I WAS RAPED!

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
Please note adult content. Description of violent acts.

Submitted: January 11, 2012

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Submitted: January 11, 2012

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Its an unusually warm night for this time of year. The smell of harvest is in the air. One last night for partying before returning to school. Changing universities means I have to get serious about my studies and stop goofing off. Take advantage of my freedom now because Monday morning it changes. It’s too hot in the bar. Did their air conditioning quit working or are they trying to get rid of us? Maybe we should grab a couple cases and head to the pit.

The trucks and cars are lined up so that their lights shine on the still water, but the moon would have been enough light to see by. The hum of a combine in the distance is quickly drowned out by the slamming bass of the car stereos. Soon we coordinate to CJVR. Country music is better to party to anyway. It’s what we were raised on. Slipping off our shoes, we run to the water to cool off a little. Eventually someone will skinny dip in that spring tonight, but it won’t be me.

Laughter booms. Someone gets pushed in. She pretends to be mad, but she likes the way she looks in wet clothes, splashing her hair on all the boys. Boys. They should be men by now, but they are years behind us still. Tailgates go down. Lawn chairs come out. I can smell someone lighting a joint, but we all pretend we don’t smell it. Settled in on the hood of a truck, reclined, staring at the stars. This will be one to put in the party books, she says. The beer is flowing.

Intoxicated by the drink and the moment. “Where did you come from? Shouldn’t you be hauling for your dad?” “Combine broke down. Waiting for field service to arrive. Should have a couple hours to hang out. Haven’t had a sober harvest since I was 10.” Why is he paying so much attention to me? I don’t know him very well. Damn he is cute when he is dirty with grain dust and grease. They must have tried to fix it themselves. That curly blond hair has always been his trademark, flipping out from under his green John Deere hat.

“No, I don’t want a shot. I don’t really like whiskey.” “Just one,” he says. I pretend to drink more out of the bottle than I really do. Burning on my lips. Sweet and strong. He asks if I have ever gone up the cemetery at night. I answer that I would be too scared. He takes my hand and starts dragging me off the truck. I giggle at his touch. “Come on…I will protect you from the ghosts and goblins.”

I am flattered that he wants to be with me. His hand keeps holding mine as we scale the steep side of the pit to the dimly lit graveyard.

We reach the top and he pops the beer in his hand and offers me the first drink. Its hot out. Why not? I hand it back to him and our eyes meet for a second before I look away. I know I am blushing, but I hope it is dark enough to cover.

As we pass the hedge surrounding the graves he hands me back the beer and tells me that he has to pee. I giggle at the sound of that. Most guys say piss and I don’t like that word. Maybe he is just being polite for me. “Have that beer gone by the time I get back. You look thirsty.” I oblige.

He returns and takes my hand again. We walk further and I realize its windy up here. So calm below, except for the wild party. I shiver from the wind or the place, and he puts his arm around my shoulder. “Aww…you are cold. Let me warm you up.” His lips are on mine now. So sudden. No time to pull away. His hands firmly on my back pulling me closer, tighter. I try to back away, but he is stronger than me. His arms seem so big for such a skinny guy. I tell him to stop, but he laughs. “Come on. You know you want it.” “No, I want to go back to my friends.” His hand is on my breast, squeezing too tight, searching for my nipple. I try to push it away, but he has me under the pressure of his farm boy strength. I imagine him flinging bales into the bed of the truck. But my mind in quickly back to the present. I hear a zipper. Its mine. In a flash his hand is down my pants and inside my panties and I can feel his fingers on my pubic hair. I tell him to stop, but all he does is moan. A sick guttural sound that makes my skin goosebump. I am struggling against him. Did I fall, or was I pushed? The smell of earth enters my noise and briefly covers the smell of the chew and booze on his breath. I turn my head away from him and see the marker. I can’t make out the name in this lighting. 1910 is all I can read. His hands, rough and greasy, touching my now naked breasts. I don’t know how he got my shirt off. My bra is pulled up and it hurts my chest. I hear another zip. He puts my hand on his penis and asks if I like it. I don’t like anything about it. I don’t want to touch it but he forces me to. I can’t speak. The fear is intense. I don’t want this, I keep thinking it. Am I speaking it? Is he hearing me? He says I am gonna like it whether I like it or not. That makes no sense to me. I want to scratch him but I am pinned somehow. Something is dying. I can smell death. His finger is inside me now. He tells me its tight. You must not have done this much. I have never done this, I scream. He kisses me more. Bits of tobacco come off his tongue and into my mouth. It reminds me of the smell of my grandfather and I feel horrible. My head is spinning. I know I drank too much. My mom always told me not to drink too much. She would be so ashamed of me now. And never go with boys alone. Why didn’t I listen?

I don’t know what is happening. Just intense pain between my legs. I think I hear a tearing sound, but it can’t be. This is not the way it is supposed to be. The giggling in the distance pisses me off. Do they know what is happening to me? How can they be laughing? Are they watching? No, its from far away. Nobody knows. If I scream they won’t hear me. The music is too loud. Its George Strait. The pain has eased to a burning sensation. He says its so good, and moans again. His breathing speeds up. He thrusts into me with such force my head is grinding into the grass below me. A grunt and then he stops. I can feel the slimy stuff drip off him as he pulls it out of me. Telling me how good I am . How he has never had it with a virgin before.

He stands up and zips his jeans, taking the tin of Copenhagen out of his back pocket. He fills his lip with it. Tells me to get dressed. I do. My panties are gone. I don’t need them. Leave them there as a morbid message. I don’t care who finds them. “Hurry up, I need another beer,” he says. I straighten my clothes and pull grass out of my hair. I turn to read the marker again and can only see the name Katherine, no last name. Why does it matter?

The walk down the hill is quicker and he doesn’t hold my hand this time. He is ahead of me, not looking back to see if I am following. We reach the bottom and he heads to his friends, asking for a beer. He downs it in one gulp, still not looking at me.

I put on a small smile for my friends. They want to know what we were doing and I say “I don’t kiss and tell.” They laugh. I can’t tell them. I don’t want to admit it to myself, let alone anyone else.

I want to run away, but I can’t. Then they will know. I fake a yawn. I pretend to be drunk, though I was forced sober on the hill. I have been here long enough to not look suspicious. I say goodnight and drive away, the pain still there, mixed with what I know will be blood and semen. He never looked at me again.

?


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