But it feels so real. Every time the memories surface, it feels like I’m right there. I’m feeling every hit, every excruciating thrust inside me. Every tiny movement. Skin against skin. Men I don’t know. Hands I’m unfamiliar with. They’re not Heath, and they won’t ever be Ian. And the smells. The putrid smell of hot, sweaty, dirty skin. A smell so vile, so distinct that I may never forget it. Even now, a lump forms in my throat.
I’m unexpectedly pulled from my thoughts by a slow but unmistakable pulsing in my core. My legs are tingling, my blood pumping faster now than before. I feel like I do when I’ve been running awhile and I’m about to give up and turn around. Only, my lungs aren’t straining for air, and my head is foggy. I can barely hear anything around me, and even though my eyes are open and my vision is fine, it’s like I can’t focus on any of it. Forcing myself to pay attention to my body, I realize what’s causing it.
In my anger at the surfaced memories, I’m rubbing my clit harder and faster, aided by the dampness between my legs. The memories have fueled something inside me that’s taken over. In this moment, I don’t feel like a broken down woman. I feel powerful.
Powerful.
So I turn the vibrator on its lowest setting and have to fight back a moan at how delicious it feels. My heart rate spikes. The increasing throbbing takes me back to that night when, despite all of the pain and abuse—and perhaps worst of all—when what they did felt less than awful. Good, even. Doctors tried to talk to me about it. They said it happens. Even if you don’t want it, sometimes your body responds anyway. And I hate myself for feeling something then. And part of me hates myself for feeling something now.
It gets old—feeling so inept and incapable of moving on. I’ve never met a person more resistant to letting go of awful memories than me. It’s just another thing to hate about myself. It’s the final straw in an intricately designed straw hat that’s too worn to really be useful. My complete refusal to let go of my bad memories is the only straw that’s holding the entire thing together. And when it breaks, I find myself unable to suck in a breath. With my lungs stalled and my nerves about to break, my legs shake and I open my mouth to scream. It’s a silent cry for help that jolts my entire body, but it’s not enough. I can’t make noise with anybody else at home—or any of my neighbors at home either. When I run out of breath, I gasp for what little air I can manage and let out another silent scream.
And I turn the vibrator up to its highest setting, and without another thought, I reposition the toy so the silicone shaft is positioned against my wet, aching pussy. I shudder at the feeling of almost—just almost—having what I want.
What I need.
What I hate.
And there are no more straws. And in place of what used to be a beloved, well-worn hat is nothing. Just a pile of straws that have no purpose. That do nothing. And mean nothing.
And I’ve had enough.
Be brave.
I slam the vibrator into my core as hard as I can and fight the enclosing panic.
I can almost feel him punching me in the stomach and then in my nose. There’s so much blood. I hate the blood. It’s not really happening, I know that, but it feels like it is happening all over again. I pull the vibrator out and slam it in again. This time, the side extension presses against my clit. It’s exactly where I want it to be. Perfect. My legs shake and my eyes cross. It hurts in a way that feels right. Like I deserve to feel the pain again. I deserve a lot for throwing away my sobriety because of spite. The vibrator is bigger than they were. It’s bigger and more pleasurable and just the right amount of painful. I can’t focus on anything but the sweet ache and brilliant shocks that ripple through my body.
For a moment, I forget that I’m in bed. Instead, I’m bent over Eileen’s desk at Universal Ground and it’s not me touching myself. Every bone, every inch of flesh, and every muscle in my body hurts. Holly is across the room with the phone to her ear, forcing herself to tell Ian what they’re doing to me. How they’re enjoying it. She reaches forward and wraps her hand around mine, and it’s the absolute most important thing in my world. I can feel her hand on mine, like I really am still there. She holds on to me—the way she always has—fiercely and without fail. She doesn’t let go even when his thrusts are so hard that they slam me painfully into the edge of the desk. I nearly bite straight through my lip with how hard I’m biting down.
I’m here, Minds.
I love you, and I’m here.
And in an instant, I’m back in my bed, clearly, fucking myself. It’s nobody else and I’m safe.
And I’m come savagely, gasping, and bucking against the bed.
When it’s over, I can barely move. My body is so heavy that I feel like I did then—almost dead. The only difference is that now I’m not praying for death. I don’t welcome the blackness that will swallow me when it’s time. I don’t beg an invisible being I doubt exists for release from my torture.
No, instead I’m left with the bitter, desperate, hate-filled need for revenge. I’m tired of being a victim of rape, a dope-sick junkie, an alcoholic, a fucking failure. I won’t be a victim anymore. I refuse to be afraid.
If I can’t shake the monsters, then I’ll become one of them.
11 months to Mancuso’s downfall