Trigger Warning. This short story contains information about violence, sexual assault that may be triggering to survivors.
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I add a charm to my charmbracelet for every life that I take. Each charm represents something about my victims to some degree. I’d be lying if I said I chose a charm intentionally. For example, the hammer. The series of events that led to that kill had been interesting. I had had nothing else to use and I was pressed for time. I’d reached for the closest thing to me.
“Here’s your hot chocolate.” I released
my charms and took the mug out of my friend’s hand and carefully set it on the
coaster. Fall had descended on the city weeks prior and had brought with it a
wind chill that numbed your bones. It held the promise of an unrelentingly
frigid winter. It would probably be long too.
She situated herself back on the love
seat adjacent from me. “Ok, continue.”
I
continued my story. I told her what had happened, how our mutual acquaintance
had inched so close to me, and every part of my body had frozen. I didn’t
understand it at the time. I’m always quick, always alert, but my guard had
been down, and I had not expected this. I’d gotten up, shaken, trying to put
some distance between us, trying to process why my head was woozy and my body
was starting to feel numb. He stood close to me, so close I could feel his
erection. And instead of pushing back, I shrank. I felt every part of me
deteriorate, as though someone had vacuumed every ounce of strength. I couldn’t think. Blood was rushing to my brain, my heart was
beating so fast, I could feel my body trembling. I told myself to move away,
move quickly, to get away. If I lingered something horrible would happen. And
so I left. And I shut myself away. And I paced, and paced, and could barely
comprehend what had just taken place.
She
shrugged. “Men are like that. You can’t be friends with them, not really
anyway. You should always know they will be attracted to you.”
I
looked at her. She had beautiful hair, thick, long, lustrous. I loved it best
when she tied it in a high ponytail, gathering it in a glorious puff on her
head. She looked majestic. She rarely gelled her edges, just brushed them
neatly back. She had it tied like that right now. I looked at my charmbracelet.
Wouldn’t it be something if I added an afro-puff charm? I brushed the thought
away.
“I
don’t accept that,” I responded. “I don’t go around pressing my body on someone
just because I like him. I didn’t do anything to give him the green light to
express himself like that.”
“You
were too friendly with him…all those dates you went on with him…”
I
rolled my eyes. “Those were not dates. There was never an agreement that they
were dates. We were hanging out, getting to know one another. People can’t be friends and enjoy doing
things outside of the house together?”
“They
can. I’m saying you should not have been doing all of that. It’s ok to chat,
but that’s where it should have ended. He got the impression that it was more.”
She looked me in the eye with a smirk. “You know how you are.”
I
laughed humorlessly. I could ask for clarification but we were going to go
around in circles. “I disagree with you,” I countered. “What he did was
unacceptable.”
“I’m
not saying it’s your fault,” she said quickly.
“Ok.”
She
sighed. I remained quiet. I began fingering my bracelet, not looking at
anything in particular.
I
thought back to that evening, recalling how I’d been so unassuming, naïve. How
I’d sat down, chatting like it was any other evening. How confusion settled and
numbed my reflexes to react quickly. How I’d become disoriented and yet still
so aware. How half of me attempted to maintain normalcy whilst conscious of the
loud sirens of panic, of fear, of discomfort screeching, alerting me that this
wasn’t ok. I was a deer caught in headlights.
Why had I been caught off guard? I thought there was mutual respect between
us. At one point before all this I was certain of it.
She was talking, and I looked up but I
wasn’t paying attention. The thing about people who feel entitled to others’ bodies is that they hide the
fact that deep down, they feel ownership of you. They possess the correct
vernacular and perform the right actions, lulling you into a false sense of security.
What you perceive as shared camaraderie is something more sinister. It’s
disorienting when it comes from a person you least expect. And then the apologies come. Apologies that are only apologetic
because their wicked hearts have been exposed. They don’t intend to do better.
You ask why they’ve done this wicked, cruel thing. I suppose there can never be a satisfactory
answer. I sought an answer regardless,
and received none. Just apologies. Certainly, these apologies won’t heal the
irreparable breach, nor the fracture within myself. The blame will always fall
to me. I am forced to be statuesque and diplomatic, shouldering this albatross
with grace.
I
stand up, smiling. “I feel so much better after talking to you,” I tell her.
She
looks at me strangely. “Ok…” she says slowly, as she gets up and walks me to
the door. “I hope you understand where I’m coming from. I’m not saying it’s
your fault. I’m just saying you can’t be naïve about how men are.”
I
looked her in the eyes, still smiling. “I understand completely.”
