This was sent to me by someone i shall call Elizabeth. This is not her real name, but both she and i know who it refers to. It is a powerful graphic story about something that happened to her as a child of just 14 years old. This story may well upset many and i would just like to warn those who are feeling upset, or vunerable to please wait until you have someone with you to support you, or wait till you are feeling stronger
How much fight can you muster when youve been beaten for months? That afternoon, I got out of my sisters car with three fractured ribs, still taped up, huge bruises, and a shoulder still weak and hurting from being dislocated a few weeks before. And that was just the major stuff. The stuff you could see. Inside, I think I was a worse mess.
I was desperate, fourteen, and refused to believe I deserved any better. I couldnt think about anything. I was just walking around numb. Broken down. Hurting so bad there was no bottom, no place to stop the continuous spiral of depression and physical pain.
So, yes, I walked into it. Of course, I had no idea what I was walking into, but I did choose to be at that place, at that time. And really, it all started so normally. He had promised a few weeks before that hed stop smoking marijuana around me. Finally. Id only been fighting for that one for months. I didnt really have a clue how messed up he was until my sister had already left me there.
It was a good way out on the road that leads out to the lake near town. Nowhere safe to go out there, just a few houses and a Texaco station about half a mile on down. Remember that fact, it becomes important later. Suffice it to say, I waved a bright cheery good-bye to my sister and when I turned around I took one look at him and knew he was so far from sober it wasnt even funny.
It was about 2:30. My sister wasnt coming back until 6:30. And I was stuck in a small house with a very stoned, very violent young man. Not exactly the kind of situation you like to be in. Not one bit. I just kept my head down, talked quietly, and agreed to everything he said for a while. Why? Well, aside from the physical wounds, the last time Id been at that house with him this far out of it, I ended up on my knees in front of him, with a very big gun (who knows what it was? Big.) touching my forehead. The idea was that if I begged well enough, I might live.
Obviously, I gave a good performance. I wouldnt be here now if I hadnt. That and the time he had peeled my clothes off of me with the very sharp three foot blade in the sword/cane set up he had conspicuously sitting by the door.
So Im stuck. Im completely trapped. I know he has guns, actually, there was one sitting on the bookshelf by the door, I know he has a very big knife, and Im mile from anything even remotely considered safety. For hours.
Can we say terrified? Oh yes. Very much so. So when we ended up in his room, I didnt feel like saying much. After all, what could happen? Nothing, right? This is me. This kind of stuff doesnt happen to me, right? Right.
Except that I had to keep tuning it out. The whole situation. I didnt want him to be touching me. I wanted to go home, but more than that I wanted to live to get there. No way was I going to get him mad about something as stupid as not wanting to be kissed. Or wanting to be stripped down. But when he started biting me? That was a different story. No way. That hurt! I was already in pain from all the other wounds, and I just couldnt take anymore.
I suppose I should have said something else. For a long time, I told myself the whole thing happened because I wasnt clear. But then again, I did say to him Stop it! Stop it, youre hurting me! I could tell myself the whole thing happened because he thought I just meant stop biting my collarbone. But the response I got to that stop was the last thing in the world I expected. He sank his teeth hard into my breast. That bruise was still there a month after the whole things happened. I almost cried out. But I knew what that would accomplish. That would just get me hurt worse. So I bit my lip and I remember closing my eyes and just thinking, Oh, God, no I remember staring at the clock. It was 4:00.
What was I supposed to do? Someone that violent is a weapon in themselves, especially when they outweigh you by at least 110 pounds. I was at my anorexic best then- 52, about 95 pounds. He was 61, 215-220 or so. Much, much bigger than me. Even if I had gotten out from under him, I wouldnt have made it out the door. I knew he had guns. And I doubted he was about to let his little girlfriend rat on him for attempted rape or even just for the drugs. If he hadnt beaten me to death for daring to cross him, he would have shot me when I tried to run. I would have ended up naked and dead in a ditch somewhere on the property around his house.
I was pinned down, and right then it was all I could do to even breathe with his bulk on top of me. I almost got out. I almost made it up to sitting. And he shoved me down and made it very clear that I was not to leave. My head was ringing. I couldnt think. I couldnt even say no. No would have made it real. I wouldnt be able to say, I wasnt clear, nothing went wrong, nothing is out of the ordinary. Besides. It wouldnt matter. By that point, I was so beaten down that I couldnt even conceive of the idea that my saying no should even make a difference.
You know those big gold nugget rings? The ones with all the rough edges that stick out well above your finger? He had one. He didnt wear it much, but when he did it usually spelled that he was itching to hit someone. Probably me. But he didnt usually wear it on a finger that it stuck tight right around his knuckles. When he forced my legs open and used that finger to penetrate, I knew just exactly why it was there. It tore through all that nice soft tissue. I bled for two days after the rape. In fact, I actually have a rather interesting amount of nerve damage, too.
