non-fiction essay. first draft.
I don't recall many details from that night, and maybe that's a good thing. Early on, I remember him making a comment about me being easy, and I slapped him softly, almost playfully. Maybe if I had actually hurt him with that slap the night would have ended then. But I didn't, and it didn't. I guess the jury would have called me out on that, too.
Fast forward, and he was sitting next to me, taking up the majority of my twin-sized mattress. I wonder what would have happened if my roommate were there. Would she have said anything? Would he have done what he did? These questions mean nothing and yet they mean the world.
He pulled on my hand, a tight grip, and maneuvered my arm around his shoulder. I was uncomfortable, and my elbow was bent at a weird angle. And still, I said nothing. Guess I practically stamped the word "innocent" on his forehead, right, jury?
I don't remember how I ended up lying down on my bed, or what I was wearing. Knowing me, my shirt was low-cut. Go ahead and blame me for that, too, jury members. A busty girl is always asking for it, isn't she? But I wasn't raped, so there isn't a jury. So why do I still feel like I'm being judged? For letting this happen. For letting him get away with it. For waking up the next morning with bruises on my wrists. Maybe I'm the one judging. Always judging myself.
His head was on my shoulder, I think, when he made a comment about my collarbone and its prominence. I said, "Most girls' collarbones stick out." That's the only thing I remember saying that night. Because I never said 'no.' Sorry, jury. Guess the case is a waste of your time, your tax dollars.
He was close to my heart, physically not figuratively. He observed its pace, and commented on it. Accused my heart of speeding up because of the "intimate" situation. My heart has never beat that quickly out of fear. Since then, I've hated the word "intimate." Is that irrational?
Somehow I scooted off the mattress, out from under his weight. I walked to the front of my dresser, topped with makeup, mirrors, and birth control pills. A girl on the pill is always willing to engage in risky behaviors, right? Sorry, doctor. Guess I won't be renewing that prescription.
Maybe if those dormitory beds had headboards it wouldn't have happened; he wouldn't have been able to pull on my wrists with all of his strength, trying to get me back on that bed. Maybe it's cruel, but I thank God sometimes for cursing him with a disability; making his hands shake as he dug his fingers into my skin, sparking the internal bleeding that would shine purple and brown upon my fair skin the next day. I don't bruise easily, jury. Do you believe me?
Maybe I am easy. Maybe I deserved it. Maybe showing cleavage is a wordless way of saying, "Hey, you can grab me, touch me, pull me." Maybe he's the reason why I hold onto Mike so tightly; my ex-boyfriend-turned-best-friend. Mike, who has never once put his hands on me when I clearly didn't want to be touched. Mike, who only squeezes me hard when he knows I'm about to lose myself and need his arms wrapped around me so I stay intact.
I'm sorry, Dad. I can't be your sweet little girl anymore. I let someone hurt me, but not enough to make him pay for it. I love you.
I'm sorry, Mike. I need you more than ever. I let someone hurt me. I need you to help me heal. I love you the most.
I'm sorry, Katherine. I let us get twisted and shattered by this boy with shaky hands. We don't know where to go from here. And I'm sorry that we are so broken, and not even this event can serve as an excuse for our fall from grace. But I'm not sure that I love you enough to forgive you for this.
Short story by Katherinee x
Read 756 times
Written on 2013-03-03 at 18:39
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I remember being in my dorm room alone with him. Taller than me, but his cerebral palsy put me at the advantage when it came to strength. Maybe that's the only reason why I wasn't raped; Because he was born with this disease that made his hands shake when he tried to hold me down, taking away some of the force. I don't remember speaking much, or even saying 'no.' I guess a jury would blame me for that, if he had raped me. But he didn't. No, I wasn't raped. But I might as well have been.I don't recall many details from that night, and maybe that's a good thing. Early on, I remember him making a comment about me being easy, and I slapped him softly, almost playfully. Maybe if I had actually hurt him with that slap the night would have ended then. But I didn't, and it didn't. I guess the jury would have called me out on that, too.
Fast forward, and he was sitting next to me, taking up the majority of my twin-sized mattress. I wonder what would have happened if my roommate were there. Would she have said anything? Would he have done what he did? These questions mean nothing and yet they mean the world.
He pulled on my hand, a tight grip, and maneuvered my arm around his shoulder. I was uncomfortable, and my elbow was bent at a weird angle. And still, I said nothing. Guess I practically stamped the word "innocent" on his forehead, right, jury?
I don't remember how I ended up lying down on my bed, or what I was wearing. Knowing me, my shirt was low-cut. Go ahead and blame me for that, too, jury members. A busty girl is always asking for it, isn't she? But I wasn't raped, so there isn't a jury. So why do I still feel like I'm being judged? For letting this happen. For letting him get away with it. For waking up the next morning with bruises on my wrists. Maybe I'm the one judging. Always judging myself.
His head was on my shoulder, I think, when he made a comment about my collarbone and its prominence. I said, "Most girls' collarbones stick out." That's the only thing I remember saying that night. Because I never said 'no.' Sorry, jury. Guess the case is a waste of your time, your tax dollars.
He was close to my heart, physically not figuratively. He observed its pace, and commented on it. Accused my heart of speeding up because of the "intimate" situation. My heart has never beat that quickly out of fear. Since then, I've hated the word "intimate." Is that irrational?
Somehow I scooted off the mattress, out from under his weight. I walked to the front of my dresser, topped with makeup, mirrors, and birth control pills. A girl on the pill is always willing to engage in risky behaviors, right? Sorry, doctor. Guess I won't be renewing that prescription.
Maybe if those dormitory beds had headboards it wouldn't have happened; he wouldn't have been able to pull on my wrists with all of his strength, trying to get me back on that bed. Maybe it's cruel, but I thank God sometimes for cursing him with a disability; making his hands shake as he dug his fingers into my skin, sparking the internal bleeding that would shine purple and brown upon my fair skin the next day. I don't bruise easily, jury. Do you believe me?
Maybe I am easy. Maybe I deserved it. Maybe showing cleavage is a wordless way of saying, "Hey, you can grab me, touch me, pull me." Maybe he's the reason why I hold onto Mike so tightly; my ex-boyfriend-turned-best-friend. Mike, who has never once put his hands on me when I clearly didn't want to be touched. Mike, who only squeezes me hard when he knows I'm about to lose myself and need his arms wrapped around me so I stay intact.
I'm sorry, Dad. I can't be your sweet little girl anymore. I let someone hurt me, but not enough to make him pay for it. I love you.
I'm sorry, Mike. I need you more than ever. I let someone hurt me. I need you to help me heal. I love you the most.
I'm sorry, Katherine. I let us get twisted and shattered by this boy with shaky hands. We don't know where to go from here. And I'm sorry that we are so broken, and not even this event can serve as an excuse for our fall from grace. But I'm not sure that I love you enough to forgive you for this.
Short story by Katherinee x
Read 756 times
Written on 2013-03-03 at 18:39
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