Elle’s Story: Unstoppable

Rape isn’t always what you think it should be. Rape isn’t always dramatic, or always violent. When I was raped, I didn’t even really think to call it that at first. I wasn’t consenting. I didn’t want it to happen. I knew that much. But rape? Rape is loud. Rape is bloody. Rape is jarring. Or so I thought.

I was fifteen. It happened at my house. My mom was downstairs. My friend was over, with her boyfriend, who was a few years older than us. My mom didn’t like the idea, but she was trying to give me some of the independence I so desperately craved. He brought alcohol. I drank. A lot. But I had been drinking for a couple years by then. I knew my limits. I knew the line between feeling it and blacking out. But that night, something was different.

I don’t remember it really. One moment I was drinking out of the little pint of Bacardi he brought for me, because I liked the stupid bat logo, and watching some horror movie, giggling with my friend, because I was fucking fifteen, and under the illusion that this was like any other night hanging out with a girlfriend, only there just so happened to be someone with a penis in the room. The bottle was already opened. I was the only one drinking out of it. They had something else.

The next moment, I remember waking up in a fog, and my shirt was gone, and he was overtop of me pulling off my underwear. She was next to me on my bed, completely naked.
I couldn’t clear my vision, and I couldn’t move my arms. I tried to say something, to tell him to stop, and I couldn’t, even as he shoved himself inside me. It didn’t hurt, because I couldn’t fucking feel anything, except the weight of him on top of me, but it felt so wrong. I wanted to move, I wanted to push him off of me; I wanted to hit him, and kick him, and scream. But I couldn’t.

Rape isn’t always loud. Rape isn’t always bloody. Rape isn’t always what you think it should be.

When he was done with me, she climbed over me, and he fucked her from behind, and he had to gag her with his fist so she wouldn’t make any noise. And I laid there, and I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t do anything, except think, “What the fuck just happened?”

When they were done, they got up to leave. By then I could move again, and I put my clothes back on. He asked if he could borrow one of my CDs to burn a copy of. I said sure, why the fuck not? I was still dazed, and I didn’t know what to think, so I didn’t want to call attention to what just happened. I was just so confused. So I walked them out to their car, and told them goodbye. And when I went back inside, and my mom asked how it went I told her it was fine. We just watched some horror movies.

Then I went and stripped my bed. I threw away the sheets because they were wet, and I didn’t know from what, and I didn’t want to know. Then I got in the shower, and I just stood there. I didn’t cry. I wasn’t sad. I was numb. My brain wouldn’t let me comprehend what had just happened. I don’t remember if I slept that night. If I did, I’m sure it wasn’t well. I know I prayed, for the first time in years. I prayed that I didn’t get pregnant. I prayed that my mom didn’t find out, because I didn’t want her to feel like a failure.

The next day I went to school like nothing had happened. Until I heard the rumors that were floating around. My friend had told everyone that I initiated a threesome with her and her boyfriend. Oh, and I was apparently the worst lay ever. It shouldn’t matter, but considering that everyone thought I was a complete slut, I think it’s pertinent to point out that before this I was a virgin.

I was never popular. I was always an outsider, even among the small group of goth kids who called themselves my friends. But that day, I was a pariah. Everyone treated me like I had the plague, and I didn’t know how to defend myself. Because ultimately, I deserved this right? I let this guy into my house, into my bedroom. I drank. A lot. So clearly, I deserved it. This was my fault.

My rapists didn’t break me. With an abusive, alcoholic stepfather, a mother with health issues, and constant bullying since Kindergarten, I was broken a long, long time before they came along. My dignity and self-respect were torn to tiny shreds by then. My body was already adorned with crisscross patterns and words I had dug into my flesh with knives and razor blades. But they gave me something that it took me years to get rid of: guilt.

Ten years later, and I’ve told four people the truth about that night. One didn’t believe me. One didn’t care. One said I’m sorry. The other held me, and cried with me, and told me that I’m the strongest woman in the world.

More importantly, I’ve learned that my worth is not defined by anyone else. I’ve worked so hard to get my self-esteem back. And now, I know I’m unstoppable.

So, if you’re reading this, and you think that this story sounds a little too familiar, that it hits a little too close to home, I hope you’ve learned something. And I hope you enjoyed the CD, assholes.