“It happened months ago. So maybe I should just get over it. “
This is what Melissa said to me, as I sat, at the foot of her
bed; my body slumped over, my eyes, the windows to a broken soul, darkened by
the memory of my trauma. It was gearing up to be another dreadful Friday night
in. The 8th Friday night to be exact, in which my tears like bullets
would assault her lap, as she massages my hair, straining desperately to find new words of comfort in a limited language to
console her fallen friend. Her 'friendly' suggestion was her strike; her stance to no longer share the burden of my
ordeal, she had had enough. And I couldn’t even blame her.
I too wished that my rape could be a phase. I wished I could
wake up and forget about his hands, giant and dark, wrapped firmly around
my waist, prohibiting my movement. But instead I am haunted by his rough grip.
The skillful manner in which, through sheer brute strength, he claimed my body
as his own. Conquered a territory
already inhabited. I wish I could forget
about his lips, his big, dry, black lips, as they stabbed my body with unwanted
kisses, as his coarse long tongue like that of a serpent’s slowly licked my
shoulder; my shivering, the reaction to his poison in my spine. I wish I could
forget him, as he calmly spoke my name, as if he had earned the right to
address his victim by name. His voice
deep and steady, absent to the danger and damage he so easily committed. I wish I could wake up and not want to die, to
not want to burn my skin off to return his property. To be free of his
lingering smell, the odour of a sick man who took my innocence, just because he
could. I wish I could breathe again. To truly breathe, and for once not
violently gasp for air, as I feel him inside me though my body demurs. To
inhale without the sounds of his moans, amplified by the force of my tears, and
to exhale without screaming; without
screaming, for help, or for mercy or for death.
He had raped more than
just my body. He had raped the air from my life; my ability to breathe. And unfortunately that wasn’t something I
could just get over.
I don’t think Melissa really understood what had happened to
me that night. She doesn’t understand how my image of a just world collapsed
under the weight of my attack. I don’t think I properly explained it her. I
don’t even think I can, because I don’t know why it happened. I don’t know why he knew I’d be alone. Why he
even knew my name. I don’t understand what gave him the right to invade me, to
take ownership of my body. What gave him the authority to decide that is what I
wanted and that I would ‘like it’.
Why was the blood rushing to his dick, stronger than the strength of my no? Of my please? Of my stop?
Why was I his victim? Why did he make me his victim?
I cannot find the answer.
I try to look for the permission
I gave to destroy me in my clothing. Had my shorts been too short? My boobs too
big? I don’t know why I feel I must be blamed. But I must have done something
to deserve it. I feel as if I must have earned my tears, like gold stars on a
classroom chart, as if i must take ownership of my own victimhood. So I look at my
interactions. Was I too flirty? Too fun?
I didn’t even know him! Had I advertised
myself to the world as accessible then try to go back on my claim when the
customer came for his purchase?
I can’t accept that.
I can’t accept that so I cry every night on her lap, as I try
to find the answers in between my tears, my struggle, nothing more to her than
another Friday night in. But still I couldn't blame her. This wasn’t her cross to bear.
So without a word I Left her room, I would not sentence her
to another Friday night in. not chain her to a hopeless cause. Not punish her for
being my best friend. As I left I could
hear the noise of the campus all around me.
It was alive with laughter. It was
mocking my survival. Ever since that night, I had loathed the noise. I
blamed the noise more than I blamed him. I seem to blame everything more than I blamed
him. I often wonder what would have
happened if the place had been still. If only it had not been so alive. Would
my flatmates have heard the foreign knock on my door of an uninvited guest?
Would the neighbours have heard my screams? Would they have helped? Would I have been saved by some faceless
stranger because I was too weak, too fragile, and too hopeless to save myself?
I’ll never know.
