Anonymous Story: He Was The Kind of Guy You Bring Home to Meet Your Parents

I remember why we hit it off. He was wearing a Redskins hat. My mom loves the redskins. Somewhere in my subconscious I must have made him the kind of guy I might some day bring home to meet my mother, and he was. Tall, eyes like chamomile- pale green and soothing, he spoke to me like I was the only girl in the room. We talked about football for a bit, then sports in general, then other things. With my red solo cup half empty I wondered if I was in love or if it was the cheap vodka flushing my foolish cheeks. I hoped he would blame it on the vodka. The music came to a crescendo and the room grew more crowded, but still to him (and him to me) it was just the two of us there. He kept his lips inches from my ear so I wouldn’t miss a word he said and when I stood on my toes to reply he gently steadied me with a hand on my back. I hardly noticed and almost didn’t mind as it slid lower, toward foreign territory (for me at least).

My cup was empty and, ever the gentleman, he offered me a refill. Chivalry mustn’t be dead, as I thought, and he was eager to prove this to me. Upon his return he gifted me with a full drink and a sudden kiss- so unexpected, in fact, that I lost my balance as well as some of the drink. That’s when I saw it first, a flash of something so brief I could have missed it, but I didn’t. Anger maybe? Frustration? I’d soon find out.

I apologized for being unsteady and he accepted. He asked me “do I make you nervous?”, and I felt the color rise to my cheeks once again. My blush was met with a grin- not a smile, but a sort of lip corner turned up at the thought of his effect on me. He slid his arm around my waist again, placed his other hand over mine, guiding my fresh drink to my lips, and held it there. Firm. I sipped, and then gulped, trying my hardest not to seem as green as I was. He kept his hand and when the cup was almost empty and I was out of breath I pulled back, letting the last few sips pour out on my dress and the floor. I saw it again on his face, that flash of emotion. If it were a color it would have been a deep, sanguine red. His hand closed tight around mine and the plastic cup bowed and then cracked. I looked up at him, confused, and sorry that I hadn’t been able to play the game by his rules. Within seconds though that spitting red wave was gone. Gently, he took the cup from my hand. “Looks like you need another drink,” he said, and guided me towards the kitchen.

I wondered where my friends were, I didn’t see anyone that I knew. If I had known anyone I would have let them know that I was beginning to feel dizzy. He steadied me with his arm but my feet were heavy, and my brain wet and slow. In the kitchen his friends crowded around an island scattered with empty bottles and cans- trophies of frat boys who’s only task was to drink hard and look good. He guided me to a wall where I could lean while he fixed me another drink, despite my request for “just a water, I think I should slow down.” Another drink, he said, another drink and you’ll be fine. “You just haven’t had enough yet.”

I could barely stand upright. Flashes of moments I could open my eyes swirl muddy and dark. I’m being carried. I’m being held up. I’m asking for my friends, for water, and then for rest. I’m being laid down on to a bed. I’m being spoken to. His voice is still so gentle, I must be in good hands. Hands. Hands on my face, then lips. I’m so tired. My eyes won’t stay open, and my arms are useless. Lips on my lips, hands on my arms, as I try to raise them. The lips move and everything left in me knows now what’s happening. The protest begins, verbal. No, stop, wait. Stop. Please. No. My cement legs kicking from underneath his body give him no pause. Lips and hands, and then the strap of my dress is snapped. Lips and hands on white flesh that has barely been seen by the light of day let alone a mans eyes. The care is gone now. Blood red waves are crashing from his body over mine. A light comes from the door though, and for a moment the tide stops. It’s over, I didn’t drown. But all too soon the current sweeps me away again. There are two more, I can hear the three of them, and then I can feel them. I can feel them in the bruises that formed on my wrists. I can feel them in the sharp jerks of my dress over my head and off my body. I can feel them in my hair and on my stomach and my ears are full of their pride and excitement. The ultimate trophy.

Everything is wet. Sweat and my tears and I’m drowning again. There is always a hand over my mouth. I’m lifted to sit, my back resting against a sticky chiseled chest. Then my mouth is full of him, of his fire and rage. A sharp grasp on a handful of my hair guides my unwilling head down, firm, like the game we played earlier, and it doesn’t take long before I choke, unable to gasp for air. My head is tugged back and a stinging slap is my punishment this time, for losing the game. Head dragged back down, I’m flat out again, a hand back over my mouth. I hear an animal noise groan, and then a string of warm, sticky release down my cheek- someone couldn’t wait. Laughter, chiding, and I take one last chance at setting myself free. I rise up, trying trying, the hands on my wrists grow tighter though, and then he is on top of me. And then I’ve been ruined. Something I dreamed in my head to be perfect, and pure, every moment filled with joy and love, is being slammed deep inside of me where it’ll stay, for the rest of my life. Over and over, the waves wreck my body, there is too much pain to cry. Sickness radiates, up from the pain, in to my stomach, and then my throat, and I turn my head to let it out, all over the bed.

Loud voices. Shouts. Fists and open palms make contact where they can on my face and unclothed body. But still he doesn’t stop. Now they’re not sure but he still is, and still doesn’t stop. “You fuckers can’t pussy out now, it’s too late to go back. We’re in this together. We’re in her together” Belly laughter and high fives, and reassurance. They’ve won the ultimate prize after all. Then sheets and shirts, and then the mess I made is gone. Wiped away and discarded on the floor, the same way I’ll wind up later.

He had slowed, but his rage was full again, and I felt it. It sparked up from somewhere inside of him. The place where the crimson fire blazed, dark and angry and explosive. It propelled him in to a frenzy and then he lit me on fire. Flames shot out and burned me from the inside, and then he withdrew and let the embers dance down to the mattress, leaving me singed and raw.

I was but a pile of ashes when he finally left the room. Light sept through a single window, and with the calm deliberation of a girl in school I found someone else’s clothes, put them on, and climbed out that window. I ran then, and I’m still running now. I could never find the courage to ask for help or to turn him in. Time helped heal, and so did the one person I was brave enough to tell, but some days I can still feel those flames licking, burning me from the inside. I’m not the same. I have his fire in me now, and I don’t know if it will ever burn out.