He tried to charm me into a sip of his beer, grinning hard even as I said no. Occasionally they stopped, tried to get me to talk about it. It was like a Ping-Pong game, the two of us facing off from opposite leather chairs in her earth-toned office. I had assumed rape was a physical injury. She then ordered him to get on the bed, and take off his clothes, before climbing on top of him, pulling down her pants and having sex with him — all while still holding the machete, it is alleged. But at night, all my pain floated to the surface. I graduated at the top of my class, got a boyfriend, went to kick-boxing six times a week. I thought my parents would be ashamed of me if I told.
It happened indiscriminately, whether I was with a casual fling or in a serious relationship. I coveted their normalcy. I pulled out a bread knife and ran the serrated edge along my fingertips. I was attracted to anyone who was attracted to me. The message was clear. I had to stop convincing myself that I was nothing. It was a hot summer night a few weeks before I was to start my second year of university. I was outside on the backyard patio when I saw my high school rapist walk in with a date. I blurted out that I was raped. Acquittals often pivot on extraneous details: A streetlight melted yellow. My feminist politics dictate that, as a survivor, I am supposed to be unashamed and even outspoken about what happened to me. It was so easy to convince myself it was my fault: Police did not believe her and instead charged her with filing a false report, forcing her to take a plea deal of probation. Flashbacks blazed without warning. I saw no problem in compromising myself to get that approval. My hair was dyed Crayola colours, and safety pins held together my deconstructed clothes. Later that night, I tallied the damage. It reminded me of something my dad had told me once. I stared at the beading crimson and my mind quieted. I liked her immediately. There was a guy from the party on top of me. Blood on my underwear. I thought that once the bruises on my thighs and arms faded, I would be healed. I meticulously counted yogurt-covered raisins into Tupperware every morning. It sounds ridiculous out loud.
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