Weighed Down — a piece about sexual violence
Trigger warning for r*pe, sexual assault and violence.
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Her skin was pale, her knuckles white as she clutched her keys, as she clutched onto the thought. She wasn't a fool, she could hear the footsteps behind her, has heard them for three right turns now. She thinks there are two of them. Their footsteps quicken and she instinctively breaks into a run, but they saw it coming and easily catch her. Their hands catch her coat, a scream catches in her throat. Her skin was so pale. Trembling. Her heart pulsed in her ears and she could feel it beneath her ribs. Beating and beating as she looks frantically into her attackers face. His skin was old and worn, his eyes hungry. She was frighteningly reminded of a dog. His friend grinned and pushed her to the ground. She willed her limbs to move, to fight, to gouge, to strike, to protect— to do anything at all. But fear shut down her muscles and her legs would not carry her safely away. Pain sears through her as they savagely take what they want. Her vision begins to fade, blacking out and in. Her body contorted painfully for their enjoyment. She closes her eyes and sheds a tear before blacking out.
Light on her eyelids wakes her up. Her fingers curl around the remains of her clothing, all she remembers is a person pulling the man off her, shouting at them that they have called the police. She would call that person her saviour, but she doesn't feel very saved. Her body feels different. Like she doesn't know her curves and lines anymore. Like everything she knew about herself was torn away. She brushes her hair out of her eyes and stands up, pain shoots through her legs and purple marks scatter her skin. She doesn't notice the journey home, her mind locked in a battle with everything that happened. Using her key to open her door brings flashes of things through her mind, the action hurting her even though it was soft. Unlike what they did. Her appearance was different too, her skin was no longer pristine and undamaged. The bruises on her shoulder look like teeth marks from a dog, the ones on her throat look like she hanged for what she did. But she didn't do anything wrong, she repeats the phrase to herself as she stands under the shower. Imagining the dark stains melting and washing away, she drags her fingers over them, hissing at the pain.
Later she sits in front of a burning fire. Drying off her hair, her leg is curled beneath her, and her arms hug her knee. Even being bare skinned with the heat rolling off the dull flames, she could still feel his hands on her. Still feel the mockery shouts of his friend hitting her. Still feel like her skin is too tight to be hers. Still feel the shadow bite of a long-gone dog. Flashes of the time runs through her head, her hands itching to pick up the phone and speak to anyone about it. She hasn't showered enough. The feelings weren't melted or washed away, or, gone. She was smart though, she knew that she’d have to report it, she knew his face. She could identify him from a crowd. God knows she would never forget it.
Her mind wanders through the flames in front of her. Red and oranges all dancing around each other, they blend and blur. They twist then, turning blue and bright. A stinging grows beneath her skin, something so persistent, an itching that she knows won't go away until she claws the feeling of his skin on hers away. A memory of her grandma flashes before her. Her eyes were soft and warm, her white hair long and plaited. Beautiful and pure.
Next thing she is aware of is standing in front of an open freezer. Goosebumps rippling over her skin from the icy air. Food lines the shelves and people walk past in a hurry, but her appetite has vanished. A growling monster lays in her stomach, never satisfied yet it rejects every morsel of sustenance. She feels empty. Like a shadow of what she was. Just an imprint left in her place. The girl she used to be died in that alleyway. She died the second his hand caught her coat.
A woman's face swims into her sight. Photos of some bodies wounds laying on the metal table. They look painful and she hisses at them. Who would do that to someone? That poor girl, her hips have angry purple lines streaking them.
"Do you know who this is?"
The woman pointed to the photos. Her expression was sober, eyebrows slightly pinched and lips set in a faint smile that probably sits there for the majority of her working hours. Does she fake it? Or does she feel those emotions? Feel them like fear coursing through your body, running rampant in your nervous system pulling any and all alarms it can find. Until you're sitting there with three eyes on the exits and three eyes on the people around you just waiting til something goes wrong.
"This is you. Your skin." The women speaks again. Her lips twitch downwards. A fresh glass of water along with a box of cream tissues appears.
