I was seven years old, wearing a disney princess dress down to my ankles, long ringlets down my back. I would dance on my tippy toes and pretend I was a ballerina, I would watch my favorite cartoons and do nothing but laugh. I guess what I’m trying to say was, I was innocence, I was young.
Now, I do not know what he saw in me that he craved, I do not know what he wanted from me. I was taken into a room, and I grew overnight. I was no longer a daisy fresh little girl, I was a dead rose, at least I wished I was so when he tried to touch me again, he would get cut and bleed, then maybe he would’ve stopped.
You see, after this happened to me I no longer twirled around in my dresses, I no longer watch cartoons and laughed. When I watched television I wished that my life was inside the screen, so I didn’t have to live my reality. I was afraid to talk, because if I talked he said it would be the last words out of my mouth.
It’s ten years later and I still can’t be touched without flinching, I can’t walk past a man without a taste of fear. I can’t get back the deepest part of me he took. It took me nine years to let myself be heard, because I was ashamed, the victim. I don’t know why, why the fuck are the victims filled with more shame than the predators? Why the fuck is this imprinted into my mind, and scarred on my skin when he doesn’t feel any ounce of remorse? I don’t know, I don’t know.
All I know is, I am tired of victims being told they were asking for it, how could a seven year old be asking for it? How could the boy who was too weak to put up a fight asking for it? How could the women coming home late from work, walking back to her apartment be asking for it?
The answer is, we don’t. We don’t fucking ask for it, we were forced.