Instead I’ll always
remember the noise of people making memories, which I long to forget. I will
remember the tone of blurred voices all around me, celebrating my demise. I
will remember the stares that followed, the accusing eyes which hold no
comfort. As I walk back to my room I can still hear the whispers of passing
strangers, mocking my survival. They
don’t want to know why I no longer stand straight or brush my kinky brown hair
or oil my long legs. These things no
longer matter me. They don’t want to
know why my colourful array of jean shorts has been traded in favour of long
black garments. They don’t know about my scars.
I don’t want them to know that my body is not mine.
As I reach the end of the corridor I stop at my door. I have not returned since that night. I cannot
willingly pass through the portal of my troubles in which the demons of a
darker day lay waiting on the other side. I am petrified by fear, by my own
memories. This could no longer be my home.
He had taken my home from me as well.
With no other place to go I begin to walk aimlessly around
the darkened college campus. I no longer worry about my safety. It had already
been taken. In the dark, the campus takes it true form. The buildings are
opaque and unwelcoming. They do not care if I survive. All around me I hear the shuffling noises of
devils in the bushes, waiting to strike, getting louder with every step. There
is no peace to be found on these grounds. Not for me. There are stories that this campus, once a
plantation, remains haunted by those cheated of their freedom. I now believe it
to be true as I now walk amongst the ghosts who cannot forgive; a victim of a
private slavery that robbed me of my freedom to grow. On this burial ground of
my dreams, the air feels crisp but melancholy, as though it shares my pain, but
I do not feel consoled. I can see the dark grey clouds that decorate the
starless night. Though they appear heavy and engorged I know it won’t rain. They
refuse to cry for me.
I find no comfort in
this place, as it allowed my comfort to be taken. I blame this campus, more
than I blame him. It didn’t help me. Why
did the thunder not roar or the lightning strike, or spirits arrive to scare
him away? Why did it not rain to keep him at home? To keep him away. Why was it
not dark enough for him to go to another room, to go to another girl?
I stop this thought.
I stop myself. I begin to walk faster, to walk further. I
know there is no peace to be found, not here on his plantation. But I cannot
stand still. My memories must not find me vulnerable.
In all my walking, I grow tired, but I know this does not
mean that I can sleep. As I momentarily stop at a wooden bench, I no longer
feel the will to go on. My eyes begin to slowly close; my mind for once shuts
off. I suddenly can hear the soft sound of the ocean. I feel the calm of the
sea, everything is still for once. In my
brief moment of solitude I know where I must go, where I can find peace. This
calm however, does not persist. Soon I find myself screaming though no one is
around to hear. My breath is shallow, my heart is racing but for a second I
could breathe again. Breathe like how I had forgotten. But it didn’t last. Once again I cannot inhale without the sounds
of his moans, amplified by the force of my tears; I cannot exhale without
screaming; without screaming, for help, or for mercy or for death.
I did not sleep that night, though I stopped walking. I remained
awake as I waited for morning, trying not to think about him and what he has
done to me. As the sun rises the campus puts on its mask. Kissed with light,
the buildings feign a protective demeanour. But
I know the truth. I know they do not care if I survive. Now bathed by the
rays of sun, the grounds smile at me as I begin to move. The bushes once filled
with the noise of demons now alive with the songs of birds to welcome the
morning. I am disgusted by the perfidy.
I swiftly make my way towards Irvine gate. I have decided to
end it all. And I know where i must go.
As it is early the bus
stop is empty. I almost feel happy to not have to count the glares of strangers,
just this once. I am excited to not see their stares in my death; Judging me
for my defeat. A few minutes pass but I don’t have to wait for long. Soon my
bus arrives. It is empty just as I like it.
As I step on the abandoned bus, the corpulent driver pays me
no attention, as his chubby fingers take my fare. This suits me fine. I wish
not be noticed. Now on the bus, I begin my journey downtown to the Jamaican
epicentre of garbage both human and material. In the fallen city I hope to find
a friend. Once a place full of the potential and passion of its people, it now stands
in ruins, the joke of a country. The broken homes and dreams, are stained with
the toxic of its reputation, as the city caricaturized for its vulgar vendors,
try to sell rotten fruits and counterfeit goods to uninterested bystanders, their
voices strained from speaking over the blaring sirens of the infamous police
cars constantly patrolling the crime infested streets. Streets that overflow
with trash as though it were a gallant river made of waste. It’s a tragedy I
know well. I too have fallen from grace.