All this time, I was busily trying to do what I always did when he hurt me. Or anyone hurt me. I just kind of slipped out of my body and well, hey, anything could happen to the meat. Not to me though. Just to the body. Except I couldnt concentrate. I couldnt make the trick go through. Id almost do it, and then hed do something particularly painful and jerk me back into my body.
I could almost have lived with that. But oh, no, my dear ex boyfriend couldnt leave it at that. No. He just had to finish the job. And it hurt. It hurt terribly. You can just imagine how much that kind of friction hurt on the cuts left by the ring. I just remember trying not to cry. Trying to escape into my head. Watching this splash of color on the inside of my eyelids flare every time he moved on me. I finally stopped seeing that same pattern every time I closed my eyes this last fall. And then I started whispering. I kept saying to him, its all right. Its all right. Not its okay that youre raping me, but its all right to finish the job. Just kill me now. You know thats what its coming to, and so why dont you just crush my windpipe or shoot me in the head and be done with it.
That didnt work, and so a little while later, I found myself begging, please please. I didnt want to live through it. I didnt care if I lived. I wanted to die, rather than live with this.
Im not sure how I managed to stay at least somewhat sane though the whole thing. I couldnt breathe, I couldnt move, I knew if I made a sound or tried to break lose, hed probably kill me. It felt like forever. I know it wasnt that long. I stared at the clock for a few minutes, actually. It was 4:27. For a very long time. What was worse, though, even than the last thirty minutes was what happened after he climaxed. You would expect that hed just roll over and let me be, right? Oh, no. He pinned me down and lay on top of me, still penetrating. I lay there, feeling like I was marinating in pain and filthiness and tried to will myself to death. When that didnt work I just started finding ways to rationalize it. A mistake. He didnt notice. Sure. Right. Nothing wrong. Nothing. And he kept me pinned there, struggling to breathe under than much dead weight for half an hour. Talking to me.
It was so normal, actually. Everything was so rational it made me think I was just over-reacting. Surely you couldnt be that normal when youre lying on top of the person you have just mutilated and raped. He was actually talking about a necklace of his, one that he was having to fix, and how he had been so clever as to encase the break in wax so he wouldnt have to hold it while the glue dried. The conversation seemed less and less real as it went on, as he slowly withdrew just from the physiological response. I just remember being startled, not horrified or anything, just completely taken aback when he looked at me and said, You know, its different.
What is? I had learned to always respond to a question like that. If he thought I wasnt listening, Id be in trouble. Fucking you while youre bleeding like this. It feels different. Its... nice. And I could even have lived with that. You know, its not so bad when you look at it. But what happened next.
He moved. And worst of all, he didnt just manage to hurt the already bleeding bits of me or the hip joint that was slowly starting to dislocate. No, he pulled most of his weight on to the side where my ribs were cracked.
And I cried out. All the air rushed out of my lungs completely involuntarily. And then I felt him coming erect inside me because I had cried out in pain. There. I said it.
You know, I could have quite happily lived without ever knowing there were people in the world who found agonizing pain arousing. It has taken me six years and four attempts at talking about it before I finally made those words come out. I made a strangled whimper of pain as my ribcage creaked and threatened to break, and in response, he was aroused.
He started chuckling. I just went still and silent. He muttered, Now, I havent waited this long for you to spoil it acting like this. He shook me until I looked at him, and smiled at me, Now be a good girl. Make it good for me. And as he was pulling back, I turned my head away, again. I didnt see him reach out for me.
It was like being levitated. He was so much stronger than me, and after all, he didnt care whether he hurt me. He actually picked me up by the top of my arms and hung me there while he slipped his knees underneath me. It didnt hurt as badly the second time, actually. I think I just went numb, my nerves just gave out under the strain. I was so ashamed. So incredibly ashamed. Why? Because in desperation, in misery, I lay my head on his shoulder and wept. He felt my tears and chuckled again, saying, Now thats more like it. I wanted to die, I wanted to melt, I wanted to just dissolve into nothing and disappear completely. And nothing worked. After years of being able to will myself into that odd state of dislocation from my body, when I finally needed it more than ever I could not do it.
At least that time, after the orgasm he pushed me off of him abruptly. He was braced against the headboard and when I fell, I hit the middle of the bed. Without even thinking, I curled into the smallest ball I could possibly get into. And felt dampness on the side of my face, in my eyes, on my hands. I couldnt understand it, it was dark and I couldnt really see. He got off the bed and I relaxed enough to wonder what was going on here. I touched my wet fingertips to the tip of my tongue and tasted blood. That coppery sick taste that I was familiar with from many split lips and bitten tongues. That was when I realized I was lying in a wet stain of my own blood. I thought about throwing up, but oddly enough, it was comforting somehow. Something that was mine, in this horrible unfamiliar, insane afternoon.
