His Touch

Being a girl seems to put you at a position to be easily taken advantage of. This is evident.
Sometimes, you meet that person. That person who will casually stroll into your life, flip it upside down, and sit back to watch you crumble.
Looking back now, it is obvious that any smart person would have gotten out, but I couldn't. It's not like that, it's not easy to get away. The fear was there, it wasn't escapable.
So there I was, trapped in the same room as always. A small dark blue couch rested in the corner, some unused work-out equipment settling in another corner. The short, sleek dresser that always sat in front of the door. And behind me? His body. Pressed firmly against mine. The earbud rested carefully in my ear, the music clearly ringing throughout my head. "She got a donk, she got a donk." My pale white skin stood out against his caramel-colored, ever so dangerous skin. His eyes could scan my body in a second, from head to toe. He always took in his specimen carefully, examining every curve and indention of my body.
His body clearly blocked the only entrance and exit of the room. That door, the smooth white surface that I could never reach. I am his hostage. He controls me, and I obey. Who wouldn't obey? His muscular chest, his forceful arms, his fierce gaze. You would bow to his will, it was not an option. Plus, who was outside the door? His friends. I couldn't just walk out, I couldn't make him move. The only other exit? The window. That doesn't seem like a bad idea, ending two pains at once. Oh no, the fall wouldn't kill me. I'd still have to live this life. I'd still have to feel his unfriendly hands wonder and fondle.
Maybe it’d be a break from it. Or yet, maybe he’d drag me back into the house, pissed, and would rape me. He was capable. Let’s be honest with this. He was a monster who was ready to ravage my life in any way possible. He was tormenting me day in and day out. I was his new toy; he used me and abused me.
How do you handle that? How do you cope? Maybe you scream and cry, maybe you search in yet another place for love, maybe you turn to the oh-so-easy option of drugs, or maybe you are engulfed by a life-controlling depression. Maybe you cope by the small slice of a razor. Maybe the only way to escape this never-ending hell is to let the cool crimson blood flow from the cuts. Yes, that’s what I’m called. “Cutter!” or “Emo!” would be tossed at me.
Still, escape is not possible. His hands pressed firmly on my chest or their snaking down my body is unavoidable. I had become a victim, a victim to his abuse. His shoving, his force. It had consumed me, and I knew the taste of blood from the times I had bit into my lip to keep silent. To keep from uttering something that could cause rage and fury. One simple word could cause a change, could cause death.
That room was suffocating; it was full of pain and fear. It wasn’t filled with love. Nothing he did was from love, it was selfish. He was selfish. He was putting a 13-year old girl through hell for his own selfish desires. Yet I wouldn’t walk away. I couldn’t really; at least that’s how it seemed.
A victim of molestation. A victim of sexual abuse. He made me into a victim.