Breaking, breaking, breaking........... (Trigger warning)
I've issued a trigger warning in the title so please, if you don't like these things, turn away IMMEDIATELY. I refuse to be something my tormentors gave me.
I've been re-reading my things, lately. I've got my old phone fixed and I'm using it again, storing the recent one in the drawers. As per usual, I went through the things to make sure nothing is missing.
Pictures, videos, songs, contacts, and......notes.
The last one is important.
More important than the contacts because I could care less if I lost a few numbers here and there, either I'd get it back if I ever need them or we'd accidentally cross path. No biggie. But notes...
They're secrets.
My deepest, darkest, secrets.
Don't people use their notes app in their phones as a diary? I'm pretty sure I saw it once in IG.
Either way, I opened it and re-read the pages I made for the past 2 years. Dear God, I was such a whiny ass little crybaby of a bitch back then. Of course, it was when I discovered my illness but was it a really big deal? After all, nobody could credit my story. Was it true that I was sexually assaulted?
Was it true that I fought them off? Was it true that I remembered none of it after a year?
Was it true I developed these specific symptoms for 4 years after? And still suffering from it?
Nobody would know.
It is between God, little 'ole me, and them.
The two people who did it to me. And they might not even remember it, passing it off as pranking a junior in their wild highschool years. No, of course they wouldn't. How could they?
I never spoke about them, did I? I just finished re-reading all of my old posts chronologically and I realized, I never even once, described them. Even when it was their hands who gave me night terrors. Their cackling laughter echoing in my head. Their faces etched in my memory.
Oh I remember.
How could I not?
I know I've described the night and the event and the afterwards and the effects so fucking many times over and over like a fucking broken record. If you feel like it's annoying, please never ever exist in my life. Spare me the energy of cutting you off and do the honor yourself because here and now I'll tell you this, I don't need you, nor do I want you here.
Because you're basically telling me that my effort to stay alive every single fucking day after that night is annoying to you and you better hope to God Amelia and Irene don't find you else you'll be in a pinch, I'd think.
If you don't, well...good on ye.
Re-reading my old posts.....so many things had happened. I was so fucking scared for so long.
So fucking weak without even realizing it. So fucking lost. So many times I could've posted a last goodbye. I almost wish the scars would re-materialize on my skin so I could rewind their stories.
My old blood.
She was my senior. Both of them. They were my dorm-mates. I was 13, and they were 14. I was young and gullible, never even suspicious of her elaborate touches and inopportune traps. Truth be told, I didn't even think it was possible, then. She'd find many loop holes to trap me in a secluded place and just.....linger. That night, going up alone to change into my pajamas just made it easier.
I'd already changed my shirt and was standing in my underwear, grabbing my pajama pants in the closet when she grabbed me from behind and threw me onto the bed next to me. I was taken by shock and that gave her the opportunity to secure my hands. She towered over me, hand gripping both of mine whilst her other traveled......downwards. She teared my pants in two.
By then, I'd already stopped the questions and started struggling. Suddenly, the other one popped inside, laughing from an unknown joke. She was alone, and grinned when she spotted both of us on the bed. I screamed for her to help me, please, because I'm scared and I don't know what's going on.
I nearly buckled with relief when she came over to us.
And grabbed my ankles.
I started crying.
They ignored me, and my first senior suggested they trade places. So they did. I thrashed and thrashed, putting all of my 13-year-old energy into it. I cried and cried and pleaded and begged.
They laughed.
They were obviously having fun. She touched my feet, sliding her clammy palms up onto my calves and legs. Squeezed. Kneaded. I was getting desperate. I looked into the second senior's face because she was closest to mine, her arms above me, hands locked around my wrists. She was smiling. With teeth.
She was nearing my thighs now, and inching closer. I buckled harder. Here, I'd stopped crying. Stopped pleading. Stopped begging. I knew they weren't going to stop. So I sucked up my stupid tears and whiny cries and focused on getting myself out. Finally, she slipped, and I kicked her in the stomach. Hard.
That took the second one by surprise and she let me go to help the other up. I took the chance and.......here is where the story changes. After losing my memory of the night for a year, suffering its effects for four, and then remembering it again for two, here is where I changed it.
At least, I didn't think I mean to.
My remembered version is that I ran. I ran out the dorm down the hallways to the end of the balcony in my underwear and sat there until I see them coming out. Or till someone comes up.
The true version is I didn't.
I stayed.
I took the chance and.......scooted upwards on the bed. Because my body couldn't move from the struggle for so long. I didn't know how long it actually was, it could've been minutes, or hours, but it seemed like it was never going to end if I didn't do something. I couldn't move. I just....couldn't.
I scooted upwards on the bed, my spine touching the wall and my arms hugging my trembling body.
I felt so......weak. scared. confused. ashamed. tired. angry.
They stood up, both facing me. The one I kicked had a hand on her stomach and they both were no longer smiling. Instead, they seemed.....afraid. The second one tried to placate me, telling me it was a prank and don't tell anyone. The first one stayed quiet, hunching over her stomach.
I said nothing and stared at them until they left.
I stayed on the bed.
Then others started coming in, asking casually why am I not wearing my pants and sitting like a koala on my bed. I snapped out of it and moved, slowly and cautiously, my limbs twitching and jerking all over the place. I touched the torn pants and put it down under my closet where I won't see them.
I took a new pants and went to bed.
And I realized, I never made a sound thereafter.