He was muttering again, and I finally listened to his words. You little crybaby bitch. You whiny little bitch. Im not going down because of you, I am not going down because you cant keep your little mouth shut. Uh uh, no way thats gonna happen. Youre not taking me down. Ive got to find a way to keep you shut up. Shut up! he ended up yelling at me. Goddamn it, shut up! Im not going down because of you!
He grabbed my shoulder and forced it to the bed so I was lying on my back, looking at him. And for the first time, I panicked completely. He had a hunting knife in his hands, and he was smiling in the weirdest manic way I had ever seen. I knew in a second that this was not my virtue or my body, this one was my life. And I fought hard, I scratched and kicked and convulsed to keep that blade out of me. But he was too much bigger than me. Before all that long, he had my shoulders pinned with his forearm, and he was using that hand to push my head back and bare my throat.
I was terrified and I knew I was going to die if something didnt happen fast. I would have tried anything, but what came out of my mouth shocked me, shamed me, condemned me in my own eyes. I cried out, I dont care, I dont care, I wont tell anyone, do it again, do it again, I dont care!
He froze. I shook. And he laughed a little, replied, Oh, is that how it is. Starting to like it? And the knife went over the edge of the bed. I went limp and he pushed my legs apart. I still wonder sometimes if it would have been better to die before I let him penetrate me that third time. He was slowly building to rhythm, and I was losing what was left of my mind. I was hit so hard by a wave of self-hatred that I thought I was going to kill myself the minute he let me go. Nothing, not even life could be worth this, could it?
You know, I have never wondered where God was when I was being raped. Never. And there is a reason why. I know he couldnt have controlled Kevin, free will and all that. But what happened next well, I wouldnt have lived out the day if it had been maybe ten minutes earlier in the afternoon. I turned away from what was happening, looked at the green display and snapped out the completely disjointed words in my head. his name, time! And it was 6:15. He pulled out of me, rolled over and snapped, Aw, shit, your sisters coming in fifteen minutes. Just shut up and put on your clothes. Its not worth it. Thats how close I came to being raped three times that afternoon.
The amount of time it took me to turn my head and say two words. Thats why I say God was still there. I had no reason to turn my head like that and even less of one to open my eyes. But I also have no doubt that I would not have survived another go round. It would either have shattered my ribs or I would have taken my own life. Someone that big, that violent is a weapon, and I was ready to aim it at my head and pull the trigger. God couldnt control him, but he could suggest loudly that I look at the clock. He could suggest to him that he pause, savoring the moment for the crucial seconds so I could form words.
I grabbed my clothes and ran for the bathroom just outside the door. I never looked in the mirror, I never stopped to assess the damage to my body. I just pulled on clothing as fast as I could, mopped at obvious blood stains with a wet wad of kleenex, brushed and brushed and brushed until the dry stuff came off my hair and it was untangled enough to be presentable. And after I heard the car crunching on the gravel in the driveway, I went out into the hall. He was standing there, leaning against the door to his room, and we looked at each other for a silent second. Then he whispered, Get out of here, you worthless cunt.
I wandered out in a daze when my sister came. I smelled like him. I tasted like him inside my mouth. And I wanted to die. I couldnt get the feel of it off of my skin. I took burning hot showers with lava soap until my skin bled. But I couldnt get it off.
There are still times when I get that sense memory so strongly that I think Im going to die or go completely crazy. I have tried time and time again to literally peel off my skin. I have tried to kill myself a dozen times in six years.
For six months, I refused to admit what had happened. After all, I was fourteen. I couldnt handle even thinking that rape had happened to me. For two years, I couldnt touch anyone but my family and best friends. For three years, I couldnt even conceive of touching anyone in a sexual manner. Finally, just before I graduated from high school, I found someone I trusted enough to try this whole sex thing again. I was so completely shocked and delighted and surprised. It didnt hurt. It actually didnt hurt!
But I had to re learn everything. I had to learn everything, really. How to share. How to touch and give back. And still, six years later and after marrying the most gentle, wonderful, most understanding man I have ever met, there are still times I flinch. Still times when I sleep on the couch because I cannot bear to be touched. At least I dont cower and get sick anymore. Slight progress, but all the same, some.
After all, the rape was not the only time he hurt me with sex just the only time I knew I was going to be hurt before things started, the only time I had enough warning to say no. So, no guns, no drugs, nothing people expect from rape stories. Just fear. Just paralyzing fear and brute physical strength. Just six years of time, thousands of nightmares, flashbacks and millions of tears. But Im still here.
By Elizabeth 30th January 1999
Last updated 3rd February 1999