Eight- In a general store, the middle of nowhere. I stared at toys, oblivious to the stranger too close. A hand on my backside, a rub and squeeze. The cops huffed, 'are you sure it wasn't an accident?' 'Is it really that important?' Suddenly I knew shame.
Twelve- Last day of school, cornered in an empty classroom by my lifelong bully. He tore my pink shirt, grabbed me where Trump would have. My father helped. Did what he could. Told me it wasn't my fault. But the teacher, a male who never liked my voice, groaned in private, 'this will ruin that poor boys life.' But what about me?
Sixteen- A class full of people, feeling pretty as a rare treat. A boy with a knife sitting too close, hand inching up my thigh. A malicious smile with a dangerous whisper, 'spread your knees.' I never told, It had hardly mattered before. But that's the last time I wore a skirt to school.
Eighteen- The officer taking my prints made me cringe as he lingered. His compliments made me shudder but I told myself I was paranoid. Leading me to a cell he offered me a private room leering as he mentioned I wouldn't feel alone. I almost laugh now at his offer to pay me with juice. But a year later at the hearing his lude claims were loud enough for everyone to hear. A court room full of people heard him brag about things he never did. Only one person shut him down without even a word. Simply a glare of digust that I was too scared to give.