Picking At Old Wounds
TW: rape, flashbacks, PTSD
I should be happy… Right? Only a week or two and my rapist will finally be questioned. Things are moving slow. Way too slow. It’s been almost a year since the rape itself until we got here. But we did. So… Now what?
Not a day goes by when I don’t think he doesn’t deserve to be brought to justice. Not a day in my life I’ve felt sorry for him. But I know that this questioning will pick the scabs off of my old wounds, and it will hurt again. It’s been close to a year. I thought I healed. I really did.
Yet, a part of me wonders why I went to the police in the first place. It wasn’t that bad, was it? He didn’t hold a knife to my neck, he didn’t rip out my hair or choke me until I couldn’t breathe… But I still remember how I said no countless times, and he just turned me over and entered my ass like it belonged to him. Like he owned the right because he had already claimed every other hole of me. I don’t remember if it hurt. Maybe it did. When he entered me, I kind of just gave up. Like a defeated animal, I played dead. Was I supposed to fight back? I still don’t know.
There’s another memory in my head — more triggering than the first one. Me, lying on the bed with my head hanging down the edge of it. Him, thrusting in my mouth until I couldn’t breathe. I thought I would throw up. I wanted him to stop. At…
