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Take Two - trigger warning

I’ve always wanted to be a writer. I used to be a good one too. In fact, I used to find myself romantic. I used to imagine my stories written down and how I would phrase them. I lived to believe that my experiences were for a reason, and that writing would validate me. Maybe even someone would believe me if my words were in text. If I chose the right ones, maybe they would understand me. As a young child, about six or seven, I began to narrate my life to myself to practice my diction. I saw the world around me as a movie playing below as I watched it unravel from above, only there to observe. This ability crafted a talented young writer. I was gifted, although I did not perform well in school. At eleven years old after losing my older sister to an overdose, my ability to disengage from my experiences and surroundings immediately developed into something greater. I was able to disassociate, and as an effect, could recreate my history. So, I tried my best to forget about my sister. I no longer practiced writing. I practiced feeling nothing. By the time I turned 13, I began to obsess about the idea that someone out there was waiting for me. I believed in my heart that someone was hurting just as bad as I was somewhere out there, and that one day we would find each other and the pain would go away. We would be whole. I had forgotten who I used to be, and who I wanted to be. At this point I had spent so much time alone, that I was certain this was the way life was for me. I was comfortable socializing only in my fantasy, because I was terrified of people. I had already been betrayed and hurt. I knew it would only happen again. I imagined a copy of myself. I imaged another version of myself that could pass as a boy with short flippy hair. I wanted to clone myself so that I could have a soulmate. I imagined how nice I would be to myself if given the chance. I imagined sticking up for myself when a peer commented on my appearance, or how little friends I had. I imagined holding my own hand, having someone to sit with at lunch, and receiving a flower gram at school on Valentine’s Day. In private school, everyone got something for everyone for the 14th. In public school, everyone got flowers, but me. I didn’t know anyone, and no one cared to know me. I piled my pillows up next to me on my bed and wrapped my arms around it, kissing it to sleep. I understood my place. I understood what I needed. Eventually I made a friend, who I would call my best friend. Her name was Rena. I was in love with her. I was 14, but I knew love. It was a platonic love, but I couldn’t ever tell her how much I cared because I feared she wouldn’t be my friend if she thought I was a lesbian. I don’t remember how we became friends, but I remember falling for her immediately. She had gorgeous dark olive skin, brown eyes, and was hysterically rude. She was like me. We were progressive, academically motivated, and suicidal. We spent the summer together. I don’t think we spent a day apart. When we went to high school in the fall, she began to date a boy a year older than us. His name was Douglas Archuletta. He fit in with us, because he was progressive, academically motivated, and suicidal too. I instantly hated him. He bitched too much. We called him Debbie Downer. I thought he was a burden on our friendship. We bonded over making jokes about him, then they broke up. The boy took the break up pretty hard, and out of fear that he would cause drama that would burden his ex’s and my friendship, I talked to him about his depression. His dad beat him. I felt bad, but also couldn’t stand him. I got dragged deeper into the pity party, and we became friends. I hadn’t had any experience dating, but it wasn’t long before the boundaries of friendship were pushed. We attended a youth group that fall. I shared my first kiss with him there. I thought he would be good practice for a future boyfriend because he was pushy, I was extremely anxious about kissing, and I wasn’t interested in him, so I figured why not? Just two days later, the boy and I were in the back of my mom’s van exchanging pecks. We hadn’t made out yet. I hadn’t ever made out. I was too nervous and had been avoiding it. The boy had a tendency to become aggressive when aroused.  I hadn’t seen it before, but after kissing his neck two or three times, he pins my legs up above his shoulders, and pulls my panties to the side. Blood starts running down his nose. I was so scared the world around me begins turning to black, all I can do is repeat the words “No, no, no,” over and over again, but it makes no difference. He shoves his dick in my asshole and I close my eyes tight in hopes of leaving my body. I don’t. I fully experienced the pain. He doesn’t kiss me.  When he’s done he drops my body back onto the seat, my dress bloodied.  