Strawberry Wine, By Leah Holbrook Sackett
You gave me strawberry wine laced with forced penetration. I did not belong to me; I was snagged in your snarl. In the mouth of the beast, I was gnashed and gnarled. I fought you with glass noodle arms, in and out of consciousness, as I regained my mind, my mother tracked me down, so you released me. I made it home on the wings of an angel. That was yesteryear. I saw a picture of you today, your mouth overcrowded with teeth. I can still see my flesh dripping from your smile. Your over-stylized hair covers your horns. There's you, next victim, unwittingly propped up in your arms. You are sheathed in the skin of a white man. Who could do you harm? My cries fell on deaf ears of justice.
Healing came forth in the measure of time and time and time. I'm better, not healed, after years of PTSD therapy. I said that like it was easy, but it was not. In the crucible of treatment, there were blood-curdling screams in the night and verges on psychotic breaks. When I had enough distance, I was rendered like a child. I would hide under a blanket during a movie rape scene, but at least I didn't claw at my skin and howl like a tortured animal. The passage of time has taught me how to suffer with civility. Fuck, civility.
Every year we near the anniversary and I am bound to you again, to the rising nightmare of you. There are things excised from my life, such as your dull throbbing music and an entire district of town. I live because I have the ability to block these things out. I've tried, out of necessity, to toe the line of triggers. It is not worth it. It sets me back.
Thrust back like a punch in the gut, I am sprawled out defenseless to repel the thought of you, the feeling of your searing claws coming forth to eviscerate and burn me. You, just you, there is nowhere to hide. You rendered me without a voice. You raped me. You stuffed your cock in my mouth. I bit down as hard as I could. You didn't do that again. You raped me, and then you were interrupted by unwelcomed visitors. You threw a blanket over me like a sheet over a corpse. Consciousness faded in and out. I could hear you talking and laughing with others. I thought of screaming for help, but instead, I was the first one to silence myself. What if your friends were like you? I escaped to the second story bathroom.
I was out of time. You found me on the landing floor and carried me into an extra bedroom. You woke me while raping me. I tried to fight you. I was a little stronger this time. You pinned me to the bed, my right arm twisted behind my back. You wrenched down with your strength. I zoned in on the wallpaper border to make a mental escape. This was hard, but somehow I knew surviving would be harder. It would go on and on and on. This never goes away. I am a lucky one, I received therapy to learn how to live inside this hollowed-out shell of me. For when you returned my body to me on the threshold of damage and death, you paused to hug me goodbye as freedom lingered there on the lawn and beyond. But it was a falsehood, there was no freedom. You worked your hateful trick to linger inside my mind, broken and bent. There's nowhere, no speed to run far enough from you. I'm still panting, rushing, in and out of consciousness of that moment. And no one will give me breath again. Rape culture allows you to wallow in the thrill without risk of retribution. You lead the line with the intake nurse that turned me away with a pamphlet, the psychiatrist who said he didn't offer that kind of therapy, the detective that turned me away with his disbelief. I had to endure and deteriorate until I found a counselor who would listen. There was even less of my frame of mind, so little to work with, but I'm a fighter, and I persevered. Even though we are quickly gaining on the anniversary. I am here to fight another day.
BAD BRIDE stands with victims of assault. If you or someone you care about has been a victim of a crime, please know you are not alone.