Sometimes saying yes is easier than saying no and because of that, I can’t call myself a victim.
I didn’t technically say yes, but I technically didn’t say no.
What happened was that he leaned into me closely and he whispered in my ear what he had been planning to do to me.
The ways that he had dreamed of riping apart my body limb by limb.
How he would take his time on each and every inch of my body until I was unable to move and how it would be so intense my body would still shake for hours afterwards.
To him, it sounded like a fantasy. To me, it sounded like a massacre.
My heart started to race and my blood grew cold.
My veins filled with the blasting sound of sirens that couldn’t seem to make it past the concrete that had filled my throat.
I couldn’t say no.
I couldn’t say anything.
I doubted that my body would be left shaking because my body froze so quickly that I couldn’t move any part of it at all.
He began to tear my clothes as though it was Christmas and my body was the present under the tree that he had been waiting months to get his hands on.
Maybe I should have felt like a present, maybe it should have made me feel wanted.
But I didn’t feel wanted and I didn’t want to be a present.
I wanted to be coal. I wanted to be tossed aside and thrown out
I didn’t realize it would only be a matter of time before that happened too.
I won’t go into depth about how precisely he carried out every detail of his plan.
I won’t describe too thoroughly how his hands felt like sandpaper as he threw me around the room and how the saliva coming off of his tongue felt like acid burning my body with each and every taste that he took of me.
I won’t recount how many bite marks and bruises were left on my body the same way that skid marks are left on a road when somebody is trying to escape the scene of a crime too quickly.
What I will tell you though is that only real sandpaper was strong enough to get the feeling of his hands off of my body.
I’ll tell you that I can’t even close my eyes without seeing his lure down at me with a look that’s ignited by fires of pure desire and a hunger for stripping away last traces of innocence.
I’ll tell you that my clothes from that day were torn into shreds smaller than the pieces of shattered glass that fell to the floor as I broke every mirror inside of my house so that I wouldn’t have to look at myself again and feel the disgust of that day.
Pure, unfiltered, deathly disgust.
Enough to cause the acid in my stomach to rise into my mouth as I lean over toilet seats and sit on the shower floor with water so hot beating down on me as I pray that it melts the skin right off of my bones.
Disgust.
Disgust that I was over there. Disgust that I couldn’t see this coming.
Disgust that I had put myself in this position. Disgust that my body froze instead of deciding to fight.
I froze. I was frozen.
To call myself a victim just doesn’t seem fair.
With a body full of bricks and a throat filled with concrete I was frozen,
And I couldn’t say no.