Cat Fight In The Kitchen-Wattpad Rant

Life after Sexual Assault

I’ve written some hard rants you guys. I can do this. Let’s talk about: Life after Sexual Assault

Just one story here, but there are so many others.

When you’ve been raped you don’t tell anyone because you’re ashamed. Because you think you deserved it.

You don’t say anything to your mom because you think she’s going to laugh and say “that’ll teach you to wear your hooker shoes”.

You don’t tell your dad because you think he’ll shake his head and say “Hanging out with all those boys did nothing for you, huh?”

Your brother would probably look at you in sincere disgust for the person you are now if he knew. Or no. No. He won’t even be able to look at you.

That’s what you keep telling yourself, when in reality they probably wouldn’t say that at all. They wouldn’t treat you the same, no. But they definitely wouldn’t treat you the way you imagine they will either. You’re just scared.

Besides, you don’t live in reality anymore. You live in the horrible prison of your own mind. You wonder from cell to cell, always feeling the walls of concrete closing in on you. And it’s terrible. You’re the jailer and you never let yourself out on good behavior, because you aren’t good. You think you deserved it.

Your one relief is that the guy you care about more than anything—the one that saved you from the hospital; the one that went to multiple stores and bought every brand of sleeping pills he could get his hands on just to find one that worked when you stayed awake for nearly five days straight after it happened; the one that made all of your favorite meals and finally convinced you to eat when you refused to for almost a week; the one that says he loves you no matter what—doesn’t leave.

He knows what happened and he wants to help you through it. He doesn’t want to fix you. He doesn’t want to make you all better. He wants you to know that it’s okay if you’re not okay, because it doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with you. Bad things happen. Good things will come.

But they don’t. Soon, you start to wonder if they ever will and you know that someday he’s going to get tired of waiting around too.

But that doesn’t come as quickly as you expect it to either. So you live in fear of the day when he walks out and you are left truly, completely alone.

Every day could be that day.

When he wakes up in the middle of the night and notices that your side of the bed is cold he comes looking for you. And when he finds you just down the hallway, sitting at the top of the stairs, crying softly, he sits down next to you. He’s smart enough to leave enough space that you’re not touching—you hate being touched—but not so much that you can’t feel his heat.

You just wanted a glass of water, you tell him. You wanted a fucking glass of stupid water, but you can’t go down there. You cannot go into the kitchen, because what if he’s down there? In the dark. What then?

So you sit there crying, knowing he’s not in your kitchen and yet you still don’t have enough courage to go get yourself a goddamn glass of stupid water. And you hate yourself for it, but your best friend seems to understand.

When he gets up to get it for you, you know in your heart that he’s not coming back. He’s tired of you. Tired of your fear. Tired of your crying. Tired of not being able to touch you. To kiss you. To hold you.

He’s not coming back. He’d be stupid not to seize the opportunity and run.

So you’re incredibly surprised when he does; he’s humming softly in the dark so you know it’s him ascending the stairs. And you’re so shocked that you don’t argue when he places the glass of water in one of your hands, takes your other in his, and leads you back to bed.