Cut My Hair

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: True Confessions  |  House: Booksie Classic
CONTENT WARNING: r*pe mention
This is a diary entry from one of my characters about her experience as a sexual assault survivor. It takes place in a fantasy setting, because I find it a lot easier to write about with some element of reality removal. I often use my writing as a coping mechanism, and this is a piece that's very personal to me, but I wanted to share it in the hopes that it would strike a chord with someone.

Submitted: October 22, 2018

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Submitted: October 22, 2018

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I’ve decided that in light of recent events, keeping a journal will aid in my healing process. Whatever it was that happened to me, however the world wants to classify it, I took it pretty hard.

I don’t know if I was necessarily raped.

Usually when you hear the word “rape”, you think of something more violent than what happened to me. You think of screaming protest, of fighting to get away. You think of hating the person who did it to you.

But I didn’t make a sound. And I don’t hate her for what she did. I hate myself for not hating her.

I never even said no. I didn’t even try.

Was I held down? Yes. But if I tried, I bet I could have taken her. I have a fair bit of magic up my sleeve, and at the time I’d never really experienced combat, but why...why didn’t I try? At the very least, why didn’t I open my mouth and try to be firm about it? All I gave her as my protest was a desperate excuse, that I’d never done this before, that I was uncomfortable. I bet if I’d been firmer about it, she would have let me leave...

I was a virgin when it happened.

No one had ever touched me before. I suppose that’s why I felt it...a kind of attachment to her. At the time, I’d been so touch-starved. I’d been living in complete isolation for about five months. Had scarcely seen another soul. When I wandered into her cave, I was startled to find another intelligent being there, and at first I was delighted. Though being alone doesn’t bother me too much, having a bit of human contact would have been nice. But she wasn’t human, not in physical form, and certainly not in her actions. She was a Cecaelia, and maybe she was lonely too.

A very different kind of lonely than I was…

She said she had something for me. Something to help with my research. A magic item, a necklace. And...it did help. But it wasn’t worth the price. Not by a long shot. At first, I didn’t understand what she was asking of me. I was naive enough to think she just wanted some company, like I did. Really stupid of me. Pathetic.

As I exist in this world, I’m learning that everyone’s prices are higher than I can pay.

At first it was just talking, which I didn’t mind, but she started to get closer...and closer...and then her hands were on me. And I was uncomfortable. And then her tentacles were on me. And I was even more uncomfortable. And then I was well and truly entangled. Maybe some part of my brain knew what was going to happen to me. But the majority of it was in denial. I refused to believe that it would go...all the way...and maybe that’s why I never said anything. But it did…

I cried after. Mostly because I was confused and I felt...uneasy. I cried because I wasn’t ready. I cried because I hadn’t wanted it to happen that way. I felt violated, and yet my body had felt good. It felt like a betrayal.

Before it happened, I had been one of those girls who had a plan for losing her virginity. I had been one of those girls who dreamed of rose petals and candles and most importantly, someone I loved to share myself with. Of course, there’s nothing wrong with finding the concept stupid and not caring who your first time is with as long as it’s fun and consensual. The concept of “virginity” is rooted in misogyny. But I’d always been a cautious person. Trying anything new was nerve-wracking. And my sex drive has never been particularly high. So I knew that when I decided to do it, I wanted it to be...special. I wanted to trust the other person, because, well, my genitals are something I feel really vulnerable about. I knew I might need a cuddle and some reassurance afterward. And that...that didn’t happen with this girl.

Not at all.

She was mean in the dirty-talk way you are when you’re into that kind of thing. She was rough with me. She played with my body until my brain couldn’t take it anymore and left me completely. What made me Wiona abandoned me to this thing that was happening and my body became her toy. I was made malleable, complacent. I did what she asked of me while my mind pretended it was somewhere else entirely. It left me...I left me....defenseless…

And there were certainly no cuddles afterward. It was very “I got what I wanted from you, now get out of my house.” And I did. And I cried because of all of the above reasons and because my body hurt. There were bruises on my neck from where she marked me and they ached. My scalp stung from the hair-pulling, the nail marks still hurt. There was a soreness between my legs and a dull pain somewhere in my abdomen. I remember thinking to myself, in a daze, that it was probably my cervix that had taken a beating.

I don’t think she knows what she did to me. Not the extent. I don’t think she knows that I can’t let my girlfriend give me a hickey unless I want to deal with the two hour panic attack that comes with it. I don’t think she knows that when I Iook at the girl I love, sometimes I still see her face. I doubt she knows that when I began to have careless sex after the fact, I felt such shame that I carved “slut” into my leg and hit myself until I bruised. I’m certain she doesn’t know that her nonconsensual act seems to have shaped my tastes, and I’m certain she doesn’t know how disgusted I am with myself about that fact. I don’t think she can ever know the damage she’s done, or ever understand it unless, gods forbid, somebody does it to her. I think she thought I was an easy fuck, and maybe even that she was doing me a favor.

And that’s the scary part.

She didn’t seem like a bad person. Maybe she isn’t one, maybe she is. But she didn’t seem like one. Maybe anyone is capable of this. Maybe I’d be better off going back to the way I was, a hermit, alone, but this time a lot more distrustful. I’d certainly never get hurt that way.

But then I think about what happened after she...after she raped me.

Because in writing this, I’ve decided that is what she did.

I decided I never wanted to be that defenseless again. I decided I wanted to be surrounded by good people. So I got an adventuring job, and on the very first day, I met somebody who makes me want to never be alone again. Morgane Guillory has never pressured me, never made me feel uncomfortable, and has been nothing but sweet and understanding. Morgane is slowly convincing me of the world’s good again, something I’d lost faith in for a bit.

I love her. I never thought it would happen for me.

I could write a million pages about her, but I started writing mostly to tell that story. What happened to me. Why I cut my hair.

I used to have hair down to my hips. It’s brown with a soft wave, it shone in the sun and flew out behind me when I ran. I would braid ribbons into it, or wear them behind my ears.

My hair was important to me. I used to hide behind it. It was childish. It reminded me of being a little girl.

And it was used against me.

It was pulled to soreness, used to move me in ways I didn’t want to move.

Now when I look at it, I no longer see my childhood. I see her hands. I see my weakness.

So I cut it all off. I decided to shed the past and usher in the new. My short hair is a symbol of my strength and I am just as beautiful with it. My short hair represents cutting off the hurt, and as it grows it will represent the healing of my heart. I cut it right after I met Morgane and we started being together. She gave me hope. I stood in the bathroom and looked myself in the eyes and I did it. And again, I cried. For the little girl I lost, and for the hope that she and I would someday grow back together. It feels strange, having nothing to hide behind anymore, but that’s exactly what I wanted. No more hiding. I am going to make myself strong, and I’ll be better for it. And I’ll still be myself.

It tickles my chin even now as I write, and it makes me smile. I have hope for the future, and I hope it’ll be with her.

Speaking of her, I must be off. We’re going to make dinner together. It should be good, though I can’t say I fully condone her taste in food, nor she mine. But, tonight’s dinner will be vegetarian, for me. She loves me that much.

Write soon xx


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