Describe rape in detail in 3rd person
Ray. Assignment 4. Third-person version
Ray became a displaced personality, and this is how it started.
On a very ordinary afternoon, Ray, age 5, having never had the most dependable of bladders, went to the bathroom at St. Gregory Elementary School. Some much older boy (we'll call him Dexter the Sexter) came in while Ray was relieving himself and said something to him; Ray no longer remembers what it was. Dexter too stood at a urinal and did his duty.
All 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 rather smug angel declared in loud capitals, "CLEANLINESS IS NEXT TO GODLINESS." Dexter's arms came around him first, from behind, and Ray remembers only bits and pieces of the events that came next. He was in at least three positions that he can recall: Standing, lying face down (he remembers distinctly the pattern on the linoleum floor: Small white hexagons connected together), and ultimately lying face up but leaning next to a wall. That last position he recalls being in only after everything else was over. He recalls "waking up" in this position, although he feels sure he had not been, in the literal sense of the word, asleep. But whatever the actuality was, it felt to him like waking up, except that he was also crying at the time.
Dexter talked quite a bit during those things that he did but Ray can't remember anything specifically, only a constant talking from somewhere, sometimes up against one ear, the breath blowing all the way into his brain, and sometimes distantly, as though from someone watching a quiet television on the other side of the room.
The arms around him, from the rear, came first, and then Dexter, still behind Ray, marched him over to the sink. "What are you doing?" Ray said, or something like that. After that, the only thing he remembers uttering 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 the translucent plastic dispenser. His hand reached down behind where Ray couldn't see. Ray still doesn't remember the sound of a zipper; probably Dexter had never zipped his own shut after urinating and so didn't need to zip it open again. Dex pushed Ray's torso over the sink. Somehow Ray's pants were already open. When had that happened? He felt something cold and liquid going where nothing was supposed to go. He must have wondered what was going on down there. He must have thought it was a game, but he didn't want to play it. He tried to move to one side, but that didn't work. Dexter was strong and his body was pressing Ray's downward against the sink.
Then, somehow, Ray's feet were off the floor. Dexter was moving him, still from behind, over against one of the three bathroom stalls, the one on the right, which had a brick wall just like the walls of the bathroom, made of large, smooth, light-yellow bricks and cold to the touch. It was cold, almost soothingly so, against Ray's cheek.
Things from this point on seemed very disjointed. Ray knew something was going on behind him because Dexter was very close to him, all along his body, and his breathing was really heavy, as though he was running, but he wasn't running at all and certainly wasn't going anywhere, though Ray kept wishing he would. And although he knew it couldn't be, it seemed to Ray he had gone somewhere because he would somehow come back (you couldn't come back without going somewhere first, could you?), and then he would still be against the wall. It seemed he was going somewhere and then coming back without ever leaving the room, or even that one spot, which made no sense. At one point he remembers wondering how the wall got wet, because it had been dry before and suddenly it was wet. And then he realized why: He saw, close up and yet far away, that he was crying and his tears were sliding down the wall.
It was the strangest feeling!
Ray was on the floor now and Dex was on top of him. What he remembers from then is a sort of screaming, silent, awful pain from deep inside him, happening off and on, with what seemed like large amounts of time in between. He kept his eyes shut most of the time, which was just as well because when they were open about all he could see anyway was the white hexagonal blocks of the floor underneath him, and some of the pale yellow wall. If he moved his left eye up as far as it would go he could see Dexter out of the corner of his eye, but he preferred not to.
Another thing he can't possibly really remember, and yet he could swear he does: Being high up above both Ray and Dexter, near the ceiling, and looking down at them from above: What's going on down there? And another thing, back down on the floor, as he listens to Dexter's breathing, he remembers, 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, Ray was once again on his feet, or on his knees, or squatting. He is unsure of the posture, but now, long after, there is no mistaking the tanginess of the fluid that Dexter reached around and shoved down his throat.
Another blank trip to somewhere unknown, and another equally mysterious return to the bathroom, an "awakening" from a time of wish-sleeping. That other boy was gone. Ray found himself against the far wall, away from the door, lying face-up, near the sinks. He was crying again, or still; he didn't know which, but the crying seemed harder, now that the relative comfort of his trips "away" was absent. He was condemned to be back now, and the crying became worse.
It was also hard to stop. He got up from the floor and looked in the mirror. His face was a mess, puffy and red and crazy. That would not do. He had the crying hiccoughs, that sort of jumping of the throat people get when they've been crying a lot. He knew he had to stop crying or the other kids in kindergarten would look at him and talk about him, giggle at him and maybe point their fingers at him. He would look away from the mirror or at the sink until the crying stopped, but every time he looked up and saw himself, he would start crying again. He rinsed his face with cold water several times, over and over, trying to get the redness out, and kept looking away, and eventually a time came when he looked at the mirror and his reflection looked almost like nothing unusual had happened.
He stared at his reflection in the long, horizontal mirror for what seemed like an awfully long time. The room seemed very empty, and that was both a good thing and a bad thing. It meant he was no longer going through what he had just been through, but it also meant he was alone. He didn't tell himself once in so many words that he was alone, but the fact of it sank deep inside him. There was no one there, just him. He didn't know whether to be happy or unhappy about it, but it was a fact.
