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I headed out to the kiosk at Finsbury Park station to buy Marie Claire magazine before boarding the train to work. The next Tube arrived and I decided to board at the front of the train, where I might have a little more space to read that article again.The magazine, published that day, contained a story about me, and I was nervous and excited to read it. I hurried on to the Piccadilly line platform, and the crush of people and noise of the train faded away as I started to read the story of the rape ordeal that nearly cost me my life. I got onto the train and stood by the yellow pole in the centre of the standing area.Countless stories of courage emerged from the ruins of the July 7 bombings two years ago today.But one victim has a more extraordinary tale to tell than most.But it was wrenched from my hands and a stranger pushed me back through the door of my flat. I continued to pretend to be dead, hardly breathing. Perhaps two hours later I started to come round, lying on the floor with my arms tied behind me. The front door of the flat was open into the communal hall. It was the lead from my electric toothbrush charger. The police doctor noted 40 injuries and took swabs.He punched me in the face as hard as he could, my nose poured blood, and the world whirled. Then in the ribs, then he aimed at my face, and I curled into a ball, trying to protect myself. He grabbed a fistful of my hair, and I could see he was tearing off his T-shirt. I felt my dressing gown being torn off me and I realised he was raping me, muttering: "Bitch. I felt him yanking my arms behind my back and tying my wrists. I stumbled down the outside steps as a police car screeched to a halt. My head was stitched and at last Jay was brought in, and the first words he said were: "Oh, honey." He wanted to take my hand, but they made him put on rubber gloves first. The love of Jay and my family and friends helped me slowly recover from the ordeal, something which was part of a savage world which had no relation to the one I had been brought in.
Rachel, 36, survived, but came under attack yet again - this time by a cyberstalker who terrorised her for over a year.
I was once more on the floor, in darkness, struggling under a heavy, gasping body. There was an acrid smell of chemicals and burning rubber and burning hair. Other people's bodies had protected me from the worst of the blast.