From Teen to Tramp - Stories of She #3

STORIES OF SHE

#3

From Teen to Tramp

She wakes up startled, with a feeling of nausea. The lingering taste of liquor, mixing with the bile seeping up the back of her throat. Her head heavy, woozy. Her body seemed to move, yet not in the direction of her spinning surroundings. A heavy weight on her chest. Movement. Breathing. Oh fuck. What is happening. Is this a bad dream?

She opens her eyes. The room is dark, yet she can sense a body atop her. The slightest hint of light seeping through a curtain to reveal the silhouette of person directly above her. A strip of light near the floor on the other side of the room, where the door must be. A face mere inches away unidentifiable, as it hovers close to her cheek. She closes her eyes. Her mind, trying to process what’s happening. Where is she? Who is this? Why is this happening? The booze making it that much more difficult to think.

She hears him breathe. She feels his breath against her skin. She smells it. The reek of liquor and stale cigarettes. Her attention quickly moves to the rest of her body. The movement. Not her. It’s him. The faceless silhouette above. The sensation. The dreaded realization. The invasion. She can feel his flesh against hers. The coolness of the room on her exposed extremities. Oh God. No. Stop. No sound from her mouth, but thoughts in her head.

The panic cuts through the haze of intoxication as her mind goes around in circles, faster than the spinning room. She doesn’t know what to do. Does she speak? Does she move? Does she scream? What would he do? Would he hurt her? Who is he? She thinks maybe she should just stay still, try to act as if she’s still asleep, and hope he will stop and go away.

She’s afraid. Her chest tightens with fear and anxiety under the weight of this stranger. She wonders where her friend is? They came to the party together. She must be here somewhere. Where are the rest of her friends? Did they all leave her here alone? They wouldn’t have. She then notices the music and voices outside the door. Mentally, she pleads for her friend to come in and stop this. Her mind o is this? What did she do? Why her? Why won’t someone help her? Help. Please. Make it stop.

She hears his breath get more labored, moaning. She decides the best option is to just pretend she’s a asleep and he’ll leave. With each thrust, a piece of her crumbles. Just get it over with. Hurry up and be gone. The vulgar sounds, then silence. No movement. It’s over. Thank God. She continues to lay still. Waiting. The minutes feel like hours.

She feels his weight shift, then his retreat from her body. The hope that it was just a bad dream gone as the coolness of the room replaces the heat from his body. Stay still. Stay perfectly still. She peeks through partially closed eyes watching. She lays perfectly still. Her shirt and bra crammed upwards almost choking her, if not for her arms still in their sleeves. Her flesh had been splayed open, used, discarded. So exposed. So vulnerable. She desperately wants to cover up but can’t let him to know she’s awake and watching.

The faint glow from streetlights behind the window curtains, creating the outline of his silhouette as he stands. Who is he? She quietly watches as he bends over to collect his clothes, quietly dressing. Her throat tightens with the sound of his jeans zipping up. Anxiety. Nausea. She can’t make out his face, nor tell what color the t-shirt he’s pulling over his head. She tries to identify him, but it’s too dark. Only if there was just a little bit more light.

With that thought she realizes if she could see him, he could see her. If he opens the door, the light in the hallway will allow him to see her, expose her even more so. What if people from the party look in? She must find a way to cover herself. Oh God. No.

Make a move, you can do it. She tells herself. Roll over as if she’s trying to reposition herself like a sleeping person would do. She pretends to partially stretch, then rolls to her side, facing away from the doorway. Bending her leg, providing some cover to her exposed body. She hears him quietly chuckle, then senses him move towards her. Oh God. What is he going to do? She feels a blanket being draped over her body up to her shoulder. She tells herself. Stay perfectly still and he’ll leave.

Finally, she hears the doorknob slowly turn. The light from the hallway gradually lightening the room as he slowly opens the door, enough for him to slip through and close it behind him.

She takes a big breath and lets out a sigh of relief. He’s gone. But who is he? What just happened? Is this real? Please be a dream. But she knows. It’s not.

She waits, for what seems like an eternity, in case he returns. Finally, she sits up, feeling the effects of the booze, still dizzying her a bit. But not like before. Reality helped sober her up. She pulls down her shirt and adjusts her bra to cover her chest. She feels around the bed, then the floor for her clothes. Finding her jeans, she notices Her underwear were still in her pants. She wonders how he got them off without waking her. She wracks her brain to remember what happened. With all her might, she strains to remember.

People playing caps at the kitchen table. The living room with mismatched furniture, filled with people. Her sitting on the floor with her friend, squished against legs of those sitting on the couch. A bottle being passed around. A hazy memory of trying to stand up and someone assisting. Laying down on a soft bed and her friend’s face smiling above her. Muffled voices. The room go black.

She questions herself did she hook up with someone and was so drunk she forgets? But that doesn’t make sense. But no memory of kissing anyone, no memory of even flirting. Her friend wouldn’t have allowed it to happen because she was so hammered. She would’ve stopped it, wouldn’t she? Her thoughts searching for answers. She wonders if this happened because she was passed out? That she was easy bait? God. She heard those things can happen. And was warned that girls shouldn’t get too drunk, and never pass out because these things happen. And if they do, their reputation is ruined. Labeled as easy, a slut, and it was her fault, so she should live with the shame. Oh God. She can hear voices from the party and wonders who knows what just happened? How can she step outside those doors? And where is her friend? She feels so alone. So scared.

