I walk into the house and the neighbor's dog barks at me. He is rabid. The rabid animal wishes to tear me limb from limb. I close the front door behind me, unaware of the presence of many men in the house. They, who are sitting on the couch, all turn to me and look. There are cans of beer and snacks on the table that I'd never given the permission for my boyfriend to buy. He just did. He did things without my permission. I felt often like I shouldn't have to give it, but I'd like to, just once in a while.
"Hey beautiful," he says. His words merge so all I hear is a drunken man's whisper. I'm scared.
"Come here," he continues. I put my bag down on the floor, careful not to bend over too much or the bastards in there with him would begin checking out my ass. It's not like they weren't already. I stand, feeling so exposed, and I walk over to him.
"Why so tense?" he asks, laughing. His friends laugh and look me up and down with hungry eyes. I'm in the lions' den. He stands up and puts his hands on my shoulders to give me a massage.
I work at the restaurant where I employ people. On Friday and Saturday nights its chaos, and sometimes the young girls who work for me cry. I hug them close and let their tears stain my uniform because they're so young, so fragile, and they need me.
But no one holds me when I cry. There are men who would love to hold me, to touch me, to put their hands in places that I prefer to hide even from myself when I'm in many other moods, but they won't touch me when I cry.
He held me when I was in tears once, a long time ago. He put his arms around me and when I'd barely begun to feel the warmth of his body through our clothes, he took them away. He told me to stop crying, and that he hated it when I cried.
Now he was massaging me. He pulled my arms back so my breasts were thrust out to the crowd around me.
"Come look at my girl, fellas," he says, holding both my hands behind my back with one hand and using the other to slide my shirt up so they could take a look at my stomach. I did a hundred crunches a day and as many sit-ups as I could so I'd be toned. I wanted to be toned so I could look in the mirror and see something I'd be proud of, but now those hours of training were being used to satisfy the appetites of monsters.
I squirm, trying to get my hands free but it only serves to excite them more. One of his friends stood up to come closer. He places his hand on my bellybutton, twiddling with my piercing.
"Take her shirt off," he says. My guy's only too happy to agree. He grabs the hem of my tank top and lifts it over my head. He lets go of my hands. I use the chance to run, out of the apartment. I'd go somewhere, anywhere. I'd go to my colleague's house. I didn't care that she'd look at me and call me a silly hooker whore with no chance in life. I'd sleep in her balcony if I had to. I just didn't want to stay here any more.
But I don't have a choice. He catches me before I make it out the door and pulls me back in. I claw at the doorframe, my nail extensions getting wretched off by the force, but I can't stop him from bringing me back in and throwing me on the couch. I hear a belt buckle being undone and I'm too shocked to move.
My captors use my temporary paralysis to bind my hands above my head in a death grip. I come back to my senses and kick at them. I want them to go away, but they don't. They hover over me, watching as I try to get away. I'm like an animal, about to be slaughtered, and they'll enjoy every bit of the meat off my bones.
"Is she always like that?" one of the men slur to him. I look at him, a last attempt to be rescued. If there was anyone who could save me now, it'd be him. If only he wasn't mad out of his senses.
"Please," I mouth. I want him to be my hero. He looks back at me, his drunken eyes contemplating. Then he opens his mouth to speak.
"She's just being extra naughty today. She wants to be spanked," he says, bringing his face close to mine. His whiskey breath brushes against my face and I turn from him, trying to stop the tears coming to my eyes. He smacks me on my ass and I gasp from the pain.
He brings his hands behind my back to undo the clasp on my bra. It's wretched it off me. No matter that it was the most expensive one I had. He'd picked it out for me and I'd bought it with my first salary. No matter now. Just because I'd die for him doesn't mean he wouldn't kill me.
My shorts are unbuttoned and unzipped by a man I hardly know. I've seen him a few times on the street. Once, I saw him outside our apartment smoking with my guy. He's smiled at me politely. Now he will ravage me, senseless. My underwear follows and I lie there, stark naked as they all stare down at me.
"She's pretty," one says. My boyfriend smiles, a crooked grin laced with perversion and sadism. My face is hot with the humiliation. I try to bring my arms down to hide myself but they don't move. The monsters have tied my hands to the back of the sofa. The extra rope in the corner would be for my legs.
I feel like I've died and he left the coffin open so everyone who was hungry could come and take a bite out of my cold dead body. I am surrounded by cannibals. All that will be left of me are bones.
"Guys, I don't think we should do this," one says. I look at him and so do the other men.
"Well, you can go first," he says, pushing the man on top of me. His leather jacket is cold against my skin. He looks at me, his eyes almost apologetic, and then takes his jacket off. The men begin whistling as he undoes his jeans. I close my eyes, waiting for him to enter me. I'd have the chance now, to say I've been raped. I'd tell stories to masses of people and be an advocate against domestic violence. There would be some women, who'd take my advice and change their lives. They'd leave the men in their lives who weren't human any more, but monsters. But there would also be women who wouldn't care about a thing I said until they were on a couch, their legs spread wide open against their will, helpless against a group of men led by the one she loved the most.
The one on me thrusts into me repeatedly. I do nothing, and I don't make a sound. One of the men slaps me on my face to check if I'm still alive. I cry a little. They're relieved. They take turns, one after the other. I feel no pleasure at all. I might have when he was fucking me and I pretended the rest weren't there; that they didn't exist. Their mothers would be so proud of them.
I don't speak to crowds of women. I don't even write a book. When they're done they leave me. I find a new apartment and I go on with my job. I don't call him and I don't pick up his calls. He comes to my restaurant once to tell me that he can't live without me, and I tell him that I can't live with him. I leave him for good, and I spend hours in a day sitting by window wondering why it happened. Nothing changes; I'm still the girl with no chance in life. Still, without him, at least I had a chance of living.