Crazy thing is, after all this time? I still keep the torn pants. It's bagged in a plastic wrap and I've sewn the rip with blue lines........but it's still here. Would you like a picture?
I've been re-reading my things, lately. I've got my old phone fixed and I'm using it again, storing the recent one in the drawers. As per usual, I went through the things to make sure nothing is missing.
Pictures, videos, songs, contacts, and......notes.
The last one is important.
More important than the contacts because I could care less if I lost a few numbers here and there, either I'd get it back if I ever need them or we'd accidentally cross path. No biggie. But notes...
They're secrets.
My deepest, darkest, secrets.
Don't people use their notes app in their phones as a diary? I'm pretty sure I saw it once in IG.
Either way, I opened it and re-read the pages I made for the past 2 years. Dear God, I was such a whiny ass little crybaby of a bitch back then. Of course, it was when I discovered my illness but was it a really big deal? After all, nobody could credit my story. Was it true that I was sexually assaulted?
Was it true that I fought them off? Was it true that I remembered none of it after a year?
Was it true I developed these specific symptoms for 4 years after? And still suffering from it?
Nobody would know.
It is between God, little 'ole me, and them.
The two people who did it to me. And they might not even remember it, passing it off as pranking a junior in their wild highschool years. No, of course they wouldn't. How could they?
I never spoke about them, did I? I just finished re-reading all of my old posts chronologically and I realized, I never even once, described them. Even when it was their hands who gave me night terrors. Their cackling laughter echoing in my head. Their faces etched in my memory.
Oh I remember.
How could I not?
I know I've described the night and the event and the afterwards and the effects so fucking many times over and over like a fucking broken record. If you feel like it's annoying, please never ever exist in my life. Spare me the energy of cutting you off and do the honor yourself because here and now I'll tell you this, I don't need you, nor do I want you here.
Because you're basically telling me that my effort to stay alive every single fucking day after that night is annoying to you and you better hope to God Amelia and Irene don't find you else you'll be in a pinch, I'd think.
If you don't, well...good on ye.
Re-reading my old posts.....so many things had happened. I was so fucking scared for so long.
So fucking weak without even realizing it. So fucking lost. So many times I could've posted a last goodbye. I almost wish the scars would re-materialize on my skin so I could rewind their stories.
My old blood.
She was my senior. Both of them. They were my dorm-mates. I was 13, and they were 14. I was young and gullible, never even suspicious of her elaborate touches and inopportune traps. Truth be told, I didn't even think it was possible, then. She'd find many loop holes to trap me in a secluded place and just.....linger. That night, going up alone to change into my pajamas just made it easier.
I'd already changed my shirt and was standing in my underwear, grabbing my pajama pants in the closet when she grabbed me from behind and threw me onto the bed next to me. I was taken by shock and that gave her the opportunity to secure my hands. She towered over me, hand gripping both of mine whilst her other traveled......downwards. She teared my pants in two.
By then, I'd already stopped the questions and started struggling. Suddenly, the other one popped inside, laughing from an unknown joke. She was alone, and grinned when she spotted both of us on the bed. I screamed for her to help me, please, because I'm scared and I don't know what's going on.
I nearly buckled with relief when she came over to us.
And grabbed my ankles.
I started crying.
They ignored me, and my first senior suggested they trade places. So they did. I thrashed and thrashed, putting all of my 13-year-old energy into it. I cried and cried and pleaded and begged.
They laughed.
They were obviously having fun. She touched my feet, sliding her clammy palms up onto my calves and legs. Squeezed. Kneaded. I was getting desperate. I looked into the second senior's face because she was closest to mine, her arms above me, hands locked around my wrists. She was smiling. With teeth.
She was nearing my thighs now, and inching closer. I buckled harder. Here, I'd stopped crying. Stopped pleading. Stopped begging. I knew they weren't going to stop. So I sucked up my stupid tears and whiny cries and focused on getting myself out. Finally, she slipped, and I kicked her in the stomach. Hard.
That took the second one by surprise and she let me go to help the other up. I took the chance and.......here is where the story changes. After losing my memory of the night for a year, suffering its effects for four, and then remembering it again for two, here is where I changed it.
At least, I didn't think I mean to.
My remembered version is that I ran. I ran out the dorm down the hallways to the end of the balcony in my underwear and sat there until I see them coming out. Or till someone comes up.
The true version is I didn't.
I stayed.
I took the chance and.......scooted upwards on the bed. Because my body couldn't move from the struggle for so long. I didn't know how long it actually was, it could've been minutes, or hours, but it seemed like it was never going to end if I didn't do something. I couldn't move. I just....couldn't.
I scooted upwards on the bed, my spine touching the wall and my arms hugging my trembling body.
I felt so......weak. scared. confused. ashamed. tired. angry.
They stood up, both facing me. The one I kicked had a hand on her stomach and they both were no longer smiling. Instead, they seemed.....afraid. The second one tried to placate me, telling me it was a prank and don't tell anyone. The first one stayed quiet, hunching over her stomach.
I said nothing and stared at them until they left.
I stayed on the bed.
Then others started coming in, asking casually why am I not wearing my pants and sitting like a koala on my bed. I snapped out of it and moved, slowly and cautiously, my limbs twitching and jerking all over the place. I touched the torn pants and put it down under my closet where I won't see them.
I took a new pants and went to bed.
And I realized, I never made a sound thereafter.
Crazy thing is, after all this time? I still keep the torn pants. It's bagged in a plastic wrap and I've sewn the rip with blue lines........but it's still here. Would you like a picture?
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