Even after that dreadful night, she engaged in coerced sex, even though she never truly wanted it. But she felt that it was expected, and just wanted to be hugged and kissed afterward.

(A part of her knew that this was the only reason he visited anymore.) It eventually became a routine—

He started to only visit her at night. He would nonchalantly ask, “What’s up?”, a half-hearted question that does not prompt an actual conversation, because he didn’t really care about the answer. And without delay, he got right to it—he would position her, he would flip her over, he would command her, he would push her around, and he would never ask if she was comfortable, if she was okay, and he would never ask her if she was happy. She would try to smile, and try to convince herself that she was enjoying it, hoping that she would eventually come to enjoy it. But she didn’t really. He wasn’t warm. Or gentle. And he had stopped kissing her a long time ago.

She was just a corpse now. Not even a pretty one, but an ugly one.

She tried to would play into his fantasy of her being this perfect girl; sweet, witty (but not too witty because that intimidated him), and innocent (but not too innocent because, well, that’s no fun in the bedroom).

He would tell her to “shut up”. And she foolishly still announced that she loved him and was thankful to have him in her life.

He would see other girls, he would boast his popularity, and he turned her best friends against her.

He would laugh at her, he would make fun of her, he would tell her that her body isn’t perfect (this is too small, this is too big), her skin is awful, her hair isn’t done the way he likes it.

And eventually she couldn’t look in the mirror because he had convinced her that she wasn’t good enough.

When he had first snatched her up, she was a brand new, shiny toy that he immediately labeled “mine” and claimed as his prize, without bothering to grab the instructions and read them carefully. She was a toy that was rare, limited edition, still fully packaged, in layers of delicate wrapping. Like a child, he could not bear his excitement, and he ripped the packaging open, bent and twisted and broke her. When she showed signs of wear and tear, he became angry and frustrated. She was no longer shiny and new, he was bored, and she wasn’t worth repairing. So he threw her aside. He had replacements ready; shinier, newer, younger editions.

When she confronted him and explained the crime he committed against her, he became furious. (Her roommates thought he was going to hit her). And he started to hate her for calling him out on it.

It is easier for others to turn a blind eye. They do not want to believe that their classmate, acquaintance, friend, roommate has done something so atrocious. They do not want to get involved, they do not like confrontation, they will not take a stand for her. (It’s easier to treat him like everyone else, if not befriend him altogether). It is easier for people to say, “the bitch is crazy”, and they will not talk about what the real problem is.

But this isn’t just about her.

“She” does not need to be named. She is thousands of females; tired of being stigmatized, suppressed, blamed, patronized, unheard. She is not vengeful. She can even forgive with time.

She just wants them to face the consequences and be educated. She just wants them to learn and never hurt anyone the way they have hurt her.

She just wants justice and peace of mind.


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