EVENTS #2 & #3

167 8 1
                                    

EVENTS #2 & #3

Violence isn't pretty.

It isn't romantic.

And this, too, was no exception.

Both events went something like this:


I can still remember the feeling of my best friend's hands

Along my body, exploring without permission.

The softness of his skin and the force he never used

Contradicts everything I thought I knew as rape.


It makes my skin crawl.


His sudden weight smothered any chance of rejection I could give.

The betrayal was a sucker-punch to the gut,

And I once again found myself in the role of an object

That sat like glistening crystal in a china cabinet.


A pretty thing waiting to be picked up and used.

Even when shrouded in dust, crystal has an interesting way

Of getting you to think of it as entrancingly beautiful.


The dust was being wiped off of me in that moment,

And I thought that it was cruel of whatever controls this universe

To break me down until I was compliant in

Trying to make everything stop, however I could.


Of course it never stopped.


I remember the popcorn ceiling of my dorm room.

Every single sharp point was like icicles through my heart.

The slated blinds imprisoned me in the feelings of misery and shame.

The upside down shadow jerked as he moved,

And with it my hope abandoned me.


The mattress below me was the only solid thing I felt,

My legs as viscous as grape jelly on a thick peanut butter sandwich.

The blanket covering my bed, purple with flowers. Made of faux-down.

I've tried to burn it twice now, and just can't bring myself to do it.


The images of my bystander-intervention posters mocked me to sleep,

Painfully reminding me that the Vice President of the group that advocates for

The prevention of rape was raped by the secretary of that group.

Raped. By the secretary. Twice.


How ironic.


The morning after, I cried.

I cried heavy tears of regret, of doubt, of guilt.

Heavy tears of self-blame.

If only I had locked my door,

I wonder if this would've happened if I was sober.


I showered.

My brown skin turned a blistering red,

And even under 3 layers of thick, bubbly lavender soap and

Tears that never stopped coming,

I still didn't feel clean.


I told him that what happened between us wasn't consensual.


His response still echoes around the empty cavern of my mind:


"I wish you would stop making me feel like a rapist."

Picking Up The PiecesWhere stories live. Discover now