Describe rape in detail in 1st person
Ray
Assignment 4: First person version
I became a displaced personality, and this is how it started.
On a very ordinary afternoon, when I was 5, having never had the most dependable of bladders, I went to the bathroom at St. Gregory Elementary School. Some much older boy (we'll call him Dexter) came in while I was relieving myself and said something to me; I no longer remember what it was. Dexter too stood at a urinal and did his duty.
Everything was very hazy. The boys' bathroom was below ground level and often in the daytime the only light came from the frosted, grimy window near the ceiling. To one side of the window, a poster depicting a smarmy angel declared in loud capitals, "CLEANLINESS IS NEXT TO GODLINESS." Dexter's arms came around me first, from behind, and I remember only bits and pieces of what came next. I was in at least three positions: Standing, lying face down (I remember distinctly the pattern on the linoleum floor: Small white hexagons connected together), and ultimately lying face up but leaning against a wall. That last position I was in only after everything else was over. I remember "waking up" in that position, even though I wasn't literally asleep. But it felt like waking up, except that I was crying, too.
Dexter talked quite a bit but I can't remember a single specific thing he said; I just heard him talking from somewhere, sometimes up against my ear, and sometimes distantly, as though from someone watching television on the other side of the room.
His arms came around me first, from the rear, then he sort of marched me over to the sink. I said, "What are you doing?" or something like that. After that, the only thing I remember saying was, "Please stop. . . . Please stop. Please . . . stop," several times, quickly, then less often, less quickly, then not at all.
Dex squirted some soap, the pink kind, out of a translucent plastic dispenser on the wall. He reached his hand down behind me to my ass. I don't remember the sound of a zipper, either his or mine. Probably he had never zipped his own shut since emptying his bladder and so didn't need to zip it open again. He pushed me down towards the sink. My pants were already open. Maybe he had unzipped them while we were edging our way to the sink and I hadn't noticed, or maybe I hadn't had a chance to zip them closed yet. He pushed the soap up my rectum. I had no idea at the time what was about to happen, but I felt sure it couldn't be anything good.
He lifted me off the floor. He moved me, still from behind, over against the only one of the three bathroom stalls that had a brick wall like the walls of the bathroom, made of large, smooth, light-yellow bricks. It felt cold against my cheek, and once things really got started, the cold of the brick was the only thing that felt good.
From this point on everything was very disjointed. I didn't even know what sex was, let alone rape, and so I didn't realize what was happening at the time. He was right up against me, all along my body. I said a couple of times more, "Stop, please stop," but then I may have given up because I realized he wasn't going to. I don't really know what I thought or felt except that I was afraid. His breathing was really heavy now as though he were running, but he wasn't running and obviously wasn't going to run anywhere, but I kept wishing he would. While it was happening, though, it seemed often as though I had gone away, because again and again I would keep "coming back." I now know what was happening, that I was dissociating, "leaving my body" to the extent that I could, then coming back to more or less full awareness. At the time, of course, I had no idea what I was doing. During one of those times when I "came to," I noticed that the wall was wet and wondered why. And then I saw, close up and yet far away at the same time, that I was crying and my tears were sliding down the wall.
I don't remember when, but Dexter at some point moved me to the floor now and gotten on top of me. All I remember from then on is a sort of screaming, silent, awful pain from deep inside, happening off and on, with what seemed like large amounts of time in between. I believe I must have kept my eyes shut most of the time, which was just as well because when they were open about all I could see anyway was the white hexagonal blocks of the floor underneath, and some of the pale yellow wall. If I tried, out of the corner of my eye I could see Dexter, but I preferred not to.
Another thing I remember is being high up near the ceiling, looking down at us-more dissociating. And another thing, back down on the floor, as I listened to the panting above me, I remember not the words but just the feeling: Isn't this ever going to be over?
Not yet, it wasn't. At some point after that, I was again on my feet, or on his knees, or squatting. I don't remember which, but now, in retrospect, there is no mistaking the tanginess of the fluid that Dexter reached around and shoved down my throat.
Then another blank trip to somewhere unknown, and another equally mysterious return to my yellow prison, an "awakening" from a time of wish-sleeping. He was finally gone. I discovered myself against the far wall, away from the door, lying face-up, near the sinks. I was crying again, or, more likely, still; I don't know which, but now my crying was harder without the relative comfort of my trips "away." I had to deal with some kind of horrible aftermath reality now, and the crying was much harder.
It was also hard to stop. I got up from the floor and looked in the mirror. My face was a mess, puffy and red and crazy. I knew that would not do. I had the crying hiccoughs, that sort of jumping of the throat people get when they've been crying a lot. I knew I had to stop crying or the other kids in kindergarten would look at me and talk about me, giggle at me and maybe point their fingers at me. I had to make it look as though everything was okay. I just could not go back into the classroom until I looked presentable, which was far from easy since every time I managed to stop crying and rinse my face, I'd start in crying again. It seemed like ages before I finally got sufficient control of myself and got my face to look something like normal.
I stared at my reflection in the long, horizontal mirror for what seemed like an awfully long time. The room seemed unnaturally empty, sort of like a desert looked on TV, and that was both a good thing and a bad thing. It meant that I was no longer going through what I had just been through, but it also meant I was alone. I didn't tell myself even once in so many words that I was alone-for God's sake, I was only 5-- but the fact of it sank deep inside me. There was no one there, no one to talk to, just me. Whether I wanted it that way or not didn't seem to make any difference. The feeling stayed with me, without my thinking consciously about it.
It turned out to have the force of an irreversible, undeniable fact.
