It has become a way of living. A way of not expressing myself. A way of living in the shadows for years since the attack.
I stopped living. Stopped making future plans. Even stopped myself for trusting people, especially men. I detest men. The way they smile. Even the way they smell makes me gag sometimes. With their self-righteous behavior, trying to be the superior rase. I fucking hate it.
I’m even struggling to breathe, to think, and most of all to feel alive. My panic attacks became more vivid after the attack. Their faces memorized in my mind forever. The three of them ruined my life. The scars they have left on my soul aren’t erasable. Their hands still crawling underneath my skin, making me wince every time I see a man staring at me.
I’m filthy, ugly, and not worth living. How many times my parents say I’m such a beautiful woman. Even my female therapist Lily tells me each time I’ve an appointment with her. It makes me sick. Being beautiful is something I haven’t felt in a long time. Even my gorgeous sister Barbara, or Barbie like we call her, has a hard time being around with me. She thinks I’m negative and use the assault as an excuse to break free from my boring decisions in life.
But the truth is, I tried very hard. With every attempt, I collapsed backwards. It gave me even more hate feelings against myself, so I just stopped trying. This was useless. I’m useless...
Struggling with everything is rough. Knowing I was a carefree kid, with a bright future in front of her. I’m not tough, I’ve become hard. But deep inside, I’m still soft and weak, but I somehow keep that part only for myself, hidden for everyone.
I’m still the lost kid, trapped in a body of an adult, trying to live and start over, but fail in everything.
Time makes me struggle too, maybe that’s the hardest part of all. Time heals, they say, but that’s bullshit. I’m not healed by far. This feeling won’t vanish by accident. Even my therapist couldn’t help me after all those years. Nobody can heal me, help me, take away my scars for good.
I’m Grace Stone, and I was fourteen years old when I got raped by a boy at a party. The other boys that were inside the room had been filling the entire scene from undressing me until I knocked out for a few minutes. Every detail stays trapped in my mind. There’s nothing that can help me erase the hurt, the fear, the hate I felt that night. The images of their faces fresh in my mind.I can’t let it go...