But that room, that women, those tissues all swim away until the girl is back in her house. Dazed from the sudden shift of places. She stands in front of the mirror. Delicate blue driftwood frames the surface and then sweeps to the floor in a curve. The details had made her fall in love when she saw it in the shop. She knew it was her mirror at first sight. But now the blue paint is flaked and worn, peeling off slowly and leaving bits on the floor, and she's tried to brush them up, but they never seem to go away. She stares at her legs. Eyes unfocused and thoughts outside her body. She hovers in the air, looking at herself, her body. It doesn't sound right anymore. She's lost weight, the change in her appetite not sitting well. How long has it been? HAs she always looked like that? Now she is just bones and angles and shadows, her once hidden features shoved to the front. All the curves she had spent years learning to love have dropped away, heaved into the toilet in the middle of the night. Her throat raw from muttering in her sleep, the marks have faded. The memories too, though flashes of it still give her whiplash. The itch is still there. Her head snaps up and she is in her body again.
She's back in that alleyway. Running. Lungs burning. Out of the shadows a thousand hands reach for her. Tearing claws ripping at her clothing. Her breath not entering her lungs. Her legs feel like lead. She can't run fast enough and the hands are slowing her down. Fear searing through her body creates hot flashes and sweat runs down her forehead. Thoughts all strung up around her mind like cobwebs. And she is stuck in the web. Two figures approach. When their mouths open voices do not surround her, but rather a crackling broken sound tumbles from their lips. Halfway between static and screaming. Between a blazing fire and tearing skin. Tears run down her face. Skin ripping when she tries to fight her way off the cobweb. The figures reach her. Her lips part. A scream leaves her throat like no other sound, it blasts past the figures, flinging them to the ground, clearing the alley of the cobwebs. But when she goes to inhale again, fire barrels down into her lungs. Choking on hot air and smoke and tar and all things burning her lungs start to shrivel and her throat starts to close the figures come closer—
Her eyes open. Cool sheets against her skin. She stumbles out of bed and runs to the bathroom. When she returns to her room she sits lightly on the edge of the bed, almost as though she is afraid to take up space. She rests her elbows on her knees. A few wisps escape a messy hairstyle and hang in front of her eyes, but she doesn't have the spare energy to fix them. She inhales, letting the cold air sooth her lungs, right now she doesn't feel scared. She doesn't feel that itch under her skin, she isn't painfully aware of her surroundings but she is not uncomfortably numb and distant either. This is the first motionless moment in— She couldn't be sure, days all blending together and hours missing. Sudden jumping to different places dazing her, not remembering how she got there. A women had told her it was the brains response to trauma, that the chopping and hovering above feelings are called— a word she does not remember.
She slowly moves back into bed, treasuring the calm moment as if it's her last. Staring at the ceiling, she concentrates on her breathing, the rise and fall of her stomach. Thoughts bombard her but she shoves them away, careful to be gentle, and bring her attention back to the cold room, the way her soft sheets feel holding her body and how the bed supports her. He is not here. They are not here. She has checked the fire escape a thousand times, locking the window as if she would rather burn than give him a way in. She keeps breathing and eventually loses consciousness.
The building had deep red supports that hurt her eyes. Dashed walls that poke a bit too much, and the glass door was half closed. The walk up the door was hit by a climax of hesitation while reaching for the door. She pulls the door open and walks in. A man at the counter turns and walks past her, his face shape was too much and reminded her of what happened. The dam breaks and thoughts rush in, the dream of being back there, his face, his smell, the feeling and his friend and the pain and. She drops to the floor, feet and hands tingling, vision going watery and blurry, there is not enough oxygen in this building why did she come here. Confusion starts to pick away at her but panic saves her and irrational thoughts consume her.
Is she dying?
Did he kill her?
A woman's voice breaks the waters surface and reaches her ears. She listens to the words but does not hear them. A hand clasps hers and helps her over to a seat, the figure in front of her motions for deep breaths. She tries to inhale but it catches- his hand catching her coat- she tries again- his friend laughing- until she takes a full breath and it starts to even out. The black spots in her vision edge away and the bright lights come back into focus. The women is wearing a blue suit, and dark lipstick, and her hair is perfect. Her hair wasn't perfect, she needed it gone after he had touched it, she had blunted the kitchen scissors. Looking around she sees her bag on the floor where she had fallen. The woman scoops it up and hands it to her.
The person behind the counter asks why she is here. She glances at the words across the wall. Glances at her legs where she can see the bruises through the fabric, glances back at the person. She clears her throat and raises her chin.
"I'm here to report a case of rape.”