Polaroids Lost in Time

Her Fault

When she was seven, her mother told her to come inside when it got dark because she told her of the bad things that would happen to little girls who played outside at night.

When she was eight, her father put her in a self defense class because he told her that she was a girl and girls are more likely to be drugged and raped.

When she was nine, the boys in the hallway began to whistle and call and she would always walk with her head down, confused as to whether or not to thank them or be ashamed.

When she was fifteen, she was given pepper spray and a pocketknife just in case if she wanted to walk home from school.

When she was sixteen, a boy tried to touch her but she refused and because of that, it earned her a bruise.

When she was eighteen, she walked to her car in the empty parking lot. Out of nowhere a hand comes down. No pepper spray. No pocketknife. Nothing to defend herself with. He pushed her against the car and scarred her for life.

All the things she has done to prepare and all the things she had but none helped at all.

In the end, the question being asked to her wasn't "are you okay". It was "what were you wearing?"

Because it wasn't his fault for pushing her against the car, for hitting her countless times, for saying, "Shut up, bitch!"

It was her fault. Her fault for wearing a dress. Or a skirt. Or a tank top. It was her fault for wearing the pieces of clothing she felt comfortable in. Her fault for being abused, sexually harassed and raped.