I fell asleep. I felt safe.
I was drinking. Fell asleep. On my couch. In my home. My husband went to bed. You were there. My husband’s coworker. Fucking watching. Fucking waiting.
I woke up. My pants pushed down. You were behind me. One arm around my neck. One arm around my chest. You were inside me. Thrusting. Sweating. Cussing.
Paralyzed in fear and pain. I knew what was wrong. I knew I should shout, scream, cry for help. But there was fear. And then it was over. You finished yourself off into me. Like a dirty rag. A tear rolled down my face.
Shock. Disbelief. I trusted you.
I was bleeding. I was hurting. I felt disgusting. I had become another statistic. You said it was fine. But it wasn’t fine.
For six months. I lived in silence. In fear. In guilt and embarrassment. Then I told you off. You told me you thought I wanted it. You told me you didn’t remember doing it. You said “sorry”.
You fucking lying bastard.
So I cut you out of my life. I picked up the pieces. I moved on. I learned. I grew. I became stronger. I spoke up. Now it’s been a year.
And I’m still fucking here.