I attend again with my fist in my hand a story of mass rape.

The story, scarier than the worst nightmares a human being can have, took place in Spain, in the north of the country.

The girl had been dancing all night, happy, with her friends. In a country where, as everywhere, youth were locked up for so many months, the possibility of dancing, simply dancing, and being with others of the same age, is more than attractive, indispensable.

We've all been sixteen. We have all dreamed of parties, with fun clothes, with boys, with doing choreography and painting the line in our eyes.

Her mother took this teenager to the disco and she told her that she would return on the first train in the morning, the one at six. Her mother waited for her, but among all the people who came down the girl was not there and her phone rang and rang on the other side of the ear of an increasingly anguished family.

Later a truck driver found her lying in some bushes, naked, broken.

On television the man, who will have seen all the terrors of the world in his years on the roads, cannot help but break his voice when talking about what he found.

Inhuman.

The policeman in charge of the investigation, another man who witnesses hell, also breaks his voice. He had never, in the years of his career, seen anything like it.

A sixteen year old girl. He had never seen anything like it.

They chased her on the way to the station. They were not vicious hiding in the sewers of the world waiting for a victim. They weren't the clown from 'It' or the witch from 'Hansel and Gretel': they were the friends she and her friends had been dancing with all night.

Those guys knew her.

And yet, what the policeman found was the worst thing he had ever seen in her life.

And yet, what the trucker found made his voice break on television. He gave her up for dead until a shred of breath left that broken body.

They hurt her so much, so much, that the operations to reconstruct her genitalia and her interior have lasted hours and have been incredibly difficult.

Again: the doctors had never seen anything like it.

They hurt her so much, really, so much, that she has a concussion, an injury that they hope isn't permanent.

They knocked her out to destroy her inside of her.

The girl who went out to dance ended up naked and dying in some bushes.

The ones who did that were the same guys she danced with all night.

Neither the truck driver, nor the police nor the doctors had seen such a degree of destruction in a person.

I always think of the phrase by Nick Pizzolato, the author of 'True Detective', that there are things you can't survive even if they don't kill you.

That little girl is going to survive, but she's not going to survive.

I don't know if I'm explaining myself: when someone does something this serious to you, when the men you have trusted destroy you in that way, nothing in you is ever the same again. Not your confidence, not your sexuality, not your relationship with the outside world, not your self-esteem, not your body or your mind.

They turn you into something else: a world of post-traumatic stress.

A prisoner of your own terror.

I see on TV that the guys who did this were "normal guys" and I can't believe no one says the obvious: machismo runs so deep that even those "normal guys" consider women's bodies as a thing.

Maybe they will say they were drunk. Maybe they'll say they were drugged. Perhaps they will say that she had danced provocatively, that she was scantily clad, that she was flirty all night.

She is sixteen years old.

That your so-called friends at sixteen destroy you inside, both physically and emotionally, can't be overcome.

This girl will walk the world with the terror of savage sexual assault seared all over her body.

She may be so devastated inside that she can't have children.

Sixteen years.

Now that I am at the age of mothers more than daughters, I think of that woman who was waiting at the train station for the girl she took, all pretty and dressed up, to the disco the night before.

That woman was given back a nearly dead girl, pierced.

I think of my friends with teenage daughters and empathize with the terror they must have every time their girls go out to have fun.

Would my mom feel that?

Would the mother of the Spanish girl feel that?

Do you feel that my friends?

Girls need to be warned about the danger of the world. Protecting them like princesses and denying them the knowledge of the wolf packs that stalk them at every turn makes them weak, trusting.

We women always have to look over our shoulders, at every step.

And distrust.

This girl's future was taken from her.

And this happens every day, every time.

Let's take care of our girls, but especially our boys.

Who has raised these rapists? Where did they come from?

Of a house.

Of a city.

From a country.

of a world

Let's teach boys to respect women because just one of them saying "no, friends, I'm going to call the police" is the difference between a girl who returns home at six in the morning and one who finds a trucker naked and mangled in a thicket.

The opinions expressed by the PRIMICIAS columnists in this space reflect the thoughts of their authors, but not our position.