I first noticed this little girl because she was different from the rest of us. Save for crying “oto-san” and “onee-san” for several hours when we first got there, she never made a peep. She would curl up in the corner with her knees tucked under her arms and stare at her trainers for hours; such a delicate little thing. Pretty too.

But soon the ensuing events would evaporate this innocent little girl and she would become something entirely different.

This feeble young girl was taken and re-taken every day. And this re-occurred for weeks on end. But what was particularly distressing, was that every time she was taken, less of what she was, seemed to return.

At first when they came for her the changes weren’t noticeable, but it wasn’t long before physical and mental changes became apparent.

Subtle, at first: such as a difference in posture; she now lifted her chin from her knees. Sometimes she’d look you directly in your eyes. Never have I met the gaze of more accusatory eyes. Yet, what could I do to prevent her from being taken by them?

In the darkness of the night (though we had no real way of knowing whether it was day or night within this steel cage – the lights would go on and off periodically – which is when we slept), the screaming would start.

The screams clawed their way through the darkness like a nightmare sporting a serial killer’s smile. Unforgettable. Undeniable. Unholy. Yet the next morning, when she had been dropped in the cage, nobody dare approach the girl. I think people feared asking her: “are you OK?” would only serve as a reminder of every second she was out of this cell. A reminder of whatever happened.

Eventually, the changes shifted from subtle – to extreme. Her physicality was now… transforming.

At first I wondered whether this was in-line with the normal bodily changes of what I guessed was a teenage girl. In hindsight, perhaps this is what I was praying, and hoping for.

But that wasn’t it. Marks begun to manifest upon her body, in particular her arms, which were occasionally cocooned by some form of bandages, however they were mostly left exposed for the world to see. Perhaps this was Their way of instilling fear. And it worked.

We all knew something was happening, physically and mentally, to this young girl.

And soon we’d see some of what that something, was.

This is the story of our Guardian. This is a story of survival. This is the story, of Lolita.