But do not forget, the guilt so heavy it drips off me. Do not forget the position I have been put in. The trauma. The shame. The shunning from my family, my friends. Why would they want anything to do with me anyhow? The toxic fumes of the red paint hang around me like a burning sign; 'for all to mock.'
Does anyone even believe me? Will anyone even begin to understand the dangerous position I am in? If my own Mother, the one who birthed me, the one who raised me, does not believe me why should authorities or higher figures in society shed even the tiniest bit of sympathy and believing?
I will just become a story of those who 'Dreased too provocatively.' 'Were asking for it.' 'Don't lie; you enjoyed it.' Their words will forever he etched into my skin a burning red. Red... why does that colour keep coming up? Is it because it is a colour associated with anger or because it is the colour associated with blood? Blood runs through your body until you die; does that mean this crime of his he committed will stay with me to death? Could it even go away? Will soap even begin to cleanse me?
YOU ARE READING
I Am His Canvas
Short StoryThis a story I wrote for an English language exam. The prompt was "Write about witnessing a crime"; I am very proud with how it turned out. //TW for rape.
