I was asking for it. That was the single thought that evaded my mind when it happened. It must have been something I said or wore, or in the way I smiled and walked. That was why he picked me, chose me out of everyone. I’m sure I said no or was i only imagining it? I was screaming, begging, crying for help or was that just a dream too? Even after hours of scrubbing my skin, that minty breath is all I can remember. How I tried to push his hands off my thighs when he came on to me, his hands pinning me down, pulling my panties, the sound of the condom ripping are all memories that seem so distant yet familiar. I stare at the ceiling and all I can see is a dark figure standing over me, squeezing my neck just so my screams are muffled. I try to reach for something, anything but my hand grabs emptiness. There was still a lot of time, he could stop if he wanted. He wasn’t a monster or was he? When he was done, he threw my clothes at me. Called me a little whore for trying to tease him and then acting like I didn’t want it. What I was wearing: a black tee shirt and jeans.
So I started cutting. It was a mistake, the knife slipped. After that it because easier, that way I could focus on the physical pain instead. Long sleeves and hoodies concealed my secret. To anyone who knew me, I was just same old Seno. Always trying out something different. It’s just a phase, she’ll get over it. Till it wasn’t, till the day I cut too deep.
Rape is a decision,a choice. It has nothing to do with victim’s outfit, behavior or occupation. Rapists rape people, not outfits. Speak up, the only one who deserve to be ashamed is the rapist. It’s not your fault. #speak up #save lives. Speak to a professional about who understands the way you’re hurting and can plan a strategy to help with the healing process.