It all happened very quietly. Very casually and messily. So quietly I didn’t even notice at first.
It was a hot day last summer at his off campus frat house and we were all stupid drunk. Slowly everyone began to trickle away and we went to bed. I felt uneasy following him to his room, but he was my friend. He had a girlfriend. I was safe. I say it almost jokingly now, because if I don’t talk about it seriously then he can’t have seriously hurt me.
I was sleepy and wanted to cuddle with my friend. He was polite and asked if he could put his arm around me. I said yes and snuggled next to him. He asked if it was okay to touch my side. I said yes, and he sweetly caressed my shoulder. Then it was quiet. His hands started to travel and no questions left his lips as he began to invade my body. It was quiet as he pulled my hand down to touch him, quiet as he scraped his fingers inside me as if to hollow me out. I should have left. I should have left. In that small room on Sunset, I lay, turning my head away and convincing myself that if he didn’t kiss me, nothing had really happened. But if nothing had happened why couldn’t I look at myself in the bathroom mirror? If nothing had happened why did he whisper to me that I couldn’t tell anyone?
It was so casual that it wasn’t until the words left my lips and were heard by someone out loud that I finally realized why I couldn’t stop thinking about it, and shriveled every time I did. I still make excuses. I still can’t say I was assaulted. Part of me still believes it was my fault.
Those moments are clouded with the hatred of so many other figures: the angry man who, every day after school, insisted I get in his car so he could teach me how to drive, the boy who kept roughly shaking me awake just to get what he wanted while we shared a bed at our friend’s house, or the cups, coins, and bottles thrown at my silhouette that I don’t even feel anymore because my body is numb to the mundane violence of existing as a woman.
I shrink every time soft hands hold me, as they brush over the bruises left by hands who have taken rather than touched.
I still see him walking around campus, holding hands with his girlfriend, and I look at her and wonder if she’s ever felt the same emptiness that I do.