My journey takes no time. Comfortably seated in the deserted bus I dream
of my death and soon I am in the heart of the rat hole. The place I have chosen
to end my life. The morning sun is now out in full force. But I feel no warmth.
My body is cold. It is already dead. Around me I can hear the noise of the people;
a different noise. It is the colourful sounds of the Jamaican patois, spoken by
an amalgam of one face, spread across multiple bodies, blurred figures of unremarkable
features, all haggard by a similar struggle.
For once they don’t mock me. They are concerned with their own battles.
As I leave the bus. I immediately walk to my destination. I briefly close my
eyes. I can hear the ocean.
As I make my way down the street, I am slightly taken aback by
the madness of my surrounding, the clutter of the environment. Everyone seems
to be out today trying to hustle; to make a living. If only they knew I would
be leaving them today. Not that I think
they would care. Around me I watch the resident woman as they make their way
through the crowds with ease. Their heads are covered and their tattered dresses
sweep the sidewalk. As they glide down the walkway their steps are light and
lyrical. It is clear they know the streets well , you see them glide over
potholes, how they effortlessly follow the curvature of the street. They know
the dips in the sidewalk, every crack is memorized. I am surprised by the
fluidity of their movement on the busy road, I am entertained by their dance as they dodge
the discarded garbage and sewage water that ‘adorns’ the ill-treated roads; impressed
with their untrained grace as they manoeuvre through the streets like
ballerinas.
I however do not know
this dance and though impressed I cannot learn as I am distracted by the
noises, and I trip over the cracks. I stumble at the collision with unexpected
bends and find my feet covered by the sidewalk trash. There is too much going
on around me. I am blinded by the revolving door of similar faces, their
expressions all pained by some unknown torment. I am overwhelmed by the sights
and sounds of the city, the loud colours of barely there clothing, on humans
and mannequins alike that invade my vision. I am afraid of the men that linger
on the street like a festering wound of the city. I feel my body flinch as they
make their heinous sounds to get my attention; I can taste the poison from
their lips as they call out to me. I
then remember him. I become terrified of all the hands I see around me. All
dark and big. I imagine that he is here. That he can see me. I walk faster I must
make my way to the sea.
I walk for about 10 minutes. The streets are long.
I am tired but now I can see the sea in front of me. I can
smell the salt water. I begin to run to
my salvation. In the possibility of my death I feel strangely alive. I want to be bothered that I’m that pathetic
girl who was unable to overcome her attack, that I am that weak, pathetic girl,
who could not take it. Who could not live! But I am too excited. Death feels so
near.
Now in front of me I am enchanted by my hope of escape
painted in a vivid blue. The closer I
move I can see the reflection of sun rays as they glisten on the waves. Oh how I
long to be one of those lights as it dances upon the sea! To be one of those
hopes adrift that never has to touch the shore. There is no happiness for me here on land.
There is no air. So I wish to be one
with the water. I wish to add a voice to its lullaby as my voice held no power
here on land. I long to jump beneath the waves, where I can breathe and die,
and smile. I long to be free of his smell, to be cleansed of his sins, to
discard the body I no longer own.
Lost in my thoughts I,
unconsciously move towards the edge of the dock. In the distance I can hear the
incomprehensible chatter of street women in patois. Their voices sound animated,
alive, so unconcerned with me. I am
happy. I know if I jump they will see. But for once I do not care. I know if I
scream they will hear. But I won’t. Not again. I no longer wish to scream, or
cry, or live this half-life.
I know what I want.
Without a second thought I step off the edge. For once I do not see his face. I only hear
the ocean. I smile as I descend under the water.
I close my eyes and I breathe.
By WerepupJeremy
- 07:06
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