- Summer Guide
- College Guide
- Author Interviews
- Celebrity interviews
- College Articles
- College Essays
- Educator of the Year
- Personal Experience
- Travel & Culture
- Current Events / Politics
- Drugs / Alcohol / Smoking
- Entertainment / Celebrities
- Love / Relationships
- Movies / Music / TV
- Pop Culture / Trends
- School / College
- Social Issues / Civics
- Spirituality / Religion
- Sports / Hobbies
- Community Service
- Letters to the Editor
- Pride & Prejudice
- What Matters
The crimson sign of hate remains, and forever will. His stare marked me, like a predator to its prey, the stare I will always remember. The earth, green in his eyes, once sweet and soft, comforting to my touch, was now bitter, cold, and harsh. Just as he did, I knew there was no turning back.
His sturdy figure was flawless. His brown boots, the color of molded rust, came up past his ankle, just shy of his knee. His plaid shirt was half untucked and smelled of salty sweat, the aroma burning my nose as if he hadn’t showered in days. His bronze hair cascaded perfectly, with one strand falling just above his nose. His prickly coffee-colored beard defined his jaw, chiseled to perfection. His face was the pedestal of a smirk that I will never forget, the smirk of hate and lust.
The pea-colored carpet smelled of stale cedar and apple cinnamon. The fluorescent lights blinded my eyes. A breeze blew in from an open window, cooling my body. The furniture was worn, and I could tell from the tears on the arms he had probably bought them from the Goodwill on Walters Street.
My favorite pair of jeans, bought for $3 at the local thrift mart, were now scuffed and stained, my shirt was ripped, the white seams unraveling to reveal my chocolate-colored belly. I could feel that my hair was messy. The green eye shadow and periwinkle pink lipgloss Stacy had lent me was now smeared on my hands and shirt as well as his face.
He undid his square belt buckle, not hesitating for a second. A smirk was on his face as his zipper slowly slid down like the clock ticking the final seconds of a basketball game. I now knew what he had in store for me. Time stood still, and everything around me froze. My regrets escaped through my tears and poured onto my skin. This was my state of emergency.
I came to the realization that he was now and would forever remain the devil haunting my nightmares. I could see what was meant for me through him. I couldn’t understand why; I was only a child. How could he harm someone in such a horrid way?
I could feel my mother’s words cascading onto my body, ringing in my ears, screaming at me to get up, to fight, but I could not. The guilt, the pain kept me strapped down to that carpet. I screamed, but it was a whisper. I clawed, but it was just a light touch. He forced himself on me, dominating my small frame, taking no mercy. I could taste stale cigarettes as his tongue tried to find an entrance to my mouth, almost choking me, leaving me breathless. Nevertheless he never stopped.
I lay still, doing my best to recover what was now left of me. He had taken away my dignity, self-assurance, and security. He opened a treasure chest, glittering with the finest jewels and flowers from all over the world. He opened that chest, which did not belong to him but was mine, and claimed it, selfishly, for himself. I felt a piece of my soul drain from my body, leaving me empty and incomplete like a crack addict in search of a fix that I would never get. He left me there on his pea-colored carpet that smelled of apple cinnamon and stale cedar. He left so nonchalantly, and I knew that this would be the day I would never forget.
That day still haunts me. I have vivid dreams of him hurting me, robbing me of my childhood. The sweat stains on my nightgown are only the physical reminders of what he did, as I wake up drenched in my tears. This nightmare takes its shape in the form of tears and yells into a darkened abyss.
The thought of being touched and loved terrifies me. The thought of ever being in love remains invisible, for I know that to love someone you must truly love yourself, but how can one do so if the scars of a horrid past are still visible?
I am face to face with what I have been hiding from for years, why I have been clenching my fists since I was 13. Clenching my fists because I know that it is the only thing that will keep me from standing up and yelling, telling everyone that I was raped, that I was hurt, that I have forgiven him but I refuse to forget.
I hold my face down, and keep my heart buried deep inside of me. The yearning and longing for what I know now has vanished, the denial I once faced is now coming to a close, and I know I have many years ahead to meditate on that one winter day in November.