The Worst Day of My Life

Originally I had posted here about my experience of rape and what I thought about it. Turns out, I was not very clear about the event, and it’s buried in there somewhere with a bunch of other stuff. 

So here’s the full story.  It’s safe for work, I guess, but it’s kind of intense.

Heartfelt thanks to Declan Finn for editing it for me.  I really wasn’t in the mood to do so after I finished writing it down.

FYI, this is Part I, of II.

I was really looking forward to tenth grade. I wouldn’t be a freshman anymore, which was a gift in itself, and some of my friendly acquaintances were coming over from middle school that year. The most notable was Weaver.

He was a handsome lad, one I’d spent lunches in the library chatting with for almost two years. For one, he seemed like a shoe in for the popular crowd. He was handsome, nerdy but not in a divisive way, and generally fun to spend time with. He was also very fit, and had some self defense training. For all I knew it was his four point GPA that made him unpopular. But why did he have to spend his lunch times in the library? For me, my presence tended to attract riots of teenagers desiring to wipe the floor with me. PE was similarly untenable. I attracted trouble. All I wanted was to be left alone. Since, “I didn’t do anything,” was as common as Buddhists monks chant OHM, I couldn’t exactly say that in my defense.

Though, in my estimate of him, something had seemed… off. I couldn’t put my finger on what it was. Sure, he was obsessed with sex, but… um, teenage boy, right? He had a love for obscure facts and interesting history, and he was a cello player – like me. We got along pretty well. But I could not shake that sense of off-ness. He basically took everything lightly. Not a class clown, they took SOMETHING seriously, but not Weaver. All things crossed his face without a ripple; easy going, quietly confident, and placid.

I was so far beyond desperate for companionship I was obsessed with seeing him again. I had fallen in love with his memory, and that is always a dangerous thing. It didn’t help that he’d sent me notes during the first part of the year, through a mutual acquaintance. It was just enough to get my heart thumping.

This was somewhat awkward for me, always having been an outcast– even among the outcasts. It was not a good time, despite the fact most of my friends turned out to be male.

So the day we finally met we had a real chat, and he made friendly, if not leering overtures. I was captivated. He said that there were things going on now (it was Thursday or Friday), but next week he’d be happy to spend some