His breath left it’s stench on my neck. I remember thinking how strange it was I could still smell his saliva after that night. Even if I just think about him for too long the scent somehow kicks into the back of my nostrils and I feel like vomiting.
My body had completely recovered by the time I had to face him in court, only a few scars from when his unusually long nails scraped across my face in a violent smack remained seen to the untrained eye. I hated him for that. He was a permanent reminder of my bad decisions that night. Each time I looked in the mirror I heard the grunts “W****” and “Sl**” rise up from some unknown place in my body. My mom had cried how lucky I was on account of the cops arresting him hours later, finding a switchblade in his pocket that he could have easily used on my feeble, yet still fighting body.
“She had wanted it just as bad as I had.” Such a guy response. “She was asking for it.” I was sickened by the thought. While he had me pinned down into hard gravel with the back of my scalp being scraped on the curb he had used words like “baby” and “honey” like we were life long lovers, but then it would all be brought back to reality when he’d follow whatever endearing sentiment with “ You w****” or “..Such a sl**.”
I never talked to anyone about any of my relationships, especially to my mother. At times I could see her hidden frustration when I would hide details about my new crush or what not. Even to my friends it was like pulling teeth. So how could I tell any person that I had been raped by some random bystander after walking home from a movie? I just couldn’t. When I finally got home that night it was around one in the morning. And walking up the stairs to my bedroom I felt so numb, so raw and used. I could still hear my parents TV on in their room and I felt like crying, panting for one of them to come out. They needed to make the first move. It had never been so important for them to exit that bedroom until that exact moment. After waiting seconds, minutes in the hallway I finally broke down and turned into the bathroom, where I finally had to face the bloody person in the mirror. It had been worse than I thought, blood wasn’t just running down my face but the draining started from the hair line down to my chin, scrapes and random spots of dirt where he had been clutching the earth with his grinding fists then shoving them in front of my mouth to shush me were dispersed.
“Katrina?” I heard my mom call, annoyed, distantly from the hallway. With that I opened the bathroom door before collapsing completely.
Waking up that next hour in the hospital was another horrific moment in my life. My dirty tattered jeans were off and a random doctor was inspecting my whole body, with my mom sitting in the chair beside me, her hands on her face as she shockingly watched the doctor inspect. Coming back to reality I felt pain, pain down there. Finally the doctor straightened up and it looked as if she were grinning but I couldn’t tell from her surgical mask. “Saved a piece of him. Good girl.”
“Mommy.” I whimpered helplessly and so quietly that I wondered if anyone but myself would hear. I hadn’t used that term in so long but it almost felt right.
“I’m here, baby.” Her voice was so strained with sobs. “I’m here.” I had been terrified of this, seeing her so upset. I never wanted to see her that upset. Not only the helplessness but also the pure blind hatred in her voice was almost unbearable.
I wonder some days if that young man, so young I had almost seen him as harmless, ever thinks about me. Wonders if my blood clot was ever fixed, if my wrists healed properly. But what I wonder most of all, is if he remembers my name.