Memories flood and for a moment I’m out of breath, remembering how he’d hold me down and force himself on me. Remembering how sometimes I’d stare at the ceiling and pretend I was dead just so I couldn’t feel anything. The most painful memory, one that plagued me everyday, one which has become a nightmare I fall asleep to and wake up to everyday, was the pain of the first time, and the pain that followed from days after.
The first time he’d touched me he was drunk out of his mind. Drunk to the point of madness. And in his period of drunkenness, he’d equally wanted to get me drunk as well, fully knowing I’d never had alcohol. So he mixed my coke with alcohol with the hopes of me being a lightweight. I knew from the first sip that something was off then and threw it away. All I wanted to do was drop him off at his place before I went to the train station to catch the last train back to London.
But he’d clearly had other plans.
I’d struggled with him to the point that I couldn’t. He was heavier than he looked and I was weaker than I appeared to be. And when I couldn’t struggle anymore, I let my tears suspend in my eyes- there was no point allowing them leak. I lay there, numb until he rolled himself off me and began snoring peacefully.
He’d awoken a turbulent storm inside me that I never knew I could fall prey to.
I saw red. It was bright red, a red I never knew could come out from my body till now- I don’t know if it was an effect of the proverbial hymen breaking or resulting from something else that had torn inside me. I didn’t want to think about it. I no longer cared. As I walked towards the bathroom, the remnants of my innocence kept dripping, staining the floor, leaving a red trail from bedroom to bathroom.
I knew I bled more than I should have, but I didn’t care.
I’d sat under the hot and angry pelts of water running down from the shower head, willing myself to be physically clean. No matter how hard I’d tried scrubbing, the memories of what had happened that night wouldn’t come off. My head had been cradled between my thighs as I’d finally let out the tears that were trapped, not caring that water soon flowed over my hair down to the rest of my body. Even though the water was hot, shivers had still taken over the rest of my body uncontrollably as I continued crying.
Everything inside me hurt.
I’d stayed in there for what felt like hours, scrubbing and weeping. No matter how hard I scrubbed or cried, I couldn’t erase what had happened. Neither could I erase the memory.
BJ didn’t remember for days what had happened that night- or maybe he was pretending to forget. I blurted it out finally, after the final waves of shock had left me days after. He sounded emotionless. He didn’t care.
‘It would have happened between us anyway. Are you telling me you didn’t enjoy it?’
And then it kept happening. Drunk or not, he’d forcefully latched himself onto me whenever he felt like it. The first few times he’d apologise, under the guise of ‘I don’t know what came over me’. He was remorse and apologetic to the point that I actually believed him and maybe it would finally stop. It was then I’d realised how amazing of an actor he was.
Because he never stopped.
‘Don’t fight it; struggling only makes it feel worse for you’, He’d always say after the deed had been done. Reminding me of what he had done.
He stopped caring about my cries and my pleas. My tears no longer moved him. So, I stopped fighting him, it was pointless doing so-my effort proved virtually useless. I was too embarrassed to tell anyone. I still am. I couldn’t wear my shame for the public to see because they’d never understand.
No one would ever understand.