The Devil in my Home

CW: SEXUAL ASSAULT

This was never supposed to happen to me, and certainly not by you. I am a good kid, and I did not do anything wrong; at least this is what I try to tell myself. Although I continuously tell myself this, and try my hardest not to think too much about it, I often still find myself asking the question, “Why?”

“Why me?” Of all people, why did this have to happen to me? I guess I will never truly know, but what I do know is this: you are going to pay for what you have done, for the childhood that was ripped away from me, and for all the pain that you put me through.

I felt absolute horror. The weight of your body, much larger than mine, as you lay on top of my then 15-year-old self; it made me feel as though I was drowning, suffocating… dying. The feeling of your frostbitten hands on that cold November day as you put them in places they had no reason to be. I desperately tried to distract my mind, to focus on anything else at all: the crisp air that surrounded me, or the way the trees were covered in fresh snowfall. But I was distracted by something much more horrific: that musky smell of yours, with tobacco wafting between cigarette-stained teeth. Closing my eyes, I saw total darkness. As I opened them again, I prayed this was all a dream, but it was not. I listened for cars, perhaps someone would drive by, maybe they would help me, but they did not. There was no one else around. It was just you and me, and I was terrified.

I recall how you used to laugh and tease because I feared the monsters living in this world, but when I turned to you for protection, I found your mask peeled off and you were just like them, a monster. You, that same monster who recurs in my dreams which are no longer pleasant and peaceful, but horrible nightmares. You, who I cannot bear to speak of without going blank, losing thought, finding myself right back in that moment again. You, the one person who I never thought would hurt me this way.

Sometimes, I can still hear your voice as I play back that day in my head: November 18th, 2018. The words you said and the words I continued to repeat, “No! Stop.”

“Just show me one!” you demanded as you spoke about my breasts which I struggled to cover as you had already moved my jacket out of your way.

“No!” I cried, but you did not listen.

The hours following were unimaginable as I lay in my bed, engulfed by disgust and guilt, knowing that you had vandalized my body just hours before. I lied to my mother, the one person who I could have and should have told right away. She continued to ask if I was okay. I continued to lie, just like I promised you I would after you looked at me with dead eyes and remarked, “if you tell your mother what I did to you, I will tell her that you smoked.” So, I kept silent.

The following day was a blur. As I walked the halls of my high school, I could feel everyone’s eyes on me. They were watching me like hawks, as if they already knew by the blank stare I wore across my face what horrible events had occurred the night before. My best friend approached me in the hallway, begging me to tell her what was wrong, what had happened. She knew there was something terribly wrong. I couldn’t stay silent anymore, as I explained to her in detail the events that took place within the past twenty-four hours. I watched her eyes fill up with tears, and then turn to rage.

Afterward, without my asking, she told my father and sister. They contacted me shortly after, asking me to confirm whether or not it was true. I panicked – I claimed the whole thing was a lie. Afterwards, I knew I had to tell my mother before anyone got the chance to contact her. As she sat on the couch next to him, she received a text. The text read, “Can you come to my room please?” Without hesitation, I heard her begin to walk up the stairs to my bedroom where she found me, distraught and in tears. Not knowing how I was going to break this news to her, I began to explain, little by little, exactly what had happened. Before I even finished telling her what had occurred, she bolted out of my bedroom, flying down the stairs crying and screaming at him, asking, “what did you do to the baby?” He tried to deny it, asking what she was talking about, saying that he didn’t do anything. That is when I appeared from my bedroom, timid but filled with rage, and began to repeat the words he said to me, the things he did to me, all the things that scarred me. This is when he began to get angry, very angry at me because I did not keep my promise; I did not keep silent.

“It started out as a joke and I took it too far,” he snarked, as though she would believe him.

After that night, I never saw him again. Some people say he only comes out of his house at night when it is dark and there is no one around. Most do not care enough to even acknowledge his existence.

Me, I live in fear, and I will live in fear every day until he is locked up behind bars, living life in a cage like the animal he is.

Truthfully, if I had not told my best friend, if I had kept silent, I do not think anyone would have ever found out. Not because I did not want people to know, but because of the disgust and shame I felt within myself. Despite how terrible my situation is, I am proud. I am proud of myself for speaking up about it, despite how afraid I was, so that people are aware of the monster that he is. I had the chance to protect others from him and the trauma he brings, so I took that chance. I took it because I am not a monster; I am not him.