While seated on the bed, she puts her right foot in, just like she always does. Then the left foot. Then stands. Like the wetness running down her inner thigh; her worth, her confidence, her naïveté leaves her. She steadies herself against a wall, trying to sober herself and decide on how to face the people at the party. She doesn’t even know who he was. If he’s still out there, what would he do? What would he say? What did he say? The feeling of embarrassment and fear of humiliation washes over her. She needs to find the bathroom. To clean up. To throw up.

She tries to remember the layout of the house. There’s a hallway. Where would the bathroom be? To the left or to the right. Where’s the doorway to the living room? Would they see her leave the room? She comes to a resolve. If she stays longer, there’s more of a chance to be found in there. Inhaling deeply, the air, the courage needed to face what lays outside the doors, she gently turns the doorknob and slowly opens the door.

SHE - Stories of She #1

She is they.

She is ze.

 She is them.

She is we.

 She is you.

She is me.

 

She is your friend,

Your sister,

your cousin,

 your teacher.

 

She is a stranger.

Your aunt,

your boss,

your preacher.

 

She is many voices

Choked back by tears

of criticism

of humiliation.

 

She can’t even whisper

Silenced from fear.

of rejection

of retaliation.

 

 She is the phoenix

Risen from the flame.

Left in the ashes

Sorrow and shame.

 

 She is the woman

Who no one will tame.

The past behind.

The future she claims.

 

 She is the C.E.O.

in power suit and heels.

She is the grandma

who makes the best meals.

 

She is the celebrity

you would love to meet.

She is the destitute 

living on the street.

 

She is the small child

cowered in fear.

She is the woman

you  see in the mirror. 

 She is they.

She is ze.

 She is them.

She is we.

 She is you.

She is me.

 

Stories of She #4

Stories of She #4

To the bullies

Who joined in on the torment…

...you’re forgiven

...you were just a child.

To the bullies

Who poked, prodded, and hit …

…you’re forgiven

…but understand what you did.

To the bullies

who enjoyed their sorrow and tears…

…you’re forgiven

 

…hope the child healed from the pain.

To the adults

Who knew it was happening….

...it’s your fault

…you could have stopped it.

To the adults

Who didn’t stop the bullying…

…it’s your fault

…your inaction enabled them.

To the adults

Who did nothing…

…it’s your fault

… you should have stopped the abuse.

 To the child

Who was shunned by their peers…

…it’s not your fault

…kids can be mean.

To the child

who was teased, mauled, abused…

...it’s not your fault

...you didn’t deserve it.

To the child

Whose innocence was tarnished…

…it’s not your fault

…don’t let them define you.

 

…dig deep into the rubble of your heart, find your light and shine.

  

The Trunk - Stories of She - #2

Stories of She

#2

The Trunk

In our family “the trunk” is a metaphor for the unspoken.  Be it a wrongdoing, an embarrassment, a taboo, or a secret, it’s best to “just put it in the trunk” where it’s hidden, safe and sound; to be forgotten, never to be spoken of again.  

In my mind’s eye, the trunk is old, like a large steamer trunk that my grandparents would have brought over from the old country.  Held in a cold, stone chamber, this worn wooden box, wearing marks from a long, hard voyage’ sits in the center on the cold, wet floor.  Its rusty metal clasps hold the lid hiding its contents.  Inside, it’s dark, damp, deep.  An ominous vibe oozing from cracks and crevices.  Secrets quietly humming, anxiously waiting to be released. 

The protectors guarding the trunk vary, depending on when one enters the chamber.  Dressed in long dark hooded robes, the elders have inherited the duty to guard the trunk and all it contains.  Should those approaching speak to the guards, they would be urged to leave, to never look back as the past is best left where it lay. 

Those entering the chamber with their burden, head hung low, dragging their bare feet across the cold stone floor must face the guards. With wisdom, compassion, understanding, and little judgement, the heavy lid is lifted just enough to slip the burden inside, and ensuring those inside do not escape.  Although the unspoken is left behind, the bearer carries the weight of guilt, of shame, pushing it deep inside their soul, taking it to their grave.

Noone could ever guess the number of contents inside the old trunk.  Some so deep, hidden for generations, lost to time.  At the changing of the guard, knowledge of some contents may be shared with the new as the old step away.  But more often, what’s known of the contents is taken with them to their grave, absorbed into the earth.

There are many secrets carefully laid deep inside, with the intent to stay within its walls for eternity.  Those are protected by the guards with fortitude. No matter what one came armed with, they would be turned away with warning to never question again.

 On occasion, if approached with the right information; a physical clue, a flicker of a memory sharp enough to carry details; or overheard whisperings as a child; the seeker may be permitted a mere, yet distant, glimpse of one of its contents.  A hypothetical scenario, a flimsy clue to follow, or if extremely lucky, a confirmation.  Enough to satisfy the need to know, and maybe, but not always, just enough to stop any further inquiries. 

Not all secrets are intended to be kept in the trunk indefinitely.  The protectors ensuring the trunk is a safe place until ready to be released.  When the occasion arises, the heavy lid is opened ever so slightly for the unspoken to be carefully removed from its resting place.  The weight of it lifted as it meets the light, allowing it to take shape, fly with the breeze, sharing its message, then dissipate into the atmosphere.    

Through the years, the decades, the generations, the use of the trunk has gradually changed.  As culture, as society, as mindsets have changed, the need for it has lessened. Judgement, ostracism, disdain, progressively replaced by understanding, acceptance, compassion. Another choice emerged, to “kiss it, bless it, and let it go.”  A difficult choice to make at first, but eases with time.  The weight of the burden lifted into the light instead of a heavy heart.  The protectors stand guard of the trunk, as the trunk will always remain.  Although they mourn for those who hadn’t such opportunity; they quietly cheer on the new generations, pleased to see that what was once unspoken, can be.