thinking to fix us up, but I had no thought of romance with this guy. He wasn’t my type at all, and I thought of it as just a low-key dinner with their family, all of whom I’d known since I was a child. She said her brother would pick me up, which was fine.
We had a nice time at the barbecue, although I spent hardly any time talking to the brother, and then it began to get late and I said I needed to go home. It was a Friday and Matthew was spending the night at my parents’ so I could sleep late the next morning, and the brother drove me home. I got out of the car as soon as we hit my driveway. I didn’t want to sit with him in the dark or make him think there was more to the evening than there was, but he said, “I’ll walk you to the door.” I said, in a friendly voice, “Don’t bother. I know the way,” but he got out anyhow and accompanied me, holding my elbow. It felt a little creepy all of a sudden, like I heard the music that swells in a horror movie to warn you something bad is about to happen, and I wanted to get inside quickly. I didn’t want him to try to kiss me, so I said, “Well, thanks for the nice evening. Good night,” and turned my key in the lock. Before I could turn on the light or shut the door, he shoved me hard from behind and knocked me to the floor. I was astonished; then I was confused. Then I was scared. I had always thought that if anyonetried to rape me, I could kick him in the nuts, or run, or scream, or do any number of things to protect myself. But I learned in short order that he was a lot stronger than I was and there was no way on this earth I could defend myself.
He proceeded to rape me.
At first I tried to reason with him. “Let’s talk about this. Let’s go sit down and talk,” I said. Then, “Please don’t do this, please,” and then I begged him to stop. In the moonlight from the open door, I could see that he had a glassy look in his eyes, and he kept repeating over and over, “I’m going to make you scream. I’m going to make you scream.” I somehow knew the worst thing I could do was scream, so I just gritted my teeth and endured. It was painful and lasted much too long, and then he left me, without a word, lying on the floor in the dark.
I was bruised and shaken, to say the least. Big purple marks bloomed on my arms where he had held me down. I was raw and burned. I pulled myself together, locked the door, and picked up the phone, but the receiver hung in midair from my limp hand. I didn’t know who to call. I couldn’t call my parents. They would have totally freaked out and probably tried to make me go to the hospital, and then the whole town would have known. I couldn’t call the sheriff’s office. They wouldn’t have believed me. Some of them had played football with him, and nothing would have been done to him anyhow. He would just have said it was consensual, that I’d wanted it, and then they would have asked me who else I had been sleeping with and it would have turned into a trial of my morals, which at that point couldn’t really withstand scrutiny. His family was prominent in the community, and I liked them a lot. They certainly wouldn’t have believed me, and if they
had
happened to believe me, it would have torn the family apart and they would have wound up hating me, not him. So I told no one, not even my closest friends. I just filled the tub with the hottest water I could stand and tried to soak all traces of him away. It was a classic case of rape, like I had read about so often. Only this time it was me.
The kicker was that two days later, a note arrived in the mail. It said, “Thank you for one of the most exciting nights of my life.” And he signed his name. I was so angry I shook as I burned it up in the kitchen sink.
He went back to his home soon after that, and thankfully I neversaw him again. I never said a word to his sister. If she spoke about him, I would just change the subject, which I’m sure she thought was
We had a nice time at the barbecue, although I spent hardly any time talking to the brother, and then it began to get late and I said I needed to go home. It was a Friday and Matthew was spending the night at my parents’ so I could sleep late the next morning, and the brother drove me home. I got out of the car as soon as we hit my driveway. I didn’t want to sit with him in the dark or make him think there was more to the evening than there was, but he said, “I’ll walk you to the door.” I said, in a friendly voice, “Don’t bother. I know the way,” but he got out anyhow and accompanied me, holding my elbow. It felt a little creepy all of a sudden, like I heard the music that swells in a horror movie to warn you something bad is about to happen, and I wanted to get inside quickly. I didn’t want him to try to kiss me, so I said, “Well, thanks for the nice evening. Good night,” and turned my key in the lock. Before I could turn on the light or shut the door, he shoved me hard from behind and knocked me to the floor. I was astonished; then I was confused. Then I was scared. I had always thought that if anyonetried to rape me, I could kick him in the nuts, or run, or scream, or do any number of things to protect myself. But I learned in short order that he was a lot stronger than I was and there was no way on this earth I could defend myself.
He proceeded to rape me.
At first I tried to reason with him. “Let’s talk about this. Let’s go sit down and talk,” I said. Then, “Please don’t do this, please,” and then I begged him to stop. In the moonlight from the open door, I could see that he had a glassy look in his eyes, and he kept repeating over and over, “I’m going to make you scream. I’m going to make you scream.” I somehow knew the worst thing I could do was scream, so I just gritted my teeth and endured. It was painful and lasted much too long, and then he left me, without a word, lying on the floor in the dark.
I was bruised and shaken, to say the least. Big purple marks bloomed on my arms where he had held me down. I was raw and burned. I pulled myself together, locked the door, and picked up the phone, but the receiver hung in midair from my limp hand. I didn’t know who to call. I couldn’t call my parents. They would have totally freaked out and probably tried to make me go to the hospital, and then the whole town would have known. I couldn’t call the sheriff’s office. They wouldn’t have believed me. Some of them had played football with him, and nothing would have been done to him anyhow. He would just have said it was consensual, that I’d wanted it, and then they would have asked me who else I had been sleeping with and it would have turned into a trial of my morals, which at that point couldn’t really withstand scrutiny. His family was prominent in the community, and I liked them a lot. They certainly wouldn’t have believed me, and if they
had
happened to believe me, it would have torn the family apart and they would have wound up hating me, not him. So I told no one, not even my closest friends. I just filled the tub with the hottest water I could stand and tried to soak all traces of him away. It was a classic case of rape, like I had read about so often. Only this time it was me.
The kicker was that two days later, a note arrived in the mail. It said, “Thank you for one of the most exciting nights of my life.” And he signed his name. I was so angry I shook as I burned it up in the kitchen sink.
He went back to his home soon after that, and thankfully I neversaw him again. I never said a word to his sister. If she spoke about him, I would just change the subject, which I’m sure she thought was
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