Whose Fault is it Anyway?
The floor is cold in here. A bit too cold. But this room is safe. Nobody will see me here: I won’t have to see the judgement in their eyes, or hear the comments that they make.
“What a slut.”
“Oh my God, did you hear what she did to Johnny?”
“Why is she still here and he’s not?”
“Just because you regret it, doesn’t mean it’s rape.”
But I didn’t call it rape. I didn’t even know it was. I thought it was just regret. I thought it was my fault.
He took me to his room. I went because he was so sweet and I liked him. He started kissing me, but I pushed him away. He sulked, so I let him continue. He put his hand on my breast. I balked. He called me a coward. I gave in. He tried to undress me. I said no again. He told me I was being a prude. He said that he paid for dinner. I was scared. I didn’t want it. But what else was I going to do? I let him do what he wanted. Then I went home alone and cried.
I knew that I was hurt, but I didn’t know why. I thought that was normal. I thought that it was okay.
But then I met her. For some reason I told her. She made me realize that it wasn’t my fault. She told me that I had been raped.
She convinced me to tell my parents. When I did, they freaked out. They called the police. I never wanted to report him, but they didn’t give me a choice.
And now everybody blames me. I suppose it’s better: at least I don’t blame me. But still…
So now I sit alone on this cold floor so that nobody can see me. So that I can’t hear what they say.