By: Seth Pitcher
Bayview Secondary School

My eyes sting with tears that I refuse to release. If my eyes are a prison, then my tears are prisoners who deserve to rot in a cell for the entirety of their lives. I can’t acknowledge this. I can’t acknowledge this. Ignore it. Ignore it. Ignore it. I can’t move. My body is rigid. I want to move. I hate lying in this spot where he- no! Ignore it. Ignore it. Don’t acknowledge it. Nothing happened.

After a long while, a sense of feeling finally returns to my hand. I can feel it. I move it against the scratchy carpet. Just opening and closing my hand against the ugliest carpet I’ve seen in my life.

I close my eyes, and just focus on moving my hand. Open. Close. Open. Close. I’m real. I still exist. I can move. I need to move. I need to stand up. I need to get help. I need to tell someone. I know I need to tell someone… But I can’t bring myself to. I don’t want anyone to know. I need to get up. Shower. I need a shower. I need to wipe the filth that I know he’s left on me. I need to get it off. I can still feel him. He’s here. He’s on me.

I force myself to sit up. I can see the bathroom. Its simple white door is partially open, and I can see the tub. Salvation. With a shuddering intake of breath I put my body into motion. My left arm reaches out to grasp the carpet, then my right knee drags to join it. Then my right arm followed by my left knee. Slowly, I drag myself towards the bathroom. Left. Right. Left. Right. Keep moving. Don’t think about the ache in your knees. Don’t think about the pain in your back. Don’t think about the pain in your neck, or the bruises where he… no. Don’t think about it.

I almost shirk away when my hand finally touches the cool tiles of the bathroom floor. As cold as I feel, they feel colder. But the cool tiles are better than the scratchy carpet. I scurry into the bathroom, and quickly shut the door, careful to turn the lock on the doorknob. That’s it. I’m safe. The door is locked, no one can come in- but what if- horrified, I grasp the rubbery shower curtain and pull it down. No one. Safe. Safe in this little bathroom, that’s barely big enough to fit me. There’s only two ways in and out- a locked door and a window far too small for anyone other than a child to get in. I pull the lacy pink curtain in front of the window- just in case. Then, suddenly sprawling myself out on the floor, I do nothing but think about my breath. In. Out. My hands, trembling, move to my naked chest, and I just lay them gently atop. Up. Down. Up. Down. With every breath I can feel my chest and belly move up and down with a steady, constant rhythm. Finally, something constant.

I keep my thoughts blank, focusing on my breathing alone. It’s not shallow. It’s not deep. Am I breathing normally? No. It has to be deep breaths- my chest doesn’t heave like this when I’m breathing normally, does it? In. Out. In. Out. Up. Down. Up. Down. How did he get in? Don’t think about that. Did he know I was home? Did he plan this? Or did he just notice my door was unlocked- it must have been unlocked, I didn’t hear anything at the door, but then the TV was awfully loud- and decided to take a peek? When I walked out, did I surprise him? Is that why he grabbed my neck? What then? He just up and decided to-t-to-. I choke out a strangled sob. I can’t help it, hot tears pour down my face. My arm covers my eyes, and blindly I force myself up, and grab the side of the tub. I force myself to climb in- never mind the pain in my knees, or back, or neck. The water pours down on me- as hot as I can make it. It scolds my skin. It burns and my tan skin turns red. I grab the soap off of the side of the brown tub and start scrubbing. I stand, and scrub it deep into my hair. It hurts so much, and I don’t know if it’s the boiling water, pouring down over me, or the harsh scrubbing that I’m inflicting myself with. Next my neck. I cry out. It hurts so much to touch the sensitive skin, but for that I scrub it even harder. Disgusting. He touched there. He grabbed there. It needs to be wiped away. My arms. First the left then the right. Scrubbing up and down as hard as I can, I can feel bits of him under my fingernails- I must have scratched him; I must have fought back- and so I dig my nails into the soft bar to get him off me. My chest is next. My arm is exhausted and I want nothing more than to drop the soap and just lie in the tub, and hope it fills with water and drowns me, but I keep scrubbing. My chest is scrubbed harshest yet. I’m not just scrubbing it; my nails scratch my skin fiercely as I clean. I want to tear these mounds off. I want to scratch them off. He touched me there. He ogled them. Poked them. Played with them- all while I screamed and beat him with my clenched fists. He laughed mockingly. He grabbed my neck and pushed me into the carpet, to the point that I thought I’d fall through the floorboards. I scrub harder. I trail down to my belly, and skip down to my feet. Then I sit down in the tub, and stare at the top of my thighs.

I can’t touch there. He didn’t just touch me there. He didn’t just prod me there, or ogle there. There, he violated. There, he forced himself. There, he stripped me bare, and took everything. When he walked out of my apartment with that smug grin on his face, he left with my dignity tied to his hands and to that part of him that violated me so. Gingerly, I spread my legs. It needs to be cleaned, I reason. Hesitantly, I bring my hand to rest between my legs. It’s the same. I expect some sort of mark, some large sign or something that clearly indicates that he was there. But it’s the same. I withdraw my hand, and pick up the soap. I start with my thighs. This time softly. Slowly. I cry the hardest when I near that place. But I manage to scrub the bar of soap along until I feel at least a little bit cleaner. I drop the soap in the tub, and wait a few moments. I close my eyes and let the water- which has cooled somewhat- wipe away whatever the soap left behind. I don’t think he’s here anymore. He’s not as evident. For the most part at least, he’s left.

When I finally climb out of the shower, I don’t bother turning off the water. Whatever trace of him sitting in my tub I want washed away for good. I unlock the door and peer out through its barely open slit. No one is there. With no little feeling of disgust, I bolt to my apartment door and lock it. I move quickly to my couch, an old red-brown piece that’s falling apart and collapse on it. I pull the blanket off the back of the couch and wrap it around my body, hugging it as tightly to me as I can. Then I stare at an item on the side table. A simple black phone.

What do I do now?

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