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The next time I’d opened my eyes, he was on top of me.
Inside me.
Grunting and moving, muttering awful shit to me while intermingled sweat and blood dripped off him, onto me, and I, only half cogent, begged him to stop.
He didn’t.
That was when I went to go be with Tali in my mind.
“You definitely look alotbetter though,” Maite reiterated and I nodded.
“Good. A few more days and some good concealer, then I need to be able to get back out there. There’s still business to tend to.”
“I’m pretty sure between Brandon and Keira, and the others, they’ve got it under control.”
I scoffed. “Keirais not the vice president of this club.”
Maite frowned, reaching out to lace her fingers through mine. “Tati,nobodyexpects you to jump right back into it. It’s okay to not—”
“I don’t need it to beokayto not do shit!” I snapped, snatching my hand from her. “I need it to be okayto.I get it, everybody wants me to know it’s fine to be soft and vulnerable, and whatever the fuck else, butI don’t want to,” I explained, trying to blink back sudden tears. “I don’t want to hide and take a break, I want to… go back in time and not open my damn door. That’s what I want.That’s whatI need.”
She raised her hands. “I didn’t mean any harm.”
“I know.” I shook my head, pulling myself up from the couch. “I’m sorry. I’m… gonna go lay down.”
When I got to my room, I looked at the bed, remembering what had happened after Kev had dragged me up from the floor.
Then I went and got in my shower. It was terrible for my skin, I knew that, but it was like I couldn’t get clean enough, couldn’t get the smell of his cologne off me, couldn’t rid myself of the feeling of him.
Under the sprayer, I let the hot water soak through my braids and pour over me until I couldn’t stand it, and then I grabbed my body sponge to actually wash.
Toscrub.
I tried to settle into it—the steam, the rush of sound, the smell of the eucalyptus bundle I’d had Brandon refresh for me. Tried to relax and let the anxiety of what had happened drift away.
But nothing trumped the reality that my own hands felt strange on my skin.
My thoughts about sexual assault had typically been constrained to the limits of what I could do to protect myself from becoming a victim. Shit I shouldn’t have to think about – a burden I shouldn’t have to bear – but this world was what it was, and that was the unfortunate reality.
I never thought about… the aftermath.
It never occurred to me how, in the wake of being assailed, I wouldn’t feel likemyself.
It…hurt.
I was one of those women gladly obsessed with every inch of herself—my dark skin, full lips, “negro nose”, my soft belly, rolls, cellulite, all the things I was supposed to hate.
I didn’t.
Ilovedit.
I wasn’t afraid of my nudity, didn’t shy away from it in the mirror. I knew exactly where to touch myself—and did, often. So much that it was damn near part of my routine, a hormone rush that helped get my mind right, ready to face the day.
But this time when I moved my hands over my body in the shower... there was a disconnect. The familiarity was gone and my palms felt foreign. I slipped a hand between my legs, looking for the exact right place. I’d read enough articles in the last few days, enough stories from survivors to know that for a lot of women,thiswas triggering.
Their hands felt like their assailants, brought back flashes of their attack.
For me...
