Just call me Em. When I was 15, 2009 in November...I was raped by an ex boyfriend. This is my story:
I’m not quite myself and I can tell I’m not thinking or talking straight. I run from one side of the room to another, stumbling over things that I should have seen in my way. I see a familiar face that I swore I would never interact with, I watch myself dance not so gracefully towards the door and allow him to enter the building. A sloppy smile is given while the tainted coke sloshes around in the glass. The pinging of the ice cubes nudging the glass isn’t able to be heard over the music and hysterical laughter. My eyes start to glaze over as I try to force the out of reach memory back into my brain. The tumbling fall of a girl with her legs snaking together as she clumsily try’s to walk. The last of the stinging liquid is poured down her burning throat as she wobbles towards the stairs. Flashes of carpets and walls are blurred until the camera is tossed upon the floor. A simple smile is replaced with a mild sense of bewilderment as she try’s to comprehend what is wanted of her. The familiar mouth tells her everything is okay, and presses against hers. Hard lips, not the ones of love or care are forced down upon her while she swims in and out of reality. Noises here and there and the feel of the cheap cotton rubbing against her body as she imagines that she’s in Wonderland where Alice fell down so long ago. As more and more of her is exposed she still wonders what is real and if she will recall any of this in the morning. Heavy breathing marks the finish line, and she knows that it’s okay to move. Using every ounce of her strength she attempts to sit up, curiously looking and asking if she would ever remember this. The reply was short and to the point, “I sure as hell hope not Emily.” Satisfied for the time being and allowing the words to roll around in her head she sinks back down into the safety of the covers. Not even a passing glance or a farewell is exchanged as she hears the stairs creek. A dam of tears is building up behind the hazel gates, and when opened only a meek quivering laugh escapes much to the surprise.
I’m not quite myself and I can tell I’m not thinking or talking straight. I run from one side of the room to another, stumbling over things that I should have seen in my way. I see a familiar face that I swore I would never interact with, I watch myself dance not so gracefully towards the door and allow him to enter the building. A sloppy smile is given while the tainted coke sloshes around in the glass. The pinging of the ice cubes nudging the glass isn’t able to be heard over the music and hysterical laughter. My eyes start to glaze over as I try to force the out of reach memory back into my brain. The tumbling fall of a girl with her legs snaking together as she clumsily try’s to walk. The last of the stinging liquid is poured down her burning throat as she wobbles towards the stairs. Flashes of carpets and walls are blurred until the camera is tossed upon the floor. A simple smile is replaced with a mild sense of bewilderment as she try’s to comprehend what is wanted of her. The familiar mouth tells her everything is okay, and presses against hers. Hard lips, not the ones of love or care are forced down upon her while she swims in and out of reality. Noises here and there and the feel of the cheap cotton rubbing against her body as she imagines that she’s in Wonderland where Alice fell down so long ago. As more and more of her is exposed she still wonders what is real and if she will recall any of this in the morning. Heavy breathing marks the finish line, and she knows that it’s okay to move. Using every ounce of her strength she attempts to sit up, curiously looking and asking if she would ever remember this. The reply was short and to the point, “I sure as hell hope not Emily.” Satisfied for the time being and allowing the words to roll around in her head she sinks back down into the safety of the covers. Not even a passing glance or a farewell is exchanged as she hears the stairs creek. A dam of tears is building up behind the hazel gates, and when opened only a meek quivering laugh escapes much to the surprise.
