The Party Foul

By
It took me an eternity to find the guest bedroom where my brother told me to sleep tonight. My drunken swagger and double vision led me in circles around the basement looking for the right door. It was difficult to keep quiet enough to not wake up my brother or the other sleeping roommates down the hallway. The guestroom is small, dark, and mysteriously empty. There is a mattress on the floor with sheets and a pillow. Nothing else. The touch of the cotton sheets on my skin is comforting. The sting of stomach acid irritates my throat and I can still taste the Irish Car Bombs I’d been drinking, combined with the burnt-out feeling of smoking five too many Cherry Primetimes. I don’t bother undressing for sleep. I’m so drunk that the buttons digging into my abs and the tight seams clutching my hips remain a distant afterthought. My body is painfully numb from the long hour of vomiting it endured tonight.
My mind slips into an uneasy sleep.

I awake two hours later to the sound of a door creaking open and the quiet brush of wood on the carpet. I look up to see it stumbling in from the hallway, closing the door behind as it goes. Its eyelids seem to be half closed and the apparent struggle it is having placing foot in front of foot makes it clear to me that I am not the only one who was wasted tonight. Fortunately for me, by now some of the alcohol is out of my system and I seem to be sobering up.
What is it doing here at 2 o’clock in the morning?
As if it hears me question its intentions, it sputters out an answer in slow, slurred-out words that form together into barely comprehendible nonsense.

“I’ve wanted to do this to you for a long time,” it mumbles. The smooth melody of its voice echoes throughout the room.

The blood in my veins freezes in place and I watch the dark shadow on the wall slowly urge towards the mattress. I hold my breath and cringe as I feel the surface beneath my legs sink as it takes on an unwelcome addition of 200 lbs.

“Get the f*** off!” I demand. Not to my surprise, it ignores my request.
The aggressively gentle touch of its body against mine as it lies down beside me sends nervous chills dancing down my spine. The ice-numb touches of its fingers sober me more.

I begin to whimper pitifully as a tear forms in the corner of my eye when I feel its cold hand slip between my legs. It grabs my face with its free hand and kisses me hard so I cannot escape its lips. It moves down my neck and over my chest, tugging at the collar of my shirt to reveal just enough flesh to guide its scaly tongue across. Its moist breath hurts like a dull knife cutting my skin. I push it away with all the strength I can find, but its arms easily lock me in place. It sits up and straddles me, meticulously trapping my body and arms under its knees as it shimmies down its pants and boxers. It yanks my jeans from my hips in one graceful motion and throws them aside.


Rape has coincidentally been a familiar visitor to my dreams for the past few months. Each dream had been alike in the way that they were violent and fast, and although I could never see the man’s face, I know it was the same stranger each time. But this is no stranger, and this is not a dream. There is no awakening to be had tonight.


Leaning over, it kisses the smooth skin of my hips and slowly wanders farther and farther down. I manage to free my knee from under its weight and bring it up to knock it hard in the face. This accomplishes nothing. With its arm it presses my chest and body forcefully against the bed, and I question whether my weakness or its strength is responsible for keeping me trapped here. Its head drifts even lower and two glistening eyes stare up at me as I feel its warm mouth and tongue gently explore its destination. All I can do is cry harder.
How can no one hear me?
After several miserably long seconds it sits up and smiles as its big beady eyes burn a hole through my head.

“Don’t worry, I’ll use a condom,” it says. I assume this comment was intended to serve as some sort of reassurance that what he was about to do shouldn’t concern me. I am locked in Satin’s chokehold- completely helpless- and neither I nor anyone else can get me out.
Unlike my dreams, I actually feel the blood circulation in my hands coming to a stop under the tight grip of its fingers around my wrists, and the heavy weight of its body pinning me once again into a position that allows him easiest access. Unlike my dreams, this is no outer-body experience I am looking down upon; this is the real thing happening in real life. I continue to sob as I feel it take me, violently thrusting inside me again and again. Its muffled grunts echo in my head in symphony, and its loud breathing becomes the musical beat its hips dance to. The movements begin to slow. It lifts its upper body off of me and looks down at my tear-striped face and two glistening emerald stones.
“Are you really not ok with this?”
I cry more in response, unable to form words. It stands and pulls up its ugly jeans with its ugly belt holding them on to its ugly body. It did not use a condom.
“OK,” it says. Its mission accomplished, it turns and leaves the room. Just like that.
Just like that, I had become that girl in the bedroom who had too much to drink- the girl who had it coming all along.





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theblondechick This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine. said...
Nov. 6, 2013 at 7:03 pm
Wow! just wow. I really hope writing this helped you It was a really moving peice.
 
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