Page 113 of As the Rain Falls
Not with Nathaniel.
Ihaveto leave.I have to leave this house, leave this family, because my brother will poison every little bit of happiness until there’s nothing left.I have to leave to survive, and he won’t let me.
Without saying a word, I grab my phone and type the password. The screen burns my eyes, so I dim it before browsing online. For half an hour, all I do is mindlessly flick through old posts, but I can’t bring myself to text back Kayla. It kills me that I can’t. I’m failing her all over again. She is definitely going to feel hurt by that.
My fingers move on their own, as if compelled, typing words into the search bar. To be fair, it’s not something I haven’t done before, but I never had the courage to click the links I happened to find. Maybe tonight I will.
I type each letter, hoping to find some answers.
Real answers.
What is rape?
What is consent?
How to avoid rape?
I click on the first link, leading to a Wikipedia page, because it must be the most reliable one.
My voice shakes as I read the words aloud.
“Rape is a type of sexual assault involving sexual intercourse, or other forms of sexual penetration, carried out against a person without their consent.”
The words slam into me, and for a second, all I can hear is quiet. The room goes still. My mind stops racing, my breathing slows down, and the palpitation in my chest, which had been racing moments ago, fades into a steady thud.
It feels like certainty.
It feels like unlocking whatever truth I keep avoiding.
It reminds me of waking up feeling so confused because my brother had knocked me out by hitting my head against the wall repeatedly until Mom heard me screaming. The memory brings me a sense of discomfort, and I swallow the lump in my throat and squeeze my eyes shut, trying to fight the urge to cry. My phone buzzes in my hand, and I’m gripping it so tightly that the pink silicone case around it starts to bend beneath my fingers.
He raped me.
I knew it then, didn’t I? It’s why I wanted to call the cops. Because I’ve known it all along; the truth has never evaded me. This mess is what he turned me into, but you can’t run from yourself.There was never a question on whether it happened or not, or an ounce of doubt in my heart. But maybe rape is such an ugly, violent word that I simply didn’t want to be part of it.
My sweaty fingers twitch against the bedsheet as I desperately reach out to touch my legs, my knees, and the spot behind my ears near my neck that I never get to see. I’m trying to recognize myself, but I can’t. This body doesn’t feel like mine; he made it his. So, I touch. I touch the places he touched, remembering exactly how it felt when he dragged me down and pinned me to the bed.
I think about how his lips felt against my skin, warm and sticky, dragging spit all over me. It is like opening a drawer inside of me and watching tiny ants—no, worms.Tiny wormscrawl to the surface, digging into my body, hollowing me from the inside out. Eating my flesh, chewing my nerves, digesting every bit of me.
Three years.
Three years, and I still smell like him.
A new feeling blooms in my chest, inside of me. It’s not fear. It’s not sadness. It’s not even anger. It’s disgust. Pure hatred, the bitter, ugly kind. But not directed towards him, no.I feel hatred for myself. I hate this body of mine. This cage that I was given at birth. This stupid, soft body that was built smaller, weaker, and easier to hurt.
The soft curves he grabbed.
The skin he marked.
I hate it all.
I want it gone.
I want it ruined.
I want it—
Good.
