epitaphs

therapist / the rapist

t/w: rape.

he was nice.

there is no better or worse way to describe him. he was nice.

he had uneven dimples and smile lines that someone of eighteen years could only get by flashing grins all their life and his lashes were long like my idolized barbie doll from long ago and he was pretty enough in his own way.

he walked with that easy predatory grace of someone who has wanted for nothing, his skin a dusky tan of a boy who spent his summers cast out on his parents' yacht, nimble fingers made to grasp a flute of champagne and he was innocent.

his face was youthful in the way that a child who has never known the wrong of the world could be, and he felt safe and warm and comforting and refreshing.

he was the opposite of the last boy. he was an open book, and with the first word out of his mouth, i could tell exactly what he was like, exactly what went on in that head behind the raven hair and the sweaty forehead. he was simple, but maybe, i thought, simple was what i needed. what i wanted.

we met on a night like any other. the leather of the seat clung to my bare thighs and i sipped from a drink i was far too young to take, but what did it matter anyway? my wallet grew emptier and my spirits grew fuller and he walked in, and i could feel the moment his eyes set on me.

he was a mutual friend.

he was someone the girl i was with claimed to know well, they both came from that old money that i knew nothing of, and maybe it was that fact, or that he was older, or that he grew up abroad overseas and spoke with the lilt of an accent.

anyways.

he was charming. so charming that the same girl felt it would be alright to leave me alone with him, young as i was, male as he was, and go off with her boyfriend of the time.

she trusted him. why shouldn't i?

he slid into those same leather seats that were not sticking to my thighs and eyed my empty glass and snuck his arm across the back of the seat and bought me another drink.

and then another one.

and another.

i felt light then, confident even. i, who wasn't even supposed to be in this bar right now, was the object of attention of this man, who reeked of old money and expensive cologne, who's shirt probably cost more than what i made in a month at my part-time job. and i held his arm as we hopped from bar to bar to bar, and he kept buying drinks, and i kept taking them. we linked arms and took shots and the headiness of adulthood weighed on me while we talked about adult problems, and my problems, and he listened. boys my age never listened to me. it was nice. he was nice. i felt like i was taken seriously as i rambled while tipsy and he nodded along and then bought me another drink.

he asks if i've had sex before. my loose lips spill a yes without a second thought, an ex, and he nods and then buys me another drink. he says i'm surprisingly mature and i take this as a compliment though it's not.

and then he kissed me.

i didn't like it. i knew that right away when it felt wrong. his lips were too needy, too forceful, too dominating, it was nothing that i anticipated or imagined as he pushed his tongue into my mouth and placed his hand behind my head smushing us together.

the illusion fell away then, and i realized i was far drunker than i imagined as i swayed and he steadied me while whispering something about virginity and a hotel.

i had anticipated this but i felt unready.

what else did you think was going to happen foolish girl? my mind hissed, did you really think he would spend all that money on you just for you not to sleep with him? did you really think he would pay attention to you for any other reason? did you really think he just wanted to listen?