Anonymity has
made me brave. Although I have confessed this to people, only
those i have become close to, I have never set it down in words, terrified that it may be found by those who don't know, who I haven't let in - my parents included. I know no-one here, and none of you know me, yet am shaking as I type.
I have been raped twice in my life, once at eleven, and once at fifteen. Dammit, at those ages I shouldn't be forced to even think about sex. That perogative, that freedom, was taken away.
It was in a caravan, the loss of my virginity. On the floor of a filthy, couldn't-even-sell-it-for-scrap, dark dingy little home-from-home on wheels that we went with friends and family for holidays, when I was younger and we had no money. He was the son of some very close friends of my parents. We did everything together - he taught me to play football, how to get the best conkers from the tall, tall trees, and remove from them from their spiky beds without impaling myself, as i invariably did, rolled down hills in the summer, bonded first by giggling and then in silent, all consuming terror about what our parents would do to us when they found the grass stains smearing our clothes. They sent us to bed early, while the clothes were cleaned, with the maximum of inconvenience and shouting on both sides.
Was lying there, next to the boy who was my best friend
"Look under the covers"
I found him caressing his erect penis. Leapt from the bed in the horror, landed awkwardly, twisted my ankle, the pain erasing all other concerns from my mind. Felt a hand slide down my leg, looked, it was him, the boy who was my best friend.
To this day, I don't recall all the details. My eleven year old brain, unable to comprehend, clearly thought it would be best to be elsewhere for the three or four minutes it took.
I remember feeling so ashamed of myself, so dirty. I wouldn't go near my father for the rest of the holiday, thinking that, by some form of esp, osmosis, second sight, whatever, that he would sense, feel, know, whatever.
It should never happen to anyone
Then my parents had a row with his parents, and we didn't speak for four years. One day, my parents announced that the hatchet was to be ceremoniously buried by going to a bi-family dinner at their house. The moment I clapped eyes on him, the memories, buried for all that time, marched back and took full control.
Upon the return to the safety of my own home, I threw myself with glorious abandon into the welcoming arms of illegal substances. Despite their ability to massacre many brain cells, the memeories stayed as clear as ever.
Went out on night, blacked out, woke up in a strange man's bed, felt pain, looked down, was bleeding. Grabbed clothes, ran out, ducked under turnstiles at the tube station, ran onto the train home with the full force of the London Underground staff in hot pursuit, took seat, straightened clothes, did hair in my hazy reflection in the window, realsied reflection was blurry because of the tears, cried all the way home.
Felt like a whore. I had consented to that? Scrubbing his identity off me in the bath, I noticed the bruises. Covering arms, legs, inner thighs, wrists, ankles, stomach. Ahhh, that's where the pain came from...his calling card
He hadn't marked my face. Had he done it before, was he a professional rapist? Or was he just uninterested in my face, after all, my body could be anybody's but my face belongs to me.
Would he have felt bad if he'd looked at my face?
Am now approaching my twenty-first birthday. The first significant event in my life that will have no horror attatched to it - I hope.
My confessions are done, and i am ashamed that I think of them in this way.