Soliloquy

It makes me sick how society has romanticized rape. I’ve seen some authors write about a person being assaulted. They use it as a sad backstory for their character, a source of drama within their fictional world. It’s talked about as something, although terrible, it’s normal. It’s joked about and used as a punchline by someone who pleads “it’s just dark humor.”

But when a punchline becomes a headline, it’s a vastly different story.

Fictional characters being raped are met with sympathy. With “I’m so sorry that happened” or “What can I do to help?”

In real life they’re asked if maybe they deserved it. If maybe they’re just being dramatic, or if they were drunk. What were they wearing?

They’re not met with task force police teams tirelessly hunting down their rapist until they’re caught. They’re met with a singular cop asking repeatedly what really happened. Hell-bent on finding any inconsistencies in the victim’s story that will disprove their claim entirely.

“What could he have done that was so bad?”

She was in public school. Sitting in the cafeteria, they were supposed to be eating lunch. She didn’t normally sit with him. In fact, she barely knew of him, they’d only spoken once. But he had approached her, struck up a conversation, which felt like the first one she’d had in months.

When the lunch bell rang, he mentioned how sad he was. None of his friends were there that day, he’d be eating alone. She decided to take a chance, thinking “what could it hurt?” She saw him as potential, and she had no friends anyway, so she felt like the worst. They sat together, the room was uncomfortably warm, he placed his hands on her thighs and grabbed her arms. Slowly, his hands went to places they shouldn’t have. That’s when the food she had just eaten twisted in her stomach, threatening to make her gag.

She grabbed his hands, pushed them away, but he just pushed back. He became more forceful with every second. His grip tore the pocket of her favorite pair of jeans. She had felt they made her look good and it was rare for her to feel comfortable in her own skin. She was angry, but didn’t want to make a big deal. She didn’t want to cause a fuss, he was just trying to cop a feel. They left the cafeteria, disposed of their garbage and sat, side by side under a trophy case that was mounted on the cold brick wall.

She was in the corner and at that moment, he decided that he deserved her. Taking her notion of safety, much like a thief. She asked him to stop but he just grew stronger. His lips touched her skin and she tried to move. Unfortunately, it just wasn’t fast enough. His teeth hit hers, and it sent a shock down her spine. The taste of iron filled her mouth, liquid the color of watered down wine. Though if it was his blood or hers, she really didn’t know. His hands touched her chest, invading her more and more than the last, slowly she felt like she was in a play, but she hated the role in which she’d been cast. Somehow she managed to get him off of her, loud beating in her head blood flowing through her body, feeling heavy as lead. He told her not to tell a soul, that no one would believe. They’d think she’d asked for it. There was no evidence other than the blood. She uttered a simple “fuck you” and stood.

She tried to walk away but his hands grabbed her wrist. His fingers squeezed, leaving white imprints that soon turned scarlet. She eventually got him to let go, but he tried to follow her. She ran into the girls’ bathroom and locked herself in the big stall. One that happened to be relatively soundproof. She retched, her stomach rebelled, and she gasped, but could not breathe. Holding her stomach, she fell to her knees, they clicked as she hit the ground. She sat there in disbelief. But soon, the bell rang. It was time to go back to class. She picked herself up, scrubbed the tears off her face, wiped her glasses clean, and walked out of the bathroom. As she left, the sun coming through the skylight wasn’t as bright. People walked by, but she couldn’t see their faces. Laughs of her fellow students rang like an alarm, almost as if they were laughing at her. She couldn’t begin to describe how unusual everything looked. Nothing was different, Except for her.