as it is || harry styles au

fifteen

tw // mention of rape/sexual assault

i v o r y

Before

"No."

I endured the longest ten minutes of my life. The rape was time-stamped by the text I'd sent to Jenna right before I closed up the restaurant. As he left me broken and battered, the grandfather clock in the lobby chimed the hour.

Ten minutes and my life was changed forever.

I never called for help. Help came to me.

After I was an hour late from getting home at my supposed time, Jenna drove out to the restaurant. She found me lying on my back in one of the booths. My waist apron was bunched up under my chest. My work pants at my ankles.

I remember Jenna started crying, and I wanted to die.

I didn't speak a word for two days. I refused to eat. I refused to sleep. I refused to go anywhere. I was fired from work for two no call, no shows.

I felt dirty, ruined, and like a waste of space.

Mickie and Emerson came over three days after. Jenna told them what happened with my permission. They tried to get me to file a police report or go to the hospital. They tried to get me to reach out to Mom or to Harry. I wouldn't.

     A week after I was raped, I saw my rapist on the news.

     He was a second round draft pick for the Boston Red Sox.

     Jake Carter.

     My eyes were glued to the television as I watched the man who had brutally sexually assaulted me because I turned him down at work be congratulated by a 2.8 billion dollar franchise team and hugged and kissed by friends and family.

All I could think about was him clocking me in the face, wrapping his hand around my throat, cutting off my air supply. The pain.

I told nobody who he was.

A month after I learned of his identity and seven weeks after the attack, I found out I was pregnant. Only then had I told Mom what happened. 

     She cried, and I felt infinitely worse.

Jenna went with me to my first doctor's appointment where they gave me options. I chose to continue with the pregnancy. I felt so alone, and maybe that was why. Maybe in some weird, convoluted way, I thought having a baby would allow me to focus my entire being on something else other than my own trauma. That maybe it'd save me.

     And Jamie did—eventually.

     I struggled with postpartum depression. I struggled with feelings of intense guilt for the thoughts I had. Thoughts of regret for choosing to have Jamie.

     My friends—my family—saved my life.

The months leading up to Jamie's birth all the way through the first year of his life were a living hell for me. My mind raged a war with itself. A battle between my reality and the dreams I once had for myself and Harry.