pomni continues to breathe in and out until existing feels a little less like a torture segment, but the feeling of the hands all over her body doesn’t go away. They never do. They never will.
“You don’t like being touched, do you?”
Pomni had buried her head back into her knees, but she looks up when that is said. She nods slightly.
“…And we’ve been touching you all the time. I’m sorry.”
She had been apologized to before, on the rare occasions that she did speak up against physical contact or when people actually noticed how uncomfortable she was. But this is the first time it isn’t made into just an offhand comment. Ragatha sounds so genuine and earnest that Pomni can’t help but truly believe she means what she says.
“Were you…”
Pomni isn’t sure how Ragatha can tell. Maybe it’s obvious. Maybe Ragatha went through something similar back before she got in the Digital Circus, and she recognizes the signs. Or maybe it’s because of the cruel, unfair kinship carved between all women, and sometimes you can just tell.
Whatever the give away may be, when their eyes meet, Pomni knows that Ragatha knows.
People look at you differently after they learn that you’ve been raped. It’s one of the reasons why Pomni hates sharing what happened to her.
They get this expression of profound pity, and for a moment, it feels like they aren’t seeing her as a person but as an animal. A small, defenseless animal without any claws or teeth, one that’s been torn to pieces by a predator and needs to be put back together.
Pity, well-intentioned as it may be, often feels like an imposition. It’s a constant reminder of the violation she endured, a wound that refuses to heal when everyone keeps prodding at it. It’s like they expect her to be perpetually broken, forever tainted by the terrible event that happened to her.
People’s well-meaning concern sometimes takes on a patronizing quality, as if she’s become fragile porcelain that must be handled with care. It’s not that she doesn’t appreciate their empathy, but their efforts to shield her from the world only serve to make her feel more exposed. The kindness, however genuine, inadvertently reinforces her vulnerability.
Perhaps the most dehumanizing aspect is that, for a moment, they forget that she is still the same person with dreams, aspirations, quirks, and passions. It’s as if her identity has been reduced to a single, life-altering event. The complexity of her existence is overshadowed by the singular label of ‘rape survivor,’ and the person she is outside of that experience gets lost in the shadow of others’ preconceived notions.
And maybe that’s all her fault, too. After all, her timidity and anxiety certainly don’t make it seem like she’s anything beyond a traumatized prey animal.
She often wonders, though, if it’s the pity that bothers her the most or the inevitable questions that follow. People, supportive or not, can’t help but ask. They ask about the details, about the circumstances, about her feelings, as if talking about it will somehow make it all better. They don’t realize how much blood they’re getting on their fingers when they dig their nails into her chest and rip open the scabs she’s tried so hard to let heal.
And then there are those who, with good intentions, offer advice and solutions that feel more like judgments. “You should have done this,” they say, or “You need to do that.” The weight of expectations, even from those who care deeply, can be suffocating.
Pomni knows that healing is a personal journey, and there’s no one-size-fits-all solution. And she also knows that, most of the time, they only want to comfort her, but it’s hard to convey that in their eyes, when what she sees is a mixture of sympathy, sorrow, discomfort, and sometimes even fear. Fear, perhaps, because it’s a stark reminder of the fragility of life and the vulnerability of women in a world that can be so cruel.
It often feels like people think they can maybe not fix her but improve her. Like they’re shaking around the pieces of her being in a sift, letting the dull grey gravel and gritty sand fall out until only the shining gold remains.
But people seem to forget that that boring gravel and irritating sand is a part of her, too. Or, at least, once was. And removing those aspects of herself is getting rid of whatever remains of who she once was.
Picking apart the skin of someone who is scarred doesn’t make you any better than the person who scarred them in the first place.
Ragatha gets the same look everyone does.
It’s inescapable. It’s always going to happen. And it only helps to reaffirm just how broken Pomni feels.
“Oh, sweetheart…”
It always proceeds this way- with the feeble stammering as they try to process what they’ve been told or have just realized. They’re always unsure of what to say, and Pomni can’t really blame anyone. What do you even say to something so horrible? This isn’t a conversation anyone ever wants to have.
“I’m so sorry.”
And there’s the apology. Nobody ever has any reason to apologize, but it’s just an instinctual thing.
What usually follows this is an attempt to hug her, which always makes things ten times worse, but this time, Ragatha deviates from what Pomni is usually faced with.
Ragatha doesn’t move to hug her or set a comforting hand on her shoulder or touch her at all. She stays right where she is in front of Pomni, keeping her hands fully visible.
And then, she does something that Pomni doesn’t expect at all.
