So your best friend left her home in Colombia after being raped at age 15, has (unsurprisingly) had few experiences with men since ... and after having set her up with your husband's weirdly-behaved younger brother, plied her with gin and let him drag her away -- only to find out he proceeded to rape her in her body's every cavity with a f*ing broken-off broomstick, for crying out loud -- you have the temerity to tell her that she doesn't know what just happened to her was rape, and "we're all different and what's bad for some people is good for others"???
Chica, I don't care one iota why you're rotting in the prison you're currently in. I don't care whether it's justified, whether you ended up killing your husband or his brother or both (which they doubtlessly deserved, if so), or whether someone else did it for you. I don't care whether your friend came back and did it and you're serving time in her stead to assuage your guilt.
I'm outta here.
I had a hard time working up any sympathy for you based on your rambling narrative as it is -- and it certainly didn't get any better when you said you wanted a writing teacher who'd just declared the eye-opening first novel you ever read "young adult literature and hence, of lesser literary value" to write a book wherein you're the heroine.
And now this rape thing -- and to the woman you claim was your best friend ... I just can't.