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The next morning, his friend called me a slut and said “don’t worry, I won’t tell his girlfriend.” His girlfriend found out, and soon everyone had heard what a slut I was. I’ve known my rapist since childhood. He was one of the cool kids at my school, a popular jock who was older than me. I want to run away, but I’m ashamed and I don’t want anyone to see me. I cry myself to sleep. He finishes on the child’s bed, next to me. There’s a crack in the door and I can see wood paneling in the hallway.
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“Please.” “Shhh.” “I’m going to be sick.” “Shhh.” He’s getting angry. “I don’t want to.” I try to pull my underwear up, they’re around my knees. I try to push him away but my arms are weak. Who is on top of me? “What are you doing?” He grunts. I found an empty bed, it was a child’s bedroom, I was going to lie down for just a few minutes. I realized my ride had left without me, I was feeling sick and disoriented and needed to sleep until I could walk home. I was thrilled to be at the party, drinking cans of Coors and tossing them in the back yard of the kid whose parents were out of town. I wanted desperately to be part of the cool, older crowd who drank and smoked cigarettes. My parents were known for being strict, so I didn’t get invited out very often. Before that night, I had only been to a couple of parties, most of my wild stories were embellishments. I was being a typical teenager: acting out, rebelling – trying to distance myself from a goody-two-shoes image. My last clear memory was stumbling away from the crowd, looking for a place to sleep. I don’t think about it very often anymore, but every few years I revisit the spiral of shame, and guilt. I’m still not sure if it was my fault, even though I know it wasn’t.
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The night exists for me in a series of flash-bulb images that I can neither piece together nor erase from my memory, despite years of trying. The first time I was raped I was 16 years old.