This is the story of a young Malaysian woman whose girls’ night out at a concert took a horrific turn after she unknowingly consumed a spiked drink.
I grew up believing Alia was my sister, not by blood, but by bond. We’d been inseparable since high school, doing everything together.
We joined the same university, pursued the same course, even lived in the same hostel. Our families were just as close. My parents called her “anak angkat,” and she did the same with mine. Our siblings were best friends, too.
Whenever Alia’s name came up, my parents would immediately approve of any outing or activity. If Alia was involved, it had to be safe. That’s how much they trusted her.
So when she asked me to join her at a concert during our third semester, I thought it was just another adventure with my best friend.
My parents hesitated at first. “Concerts are trouble,” my dad said. But Alia’s name reassured them it was just about enjoying music. With promises to be home by midnight, they finally gave in.
That night, I didn’t know I was walking into a nightmare.
Culture Shock at the Concert
The moment we arrived, I felt out of place. It wasn’t the wholesome, music-loving crowd I’d imagined. People were half-naked, dressed in crop tops, shorts, and glittery outfits that looked like something from Good Vibes.
I turned to Alia, wide-eyed. “Wow,” I said. “I’ve never seen this before.”
She laughed, waving me off. “Relax. It’s just a rave. Go with the flow.”
I tried to keep up as we pushed through the crowd, but I couldn’t get over how open everyone was, especially Alia. She started making out with the boyfriend. I’d never seen that side of her before.
I kept trying to pull her off him. At one point, her boyfriend’s friend, whom I’d never seen before, tried to calm me down.
The Red Flags I Ignored
That’s when the night took a darker turn. The boyfriend’s friend handed me a drink—it was a bottle of Gatorade, but it tasted weird. “This will help you relax,” he said.
Against my better judgment, I took a few sips. Almost instantly, I felt lighter, like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders. The crowd became a blur of colors and music. I couldn’t tell if I was dancing or swaying. Everything was hazy.
What I remember next is fragments—the guy recording me, Alia laughing, and me puking uncontrollably.
I puked so much that I slipped and fell in my own puke. I remember Alia using my own top to wipe the puke off my face.
Then I passed out.
Waking Up in a Stranger’s Room
When I opened my eyes, I was in an unfamiliar room. My head throbbed, and my stomach churned. The room smelled of alcohol and sweat.
Panic set in when I realized I was naked under a thin sheet. I also realized there were other men in the room. They were half-naked too.
I felt pukey and light-headed. I found my phone and my clothes in a pile beside me. I grabbed them and went to the bathroom. I locked the door.
I looked at my phone. It was 1 a.m. We’d promised my parents to be home by midnight.
Then I heard laughter—Alia’s voice, mingled with her boyfriend’s. They were in the living room, carefree, as if nothing had happened.
My reflection in the mirror was unrecognizable. My makeup was smeared, my hair a tangled mess, and bruises lined my arms. My body ached in ways I couldn’t explain.
I tried to piece together what had happened, but the gaps in my memory terrified me. My hands trembled as I dialed my brother’s number.
“Abang,” I whispered, barely able to speak. “I don’t know where I am.”
I quickly told him what happened. “Look around,” he urged, his voice steady but tense. “Find anything that can tell me your location.”
Through my tears, I noticed a sign on the window: Management of Hotel [Anonymous] reserves the right to charge for any damage to the property. It had the address and phone number printed at the bottom. I relayed it to him just before the call dropped.
Escaping Through Fear
I curled up in the corner of the bathroom, terrified to leave. The muffled voices outside grew louder, and I could hear unfamiliar men laughing and joking. My heart raced as I realized just how many people had been in that room while I was unconscious.
Minutes felt like hours. Then I heard banging on the bathroom door. It wasn’t my brother—it was the police.
“Polis! Bukak pintu!” an officer shouted.
But I couldn’t. I was too scared. What if they weren’t real cops?
Then came another voice—my brother’s. “It’s me. Open the door.”
I opened the door. The moment I saw him, I ran to hug him. I broke down.
He wrapped a towel around me and carried me out, shielding me from the prying eyes of the officers and paramedics. “You’re safe now,” he whispered. But I could hear the disappointment in his voice.
I clung to him, crying uncontrollably. “I’m sorry, Abang. I didn’t know. I wasn’t conscious.”
The Aftermath
The days that followed were a blur of hospital visits and police interviews. The doctors confirmed my worst fears: I had been drugged and assaulted.
The doctor said I was lucky to have puked. The Gatorade had been laced with enough drugs to incapacitate ten people. If I’d finished it, I might not have survived.
The rape kit revealed what I suspected. There were DNA samples from multiple men—more than the three or four I remembered seeing. The lab recorded enough DNA to convict five out of seven suspects.
But I learned later that 13 men had been in that room.
Alia claimed she was too drunk to remember anything, but the videos on her boyfriend’s phone told a different story. She had laughed as I was carried into the room, unconscious and vulnerable.
The police arrested the five men, but the others escaped conviction, claiming they were too intoxicated to recall what happened. The videos proved otherwise—they were fully conscious as they violated me. But there was no DNA evidence to link them.
Choosing to Live
For weeks, I couldn’t bring myself to leave the house. The shame, the guilt, the trauma—it was overwhelming. I thought about ending it all, but one thought kept me going: If I gave up, they would win.
My family never blamed me. They stood by me, reminding me every day that I was a survivor, not a victim. With their support, I filed charges and testified against my attackers.
It was a long, grueling process, but justice was served. The five men that were convicted, their lives ruined by their own actions. But there’s still the others who escaped.
A Lesson I’ll Never Forget
It’s been months since that night, but the scars—both physical and emotional—remain. I’m still in therapy, trying to rebuild my sense of self.
The recent news about the people who died at the Pinkfish concert reminded me of my trauma. It could have been me.
To anyone reading this: Please take care of yourself. Trust your instincts, even if it means upsetting a friend. And if you see something suspicious, record it. Report it. You might save a life.
I thought I was safe because I was with someone I trusted. I was wrong.
Things can change in the blink of an eye, but their impact can last a lifetime.
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