She gets up, and she walks away.
Pomni is so utterly baffled by this that it momentarily snaps her out of her downward spiral into darkness. For a second, she just stares, blinking through tears at Ragatha’s departing figure that doesn’t look back at her. She doesn’t know if she should be offended or relieved, so instead, she ducks her head and resumes her breakdown.
She can hear the buzzing glitches as the hallway starts to distort again. The hands are crawling back out to take what rightfully belongs to them. Panic and terror return, rising in her chest.
And then, footsteps approach. The hall returns to normal. The hands snap away and disappear. Ragatha has come back.
Arms reach out, and Pomni flinches away. Something is set down in front of her.
A blanket.
It’s folded up neatly. Light blue with a white plaid pattern. Looks fluffy and soft. Pomni blinks at it, confused.
Ragatha kneels in front of her again. “I thought it may be comforting for you,” she says. “But you don’t have to take it if you don’t want to. It’s up to you.”
Pomni is stunned.
She’s getting a choice? She can’t remember the last time she ever said no and actually had someone listen to what she wanted.
Pomni stares at the blanket. The gesture is kind, but it’s hard for her to believe Ragatha has no ulterior motive. Is this a trap? Is this a way for her to get her to let her guard down?
After a long moment of hesitation, her desperate hunger for comfort wins out against her paranoia. Slowly, she unravels her arms from around herself and reaches out to the blanket, never breaking eye contact with Ragatha just in case, completely unblinking. And then, when she feels the fabric brush her fingertips, she digs her nails in, yanks it toward her, and covers herself in its embrace.
She was right, it is soft. It’s really soft for something conjured in a digital world and is probably, in actuality, just a cluster of code. But she doesn’t care. It’s fluffy and warm, and it’s easier to bear than physical touch. She cocoons herself in it, and she feels…safe. Not fully safe, but…just enough to let her think beyond the anxiety clouding her mind.
“Can I sit down next to you?” she hears Ragatha ask from the other side of her new blanket shield.
Another choice. It’s almost overwhelming how much she’s been given control over what she wants.
She nods. She finds that she doesn’t really want to be alone, even if she isn’t quite ready for physical contact just yet.
Ragatha moves from in front of her to right beside her against the wall. There’s a respectful distance between the two of them.
Silence settles over them, and they just…coexist together. Ragatha doesn’t pry for any kind of details, she doesn’t ask about what happened, she doesn’t say anything at all. She simply sits with Pomni.
And it’s…peaceful. The hallway is serene. There’s no more glitching, no more distortions. The hands don’t emerge to torture her again. All is calm.
Silent tears start to trickle down Pomni’s cheeks, but, for once, these aren’t caused by the trauma or the anxiety or the phantom pain.
These are tears of relief.
Ragatha’s presence with her is not about trying to fix her or find a solution to her problems; it’s about being there, offering choices, and allowing her to navigate her own emotions at the pace that she wants to. It’s a stark contrast to the intrusiveness she’s experienced from others who mean well but often end up exacerbating her distress.
An unknown amount of time passes, and Pomni takes a peek out of the blanket. Ragatha has her head leaning back against the wall with her eyes closed.
Pomni hesitates, then scoots a little closer. And then a little closer. And then a little closer. Slowly bridging the gap at her own accord.
She wants to get to know a hand that won’t hurt her.
So, for once, it’s her own that reaches out first.
She slides her hand out from under the blanket, tentative and shy, like a fox kit emerging from its burrow for the first time. When she’s close enough, her fingers brush against Ragatha’s, timidly at first, testing the waters of physical connection. Finally, she grabs, and she holds, and she’s safe.
Ragatha stirs slightly, her eyes fluttering open as she feels Pomni’s touch. There’s no sudden movement or recoil; instead, she turns her hand and gently wraps her fingers around Pomni’s in return, offering a reassuring and supportive squeeze. Their hands interlace, and the gesture speaks volumes without the need for words.
Pomni’s breath hitches, and she finds herself unable to hold back the tears any longer. It’s as if a floodgate has opened, releasing all the pain and anguish she’s been carrying for so long. She leans into Ragatha fully, curling against her side, seeking comfort in her presence, still clutching the blanket around her like a lifeline. Ragatha murmurs to her if it’s alright if she puts her arms around her, and Pomni nods desperately, wanting to be held in a way that isn’t forced upon her, and when Ragatha embraces her, she can’t help but sob because it doesn’t hurt. It’s warm, and it’s gentle, and it’s her choice.
It’s a fragile moment, a beginning, but it’s an improvement nonetheless.