Tonight I sit alone crying in the corner of my room on my bed, sickened at the thought of what happened only hours ago, and confused as to why I was the one it had to happen to? I question if the route I took home was the route that I shouldn’t have taken, that I should have gone against my better judgement and taken the easier but longer way home, and maybe this would never have happened? Was I target and an innocent victim of a man who thought he was the alpha male that watched my movements and traced the steps and turnings I could possibly take, and studied who I was until he felt the time was right, the time to him when this sick thought had ripened and blossomed enough for him to act upon his cowardly plan?
I can still feel his presence over my shoulder, even though the only thing behind me now is a solid wall that he can't break through, I still feel as if his hands are going to reach over my shoulders and grab me by my mouth and waist again. My ears still pick up the echo of his heavy breathing as he approached me gaining excitement with his testosterone filling up his vile body, the footsteps of his boots thudding the pavement as the pace grew quicker, and the smell of his stale lager breath as he grabbed me and pulled me to one side. He was too strong for me and he dragged me through alley ways and dark streets like I was a rag doll to a five year old, with my feet lifted off the ground at times, and scuff marks left on the pebbled unmade roads behind us that would have set a trail to find me if anyone was around.
My clothes are left in a heap on the floor ready for the bin, all tattered and torn and blood marks smeared across the fabric where I'd tried to fight for freedom, but my attempts were useless and all I was left with was his blood covering and staining my favourite dress from when I swung out a right hook and caught him on his mouth. Leaning to the side I grab my make-up mirror from my bedside table with the light dimly lighting the room, and I can see the bruises starting to materialise over my face, and a prominent one on my cheek bone with the facia of grazes from the brickwork from when I was shoved against the wall before my dress was lifted up from behind. I hadn’t noticed until now but my mascara had run down my face where I was crying from feeling petrified that I couldn’t scream for help with his hand constantly covering my mouth, that I was powerless to what was happening, and that my only solution was to bite down on his hand and bare it all.
After he satisfied himself, his deep breathing beside my ear burnt away at the hairs on my body, and his chin caved in the section of my shoulder that he leant on through exhaustion. Quietly weeping to myself I waited for him to pull away, and my ears anxiously waited to hear the zip go up on his jeans before he was to scarper home and have a restful night sleep, whilst I was only going to head home and sit where I am now hoping that when the morning breaks it’ll be a forgotten memory. But that dark place resides in my mind and if I closed my eyes long enough I know I could draw a picture of what the area looked like, so vivid and clear to me that when my face was against the wall, my mind was taking mental notes and pictures of the areas that were illuminated around me by the street lights, storing it in my photographic bank to remind me never to step foot near that place again.
Over the weeks the bruises reduced but the thought of it happening is still stuck to my mind, that four letter ‘R’ word that keeps repeating over in my mind and makes me feel sick to the pits of my stomach, and the image of his face with his menacing grin haunts me in my dreams that swiftly escalate to nightmares. I’ve not had a good night sleep now since it happened, well at first I literally didn’t have any sleep and I lived off of the fumes of energy that was left in my body, feeding off of coffee and tea to keep me going through the days and nights. I frequently wake up in cold sweats and more tears rolling down my face still, aching from my body re-enacting what happened that and lashing out on my bed, knocking off the pictures from my wall and waking up to shattered glass everywhere over the floor.
I can't deny that these times I've woken up through the night I’ve thought about grabbing one of the shards, thinking about slitting open a part of my body that would make me feel something else other than this pure hatred I have for him, and excess loathing I have for letting myself get into this state. I know I should be getting over it, in the past I've gotten over things quite quickly and moved on and I know sometimes things are easier said than done, but this time around I can't shake it. I wish there was some way of ending this all so I can get on with my life, rid myself of this painful memory I keep reliving, instead of waking up and thinking he’s there ready for round two.
