White Shorts

CW: Rape, Sexual assault of a minor.

I wrote this piece on 8.13.15 following a panic attack focused around this rape, my first rape, at the age of 14, 7 years prior. Please do not read further if this will be triggering for you.

It was a Sunday night, very black skies, dotted by little sparks. I don’t remember the presence of the moon yet I remember being able to see despite the black.

I can see the brick, the house that we in our adolescence named our own. It’s in a field of nothing. Weeds that go on for what seemed like miles. There are graves to my right, highway up ahead, a stable to my left, and more sloping weed fields behind me. The little brick shack stands alone, away from the road hidden by it’s solidarity. The roof is pointed. The roof is wooden. The body brick, all brick. Thick soundproof brick.

The door which I can barely manage to conjure up is black, heavy, iron. Step inside to the dark room which it opens up to. A bed to your right, a bed to your left. The room is large, about ten feet by eighteen. I remember a bookshelf straight ahead, I remember a single bookshelf by the foot of each bed, lengthwise against the walls. Heads of the bed in parallel corners in the far away corners. There were books, lots. I remember hassidic books, kabbalah. I remember breslov books. I don’t know if the shelf at the head of the room was real or in my mind's eye.

I remember couches. I remember one on the left of the room when walking in.

There were couches outside. I hate them. They stole me. They killed me. They robbed me of everything I had. There’s a fire pit in front of the shack, the devils dwellings. His throne just outside. He sits in waiting. A futon, covered in goosebumps, dripping in horror, evil, malice. A blanket too ? Other couches ? There is a tree somewhere. The shack has a small skeleton of an extension to it’s left. The roof was never installed so that area was never really paid attention to, but that evil, that throne.

It was where the devil rested his head at night. Where he plucked at the strings of his ‘pied piper’ guitar. Where he would cackle and sneer as I shrunk in terror. A victim of my own naivety. Tortured by blindness.

He took me, wrapped me in those arms, chaperoning me to his throne. He lay me down, my eyes towards the dead firepit. My head towards the shack, covered in a seedy blanket.

I wore white shorts. The drawstring ones. I wore a top which I can’t recall. Likely the short sleeved black one with a silver print of mickey mouse on it, the only short sleeved shirt I owned at the time.

He lay behind me, on the left side of our bodies. Kissing, petting, seducing, drawing out that innocence, slashing at its sheer existence. Eating away at its sweet 14 years.

Those white shorts are gone and I don’t remember when they were pulled down.

I can feel his fingers, caressing my tiny clean body. I can feel his labored breath on my neck. I feel him.

His hard cock pressed against my back.

I remember that moment of terror, the fear, the rod of doom pushing into me. My thoughts are shrieking.

The rod hardens. My brain is screaming out and his cock pulsates with blood. He is full of blood, full of unchecked lust.

I’m torn. I feel it. I hear it.

Currents of electric horror, shooting through me.

Paralyzing me.

He shoved the rod of death inside me. A gaping hole, once my own is no longer.

I’m filled with pain. I’m filled with blood, I’m gushing that warm red liquid.

And he holds me, hugging me tight.

Wrapped in the devil's arms. I can’t move, I don’t understand.

I whimper, scream. And he soothes me. “It’s just my dick inside you” he says “it’s just sex”

No protection. No desire. No consent.

His cock in me. My vagina no longer my own.

I squeal in pain. Paralyzed by him.

I can’t see his face, I can’t see his body. I can’t see his cock.

I can only feel. I can only feel the weight of his right arm. The tearing of my vagina, the warm rush of blood.

I didn’t discover the pool of innocence, bled out, until the sunrise came.

Those shorts will never be white again.

The tear will never heal.

And no one, not even I, would ever know of the innocence lost that night.

Not until many years later. Not until many more, unaccounted for rods of death claimed my vagina as their own.

Those shorts will never be white again.