--Ray
Assignment 4: First person version
I became a displaced personality, and this is how it started.
On a very ordinary afternoon, when I was 5, having never had the most dependable of bladders, I went to the bathroom at St. Gregory Elementary School. Some much older boy (we'll call him Dexter) came in while I was relieving myself and said something to me; I no longer remember what it was. Dexter too stood at a urinal and did his duty.
Everything was very hazy. The boys' bathroom was below ground level and often in the daytime the only light came from the frosted, grimy window near the ceiling. To one side of the window, a poster depicting a smarmy angel declared in loud capitals, "CLEANLINESS IS NEXT TO GODLINESS." Dexter's arms came around me first, from behind, and I remember only bits and pieces of what came next. I was in at least three positions: Standing, lying face down (I remember distinctly the pattern on the linoleum floor: Small white hexagons connected together), and ultimately lying face up but leaning against a wall. That last position I was in only after everything else was over. I remember "waking up" in that position, even though I wasn't literally asleep. But it felt like waking up, except that I was crying, too.
Dexter talked quite a bit but I can't remember a single specific thing he said; I just heard him talking from somewhere, sometimes up against my ear, and sometimes distantly, as though from someone watching television on the other side of the room.
His arms came around me first, from the rear, then he sort of marched me over to the sink. I said, "What are you doing?" or something like that. After that, the only thing I remember saying was, "Please stop. . . . Please stop. Please . . . stop," several times, quickly, then less often, less quickly, then not at all.
Dex squirted some soap, the pink kind, out of a translucent plastic dispenser on the wall. He reached his hand down behind me to my ass. I don't remember the sound of a zipper, either his or mine. Probably he had never zipped his own shut since emptying his bladder and so didn't need to zip it open again. He pushed me down towards the sink. My pants were already open. Maybe he had unzipped them while we were edging our way to the sink and I hadn't noticed, or maybe I hadn't had a chance to zip them closed yet. He pushed the soap up my rectum. I had no idea at the time what was about to happen, but I felt sure it couldn't be anything good.
He lifted me off the floor. He moved me, still from behind, over against the only one of the three bathroom stalls that had a brick wall like the walls of the bathroom, made of large, smooth, light-yellow bricks. It felt cold against my cheek, and once things really got started, the cold of the brick was the only thing that felt good.
From this point on everything was very disjointed. I didn't even know what sex was, let alone rape, and so I didn't realize what was happening at the time. He was right up against me, all along my body. I said a couple of times more, "Stop, please stop," but then I may have given up because I realized he wasn't going to. I don't really know what I thought or felt except that I was afraid. His breathing was really heavy now as though he were running, but he wasn't running and obviously wasn't going to run anywhere, but I kept wishing he would. While it was happening, though, it seemed often as though I had gone away, because again and again I would keep "coming back." I now know what was happening, that I was dissociating, "leaving my body" to the extent that I could, then coming back to more or less full awareness. At the time, of course, I had no idea what I was doing. During one of those times when I "came to," I noticed that the wall was wet and wondered why. And then I saw, close up and yet far away at the same time, that I was crying and my tears were sliding down the wall.
I don't remember when, but Dexter at some point moved me to the floor now and gotten on top of me. All I remember from then on is a sort of screaming, silent, awful pain from deep inside, happening off and on, with what seemed like large amounts of time in between. I believe I must have kept my eyes shut most of the time, which was just as well because when they were open about all I could see anyway was the white hexagonal blocks of the floor underneath, and some of the pale yellow wall. If I tried, out of the corner of my eye I could see Dexter, but I preferred not to.
Another thing I remember is being high up near the ceiling, looking down at us-more dissociating. And another thing, back down on the floor, as I listened to the panting above me, I remember not the words but just the feeling: Isn't this ever going to be over?
Not yet, it wasn't. At some point after that, I was again on my feet, or on his knees, or squatting. I don't remember which, but now, in retrospect, there is no mistaking the tanginess of the fluid that Dexter reached around and shoved down my throat.
Then another blank trip to somewhere unknown, and another equally mysterious return to my yellow prison, an "awakening" from a time of wish-sleeping. He was finally gone. I discovered myself against the far wall, away from the door, lying face-up, near the sinks. I was crying again, or, more likely, still; I don't know which, but now my crying was harder without the relative comfort of my trips "away." I had to deal with some kind of horrible aftermath reality now, and the crying was much harder.
It was also hard to stop. I got up from the floor and looked in the mirror. My face was a mess, puffy and red and crazy. I knew that would not do. I had the crying hiccoughs, that sort of jumping of the throat people get when they've been crying a lot. I knew I had to stop crying or the other kids in kindergarten would look at me and talk about me, giggle at me and maybe point their fingers at me. I had to make it look as though everything was okay. I just could not go back into the classroom until I looked presentable, which was far from easy since every time I managed to stop crying and rinse my face, I'd start in crying again. It seemed like ages before I finally got sufficient control of myself and got my face to look something like normal.
I stared at my reflection in the long, horizontal mirror for what seemed like an awfully long time. The room seemed unnaturally empty, sort of like a desert looked on TV, and that was both a good thing and a bad thing. It meant that I was no longer going through what I had just been through, but it also meant I was alone. I didn't tell myself even once in so many words that I was alone-for God's sake, I was only 5-- but the fact of it sank deep inside me. There was no one there, no one to talk to, just me. Whether I wanted it that way or not didn't seem to make any difference. The feeling stayed with me, without my thinking consciously about it.
It turned out to have the force of an irreversible, undeniable fact.
--Ray
posted by LifeWriter at 9:37 AM
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