--Ray
Ray became a displaced personality, and this is how it started.
On a very ordinary afternoon, Ray, age 5, having never had the most dependable of bladders, went to the bathroom at St. Gregory Elementary School. Some much older boy (we'll call him Dexter the Sexter) came in while Ray was relieving himself and said something to him; Ray no longer remembers what it was. Dexter too stood at a urinal and did his duty.
All 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 rather smug angel declared in loud capitals, "CLEANLINESS IS NEXT TO GODLINESS." Dexter's arms came around him first, from behind, and Ray remembers only bits and pieces of the events that came next. He was in at least three positions that he can recall: Standing, lying face down (he remembers distinctly the pattern on the linoleum floor: Small white hexagons connected together), and ultimately lying face up but leaning next to a wall. That last position he recalls being in only after everything else was over. He recalls "waking up" in this position, although he feels sure he had not been, in the literal sense of the word, asleep. But whatever the actuality was, it felt to him like waking up, except that he was also crying at the time.
Dexter talked quite a bit during those things that he did but Ray can't remember anything specifically, only a constant talking from somewhere, sometimes up against one ear, the breath blowing all the way into his brain, and sometimes distantly, as though from someone watching a quiet television on the other side of the room.
The arms around him, from the rear, came first, and then Dexter, still behind Ray, marched him over to the sink. "What are you doing?" Ray said, or something like that. After that, the only thing he remembers uttering 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 the translucent plastic dispenser. His hand reached down behind where Ray couldn't see. Ray still doesn't remember the sound of a zipper; probably Dexter had never zipped his own shut after urinating and so didn't need to zip it open again. Dex pushed Ray's torso over the sink. Somehow Ray's pants were already open. When had that happened? He felt something cold and liquid going where nothing was supposed to go. He must have wondered what was going on down there. He must have thought it was a game, but he didn't want to play it. He tried to move to one side, but that didn't work. Dexter was strong and his body was pressing Ray's downward against the sink.
Then, somehow, Ray's feet were off the floor. Dexter was moving him, still from behind, over against one of the three bathroom stalls, the one on the right, which had a brick wall just like the walls of the bathroom, made of large, smooth, light-yellow bricks and cold to the touch. It was cold, almost soothingly so, against Ray's cheek.
Things from this point on seemed very disjointed. Ray knew something was going on behind him because Dexter was very close to him, all along his body, and his breathing was really heavy, as though he was running, but he wasn't running at all and certainly wasn't going anywhere, though Ray kept wishing he would. And although he knew it couldn't be, it seemed to Ray he had gone somewhere because he would somehow come back (you couldn't come back without going somewhere first, could you?), and then he would still be against the wall. It seemed he was going somewhere and then coming back without ever leaving the room, or even that one spot, which made no sense. At one point he remembers wondering how the wall got wet, because it had been dry before and suddenly it was wet. And then he realized why: He saw, close up and yet far away, that he was crying and his tears were sliding down the wall.
It was the strangest feeling!
Ray was on the floor now and Dex was on top of him. What he remembers from then is a sort of screaming, silent, awful pain from deep inside him, happening off and on, with what seemed like large amounts of time in between. He kept his eyes shut most of the time, which was just as well because when they were open about all he could see anyway was the white hexagonal blocks of the floor underneath him, and some of the pale yellow wall. If he moved his left eye up as far as it would go he could see Dexter out of the corner of his eye, but he preferred not to.
Another thing he can't possibly really remember, and yet he could swear he does: Being high up above both Ray and Dexter, near the ceiling, and looking down at them from above: What's going on down there? And another thing, back down on the floor, as he listens to Dexter's breathing, he remembers, 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, Ray was once again on his feet, or on his knees, or squatting. He is unsure of the posture, but now, long after, there is no mistaking the tanginess of the fluid that Dexter reached around and shoved down his throat.
Another blank trip to somewhere unknown, and another equally mysterious return to the bathroom, an "awakening" from a time of wish-sleeping. That other boy was gone. Ray found himself against the far wall, away from the door, lying face-up, near the sinks. He was crying again, or still; he didn't know which, but the crying seemed harder, now that the relative comfort of his trips "away" was absent. He was condemned to be back now, and the crying became worse.
It was also hard to stop. He got up from the floor and looked in the mirror. His face was a mess, puffy and red and crazy. That would not do. He had the crying hiccoughs, that sort of jumping of the throat people get when they've been crying a lot. He knew he had to stop crying or the other kids in kindergarten would look at him and talk about him, giggle at him and maybe point their fingers at him. He would look away from the mirror or at the sink until the crying stopped, but every time he looked up and saw himself, he would start crying again. He rinsed his face with cold water several times, over and over, trying to get the redness out, and kept looking away, and eventually a time came when he looked at the mirror and his reflection looked almost like nothing unusual had happened.
He stared at his reflection in the long, horizontal mirror for what seemed like an awfully long time. The room seemed very empty, and that was both a good thing and a bad thing. It meant he was no longer going through what he had just been through, but it also meant he was alone. He didn't tell himself once in so many words that he was alone, but the fact of it sank deep inside him. There was no one there, just him. He didn't know whether to be happy or unhappy about it, but it was a fact.
--Ray
posted by LifeWriter at 12:33 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home