Page 279 of As the Rain Falls
So.
Fucking.
Stupid.
André‘s face disappears, the ceiling above me turns white, and Nathaniel’s body slides into mine again and again.
Stop.
Stop.
Stop.
But it never does, does it?
Here’s the thing that people alwaystry to avoid saying about rape: the vulnerability of others makes you vulnerable too. No one wants to face how we’re all one second away from finding out just how physical rape is, just how long it can last.
I can predict the reactions, and I don’t even have to think that hard to guess any of what’s coming for me.
Ahead of me, I can picture a future filled with pitying glances, an uncomfortable shift in the air around me, followed by low voices. I feel it against my skin; the way they will distance themselves from me subconsciously, because my vulnerability is theirs too, before it even happens.
Something bad happens to you, and you become a perfect reminder.
See?
This is what happens to young girls when they’re not careful enough.
I’m just another name written under a thousand other names, a random line between two others, until the list becomes so extensive that the letters start to disappear.
I’m a number.
Statistics.
I’m the one that falls under the probability of it happening not only once, but also twice. I read it somewhere how it may happen to me again. And if I start to look close enough, if I dare myself to dig deep enough, it didn’tallstart thatonenight, right?
My breath catches, flashes coming at me, one after the other.
“Cassandra,” Nathaniel groans, and suddenly I’m smaller, younger, wearing my favorite Hello Kitty t-strap shoes that are starting to feel too small on me.
He’s carrying me in his arms, and I’m letting him take me behind one of the tall bushes that used to grow at the park near our house, the one Beckett told me Lucia liked to go play at once. I’m begging him for more candy, because Mom never lets me indulge, and he’s asking me if I’d like to pull his pants down—
But wait,no.
I’m actuallyeight.
And we’re alone this time.
It’s Sunday morning, the very first time Mom ever allowed me to stay at home instead of going to church. The house is quiet, and we’re watching X-Men Evolution on television when his hands slowly drift between my thighs.
His touch feels so good, then.
It doesn’t hurt.
No…
I’meleven,waking up scared from a nap.
My steps are wobbly, uncertain, taking me to his bedroom. I’m climbing on top of his bed, looking for comfort. Nathaniel teaches me how to kiss then, in the dark, like it’s a secret. And it doesn’t feelwrongbecause it simply doesn’thurt.
