Sarah Wilson - Violated: A Shocking and Harrowing Survival Story From the Notorious Rotherham Abuse Scandal

My eyes fixed on a cobweb in the corner of the room as I heard footsteps on the stairs. The door creaked open and I shifted on the lumpy mattress on the floor. Theyd left me there a few hours earlier and now it was dark, so dark. If I strained really hard, though, I could still see the outline of the cobweb. It gave me something to focus on, to distract me from what was going on in the cold darkness of that room.

A figure appeared in the doorway, but he was just a silhouette, the latest in the line of faceless men whod come to me that night. Was he the sixth or the seventh? Id lost count. I didnt meet his gaze; I couldnt bear it. I kept looking at the cobweb as I felt him place his weight on top of me. The smell of his sweat and cheap soap filled my nostrils.

He didnt have to tug at my trousers because they were already round my ankles, but I could feel him wrestling with his own, undoing his belt, impatient and erect as he tore open a condom wrapper. The vodka theyd given me had numbed me a little, but not enough, and anyway, by now I was beginning to sober up. As he entered me, pain tore through me and I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood.

No one seemed to care about the state of this godforsaken house, just as no one seemed to care about me. When I had been brought there it had been light, and I had been taken straight to this room, where mould streaked the blue walls. I wondered how long the cobweb had been there. Had it been days, weeks, months? I wanted to cry but no tears would come. I wondered how long Id be left in this filthy room, in a strange town miles from home.

The man said nothing as he writhed around on top of me, only grunting a little. I was too scared to tell him he was being too rough. How could I say that to him? After all, they kept telling me it was all my fault. I was a little slag, they said, I was white trash. Id brought it all upon myself so this was what I deserved: to lie on a dirty, lumpy mattress, awaiting a never-ending queue of men, all old enough to be my dad.

Gradually, his breathing got quicker and he muttered something in a language I didnt understand. His hands wandered towards my chest and, as he gripped the breasts just beginning to develop, I asked myself: what does he find attractive about me? Im only thirteen and he cant even see my face.

Eventually, it was over. He put his trousers back on and walked out without a word. Once again, I was alone in the dark room, lying on the filthy, horrible mattress, staring at the cobweb and wondering just how many more men would come before Id be allowed to go home.

This story probably sounds shocking to many people, but for me, what happened that night was nothing unusual. I was only a child, but even by the age of thirteen, to me it was normal to be bundled into a car and driven around England to be abused by men paedophiles. Some of these men showered me with gifts and told me they loved me; others didnt say a single word to me as they lay on top of me, violating me in the most disgusting way imaginable.

All of the men who abused me were of Asian origin, almost all British Pakistanis, but as I lay there night after night, I didnt care where they came from or what colour their skin was. In years to come, what happened to me, and many other girls, as victims of the Rotherham sex ring would become a national scandal. Professors would write reports, politicians would resign and people on the news would talk about girls like me and how wed been failed by the very people who were supposed to protect us.

My nightmare began a long, long time before Rotherham was on the front page of the newspapers, and the memory of that time will stay with me long after our town has disappeared from the headlines. Over the years that followed the abuse, I slowly came to realise that I wasnt a little slag like theyd told me so many times, but a victim. But I refuse to be a victim forever, so Im sharing this with you now because I dont want what happened to me to happen again, ever, to any other child. This is my story. Its the story of a victim but, more importantly, its also the story of a survivor.