It was a particularly hot summer that year.
My “room” was a glorified enclosed patio - far from everyone else in the house, cut off from all of the amenities that the rest of the home had to offer.
I had no air conditioning, and was even locked into my room on multiple occasions - forced to pee in cups I found around my shed and toss them outside (allegedly they were all accidents, but now I’m not so sure).
So from the start, I should have known that something here wasn’t right.
I was being treated well enough, included in all of their activities, even was swindled to believe that I was a part of their beloved “tribe”.
One night, about a week before my birthday, the summer was showing no signs of slowing down- and neither was I.
I had just settled into a new job that I loved - I got to work with my best friend and I could even walk to work!
Found my place again in a city that I had to learn to rebrand as my home
Was starting to finally feel safe and protected and loved.
We had gone out for a coworkers birthday party- he had a large Latino family that was boisterous and lively - everything I had always wished my family would be to me.
As that party wound down, another was just getting started - this boy I had a crush on invited me and a few others to his apartment - where I had assumed I would be staying.
I had had a few too many shots of Jameson - this is a fact that even I cannot deny, and everything was fuzzy.
Arriving to this guy’s apartment with a few of my other good friends in tow, calling him numerous times and being met with voicemail and sinking disappointment.
My more sober friends had common sense about them - they wouldn’t let me sleep on his door mat like a dog (because of course I wanted to - he HAD to be awake).
And so my best friend was called to come and collect me to bring me back to my little shed, my bed actually did sound kind of nice right now - no matter how incoherent I was.
Getting “home” at 4 AM, I didn’t expect to hear any noise from the strangers on the inside, but tonight there was a TV still on in the living room, right behind my little den.
Door was locked again….or was it? I can’t remember.
Shaking my head to try to chase away the impending hangover, I shrug and wiggle out of my pants, leaving on only my black strapless body suit.
I climb into bed, turn on my laptop for a good Netflix session, and begin to sink slowly into sleep…
Right as I’m drifting into slumber, I hear the door knob turn and a familiar voice say my name.
“Yes?” I sit right up, making sure I am covered up.
“Can we talk for a moment?”
Weird, he never seemed remotely interested in anything I ever have done before. Why now?
Again, weird question. It’s 4:30 AM and you’re wanting to have deep life talks, so good?
He pulls out his phone then, pulling up my Instagram account and some photos I had taken topless.
“Why do you feel the need to do this shoot? I thought you were done with sex work.”
“I am,” I respond, honestly, “I just wanted to let out some creativity and do a photo shoot and its really not a big deal to me to expose my boobs.”
He is silent, looking at these photos of me with what I thought was sadness.
“And you do promise that you’ve stopped dancing?”
He finally says, after what feels like a lifetime.
“Did you ever prostitute yourself?” he asks, this time looking at me.
“Yes.” Again, I am transparent in my answers. Its my new thing.
He sighs, hanging his head with weight.
“Ok. Well you know that I love you right?”
Of course I knew that, he knew me since I was days old.
“Yes, I do know that. I love you too.”
“Thank you for being honest with me”
He gets up, kisses me on the cheek.
As he’s turning to leave, he instead turns towards me and asks if he can get into my bed.
“No, I actually think I’m going to get some rest instead, it’s really late”
He shushes me, sliding into my twin bed, under my covers.
“It’s okay, only for a little bit”
He pulls my body against his, tries to kiss me, to which I push away and say “No.”
“Just one kiss, I promise then I’ll go.” His breath is hot on my face, his hand firmly placed on my lower back.
Funny, I had always liked when guys would touch the small of my back, but after tonight I would never let anyone go there.
“Fine.” I kiss him once, begrudgingly, fighting back the urge to bang his head against the tile floor below.
“Oh, come on, just a little more, I never said you could stop…”
His hand starts to travel down my navel, closer to my vagina.
My hand meets his wrist and I start to dig my dulled acrylic nails into the center.
A warning for him not to go any further. I was starting to sober up and my survival skills were coming back.
“I know.” I say, my voice firm. “But you need to stop. If you don’t stop, I’ll scream.”
He chuckles, amused by my feigned bravery.
“Fine, but don’t tell anybody because they’ll never believe you. I’ll see you soon.”
I say, through clenched teeth as he gets up and saunters out of my room.
I sit there, in silence for a few minutes to make sure that my nightmare is really over, before texting my best friend.
“I think he tried to rape me.”
She calls almost instantaneously, hysterical.
And so I tell her everything, from his genuine concern to his disgusting breath on my cheek.
“I’m going to the police station right now, I don’t care what time it is, I don’t care.” I’m hyperventilating, trying to catch my breath in between sobs.
“I’ve put my pants on and I’m gonna walk there. There is no way he’ll get away with this. I still have his skin under my fingernails.”
Her voice brings me back to reality, and I sigh, collapsing onto the floor.
“You should go tell the adults of the house. I’m sure they will believe you and understand and be able to take you to the station if need be.”
I sigh. It’s almost 6, and she’s right. I’m irrational right now.
After hanging up with her, I make the fateful walk through the house to the master bedroom, where I knock quietly on the door.
“Yes, honey?” I see the familiar face of the woman, concerned by this weeping ghost in her door way.
“Can I talk to you? I need to tell you something.” I blubber.
“Sure, sure. Come on in.” She sits me on the edge of the bed.
And so I tell her and her husband everything, adding in that I know it’s hard to hear because you’re his parents, but I don’t want to just let this go and I was going to go to the police before my friend stopped me.
Immediately they want to bring in my attacker.
“Let’s just get this all out now.”
He denies it all, obviously, saying that I must have dreamt it in my inebriated state.
They check his wrist for marks, but find none.
I start to believe him, until I remember how his breath felt on my face, how angry I was just an hour before, and I know in my heart that nothing is true except for the fact that I had been sexually assaulted by someone I trusted.
They take his side, somewhat unsurprisingly, and I am forced out of the tribe.
My last day seeing them, I will never forget it.
The father, his eyes fluctuating from burning hate to disappointment, still wouldn’t speak to me.
His sister, who was the only one who showed me any compassion, walked with me to the gas station to buy cigarettes and let me cry in her arms.
I owe her my life, for had it not been for her compassion that day, I might have not lived to recount my story.
His mother, however, walked me out to the car with my things in her fat hands, and says in her sickly sweet voice,
“Honey, I hope you know that this doesn’t mean we don’t love you. I still love you and hope that one day I will see you again, even if it’s in the distant future. You just need to get over this hyper sexual state that you’ve been in and stop lying.”
I immediately start sobbing. She smiles and kisses my cheek, sauntering back into her house of abuse.