When I ask him why he did that after I said “no” so many times, he said “Oh, I thought you were teasing me, just playing with me.” I hadn’t ever gotten to make out with a boy yet, and my ass was filled with cum. I went home and cried until I puked. I looked in the mirror and convinced myself that this was God’s plan for me. I couldn’t handle the inevitable disappointment my parents would feel if I told them. I couldn’t handle the embarrassment of telling anyone my ass had been penetrated. I couldn’t handle the reality that I had been raped. So, like that, we began dating. Within four months my labia was bruised black, swollen like a balloon. I was in gym so girls noticed. No one asked me if I needed help. It still is black, but doesn’t hurt as bad anymore. When we broke up, Sydney Kittleson from youth group, the only person I had told when I lost my virginity it wasn’t consensual, threatened to tell the whole school that I had anal sex. I considered killing myself. When I broke up with him, he lifted me and pounded my head against the brick wall of the school pool. My friends looked at me as they passed silently. I especially remember Preston Soete. I had a crush on him in high school. Rena and I used to compete to see who he would sext the dirtiest. He kept his eyes locked on mine as he walked down the entire flight of stairs coming toward us, then walked by me, as the tennis courts went black with each collision the wall made with my head. I changed schools and went to community college.  Doug changed schools too, and went to my community college. He took my classes. I couldn’t escape him, and I was damaged goods anyways. We got back together. Eventually, we broke up again, this time for good. I took suboxone, soma, and percocets every day until I went to university. I had never fully come to terms with being raped, so it wasn’t hard to repress. I was good at forgetting. I was too good at forgetting. I forgot my time as an adolescent and teenager completely, but I knew there was something I was missing. I was starting my dream life, and had this lingering feeling that I knew something that I had forgotten. There was something I was trying to tell myself. Something was on the tip of my tongue. I quickly lost my ability to articulate. I formed a stutter. I was no longer a competitive speaker in debate. I was engulfed by this feeling that I had failed myself, but I had no clue as to why. So, I emailed Doug to ask what happened between us. I felt that something bad had happened between us sexually, but couldn’t remember anything. He claimed there was nothing that happened of that nature “that he could recall.” I was going to be on his campus on my 20th birthday for a debate tournament. He offered to tell me what he could remember. I accepted. I showed up at his apartment. He had gained over 60 lbs. He lived with a boy named Bryce who I had met when we all went to the same community college. Bryce was also in debate. I watched them play FIFA. Doug seemed manic. He was talking fast, about nothing. Bryce left for the awards ceremony. I stood up and told Doug I should follow Bryce. Doug pinned me to the ground of his bedroom, putting his entire weight on me. I squeezed in between his legs and wedged through the bedroom door. Before I make it to the door to the outside, he grabbed me by the waist and my feet left the ground. He threw his weight on me as we crashed onto the floor. My breath left my lungs empty, and I felt a the strongest sense of deja vu I have ever experienced. As I was trying to breathe past my joint asthma/panic attack, he drilled his waist into my back and locked my arms in his. I was able to draw in one deep breath. I held it in and freed my arms which pushed me out from underneath him, in between his legs. He beat me to the door. I was able to crack it open an inch and wedge my foot in the door, and fought to get my thigh through. I elbowed him in the rib, and made my escape. Three days later, I woke up at 3 AM. The rape played before my eyes like a movie on a screen, and I was able to take in a breath deeper than I had in years. It has been almost exactly four years since I have remembered now. I haven’t regained my vocabulary. My stutter never went away. I haven’t used hard drugs in three months. I’ve started fantasizing about myself again. The time we could spend being sweet to each other, correcting each other. Maybe we still have the time to try again at a dream life.

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Reem Acra S.S 2017

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Creepyyeha

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:- )

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Own your body. Listen to it. Respect it. Work it. Love it.

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Agent Provocateur Sylvana