Warning: This article contains discussion of sexual assault.
She hears the knock. Jumping up from the couch with glee, she opens the door like a little kid with arms thrown up in the air. They fall down around the neck of her dear friend. She hugs the next friend, and the next friend, and the next. She wants tonight to be a special one; one that her guests couldn’t forget. She invites the party in and urges them to make themselves at home.
Between the bass blasting, the fumes of liquor, and the constant influx of more guests coming in, she feels pretty damn good. Life is beautiful. She partakes in a joint out on the porch. She flirts with some guys. She dances with some girls. She jumps at every opportunity to take a shot. When one shot becomes one shot too many, she ends up falling on the couch in a fit of dizziness in the back living room.
Flopped like a ragdoll, she knows she took it too far. She feels like vomiting, but can’t get it to happen somehow. She lets her eyes relax, losing herself in the complexity of the music. She feels electrified by every beat, invigorated by every note.
She is unable to coherently respond to conversation. She is weak, helpless, exhausted. Through the doorway, she can only see blurry fragments of her friends in the next room over. Her lights are not on. Still powerless, she is unable to fight when the guy begins to take control of her. She has faded down a path of drunken slumber, led by the hand of Jack Daniel himself.
She awakens the next morning, but doesn’t open her eyes right away. She wants some more seconds of peaceful dark. Numb, she slowly raises her hand to her face, gently feeling the warm, textured patterns the couch’s cushions left on her cheeks. Her head feels like it’s full of water, but she lifts it ever so slightly to notice that her underwear is off, crumpled in a ball on the other end of the couch. She doesn’t remember taking them off and can’t fathom why she would.
She comes to the realization of the sore pain in her lower body. She sees that she is the only person in the house. She remembers that she hosted the party last night and that this is her place. She attempts to move her body, slowly but surely, rotating up into a sitting position. Her foot knocks an empty Solo cup down onto the wooden floor. A slow line of Smirnoff dribbles out; she watches it crawl.
She traces her fingers under her eyes, rubbing off old, flaky eyeliner and mascara residue. Her face falls into her hands, wishing for anything to make the full feeling of her head drain. She knew she drank a lot, but something still didn’t feel right. Head still in hands, the throbbing pain comes back. She becomes concerned. Something happened last night. In a panic, she stands up too fast and falls over, catching herself on the coffee table. She recovers and stumbles to the bathroom down the hall.
She takes off everything she has on still: her top, her bra, her skirt. She observes herself in the mirror. She recognizes the skin she has always been in, the sacred vessel that encapsulates her being, her spirit, her story, her soul. Her colossal brown eyes that her classmates were always jealous of. Her prominent bottom lip. Her left breast slightly bigger than her right. Her mole on her right shoulder that her mother used to tell her was a special kiss from God. Her curvy hips which took her so long to learn how to love. Her belly button, which reminded her of birth and motherhood and how someone last night violated the very same type of sacred vessel from which he was born and brought into the world.
She feels as empty as a pit. Hollow, barren. Vulnerable, unguarded. Violated. Horrified, frozen, shocked. Her spirit has been robbed. Her soul has been bled.
She commences the journey of recovery, a bumpy and multifaceted journey, at no other place than square one.
“What was she wearing?”
“How much alcohol did she consume?”
“What did she do to provoke it?”
“Why didn’t she speak up?”
There are absolutely zero justifications for sexual assault. No woman asks to be attacked, for her body to be violated in every way physically, mentally, and emotionally. No woman asks for debilitating depression, severe post-traumatic stress disorder, nightmares, disturbing flashbacks, poor self-esteem, or a lack of trust for even people whom she loves. No woman asks for a sexually transmitted disease, a substance abuse problem, or a sleep or eating disorder.
We should be allowed to wear what we want without fearing our safety and well-being. We should be able to enjoy a few drinks without planning for the possibility of assault later in the night. We shouldn’t have to edit these basic life choices to fit the injustices we could face throughout the day. Wearing a short skirt is not equivalent to a sign around the neck saying “I want it.” The only message that says “I want it” is a clear, confident, and conscious “yes.”
Men don’t disrespect, demean, harass, or assault women.
Men love and support women. Men know the power a woman can have on their mind, their heart, their entire being. Men know that women are resilient, strong, and powerful. They respect, admire, and adore women. Men revere them, care for them, defend them. Men speak for women when their voice isn’t heard, and they pick women up when they are down. Men would never harm a woman or let her be put in harm’s way. She is far too precious, valuable, and human.
She is her, and she is a human being. A spirit, a story, a soul.
And she was not asking for it.
Photo Courtesy of Under The Night Starry Sky
National Sexual Assault Hotline:
1-800-656-4673
National Suicide Prevention Hotline:
1-800-273-8255
Crisis Center of Tampa Bay (Advocacy Services and Forensic Exams):
813-264-9961
Photo Sources:
https://underthenightstarrysky.wordpress.com/tag/black-and-white/page/43/