Fall
18 years oldThe voices. My name in the wind. The little whispers pulling me in.
I breathe in deep and close my eyes.
Then I see it. Flashes of his dark face hovering over me in thy dirty bathroom, holding me down when I kept shakily repeating "no," and my tears when I realized what was truly happening to me. Because this happens. I have to remember it is not my fault. Even when these voices scream "you dirty whore," and I'm sucked into each nightmare all over again.
I can feel his hands all over me. Holding my hands down as I try to push him off. His hands taking on the button of my size twelve, khaki shorts. His hands on the hem of my red work shirt, trying to tug it over my head. I can see his face, could easily describe him for the line up he'd never be in because I was too scared to tell my mom I'm a dirty whore who allowed herself to be raped. What if she tells me I deserved it? Did I deserve this? Did I deserve to fear any man I date because I'm scared he'll end up like you, B****, or you, M*****? Did I deserve to lay awake at night and sob, just like I am now, because it's my own damn, fucked up head drudging up all these shitty images? Did I deserve to feel like this? Like everything in this world is ruined and impure and like there's no fucking light left? Like everyone in this world is terrible and only assume the worst of everyone and not be surprised when another girl is raped at another frat party?
Fuck.
YOU ARE READING
Ruthless
Short StoryPost-Traumatic Stress Disorder (n.): being raped and never unseeing his hands pinning yours down to the cold stone floor, never unfeeling his pulsating penis forcing itself inside you, and never unhearing your own screams for help and the feeling of...