This story will contain very graphic depictions of rape. This story deals with many sensitive themes, rape, torture, violence and death being a few (However, not in the same context, I assure you). This is, by no means, a glorification of rape, but rather, an illustration of the darkness that consumes the victim. While essential to the plot, and brought up throughout the story, it is by no means the central point of the story.
In most cases, the rapist is someone who knows the victim. A family friend, a friend's friend, a relative, a parent. Often times, it's a complete stranger; someone who plays God. Someone who chooses to ruin someone else's life. In many ways, it is worse than murder; there is no comfort for the victim, no refuge, there is no solace in death, no peace. Rape breaks the victim into two distinct pieces; before and after. There is the person who used to enjoy walking down the street at three in the morning, just to buy a pack of cigarettes, before. There is the person who sits by the window, watching the rest of the world go on with their lives, after.
I didn't mind it. Being a spectator. Watching the world keep on living.
I had no outlet for my anger, my hurt, my grief, my pain.
Because I had no idea who had done this to me. I didn't know his name. I didn't know if he had a family waiting for him at home while he destroyed my life.
I don't remember very much from that evening. But what I do remember... I remembered with such clarity that it kept me up at night. Every night.
I remember the gravel scratching up my skin, tearing wide gashes along my face, in the palm of my hands, along my legs, across my stomach. I remember the taste of bile as it rose to the back of my throat. I remember the overwhelming numbness that claimed my legs and torso. I remember the burning in my arms as I tried to move them. I remember my hair being pulled out of my scalp, the taste of my tears as they fell soundlessly down my cheeks, running over my lips. I remember the pressure of the scream bubbled in my throat, dying to come out. I remember the sounds, the cacophony of New York City deafening the sounds of my struggle.
What haunted me the most was everything he did. His hand pushing the middle of my back down towards the ground, stilling my movements. His other hand spreading my legs, his hands violently ripping my underwear from my body. The texture of his rough fingertips tearing my body apart. Him...
It was my first year of college, and I was out with my roommates Jessica and Angela, at some dingy New York club filled to the brim with students. We were having a girls night, bonding. And somehow, something got into my drink. Someone thought that I was worth the risk. That I would do just fine. I don't remember being separated from my friends. I don't really remember how I got outside.
I remember every excruciating detail of the attack. How it felt. The sounds. The pain. But my body couldn't move. I was trapped inside my own body. The zipper. The rustling of clothing. The stinging of my flesh. The limpness of my limbs.
I remember him wiping himself off on my skirt as he finished. I remember him saying 'thanks'. And then I remember the piercing pain in my back. He had stabbed me with a knife, aiming for my heart. But he missed. The doctors said that if that group of girls had found me ten minutes later, I would have been dead. But I don't remember much of that. I barely remember what anything for a couple of months following the... Incident.
I vaguely remember the hospital room. Angela and Jessica crying. My father sitting there beside my bed. My mother coming into the room, seeing me, and then promptly leaving. I remember a sea of faces. Police officers, nurses, doctors, therapists.
Barely a month into my first year of university, and already my life would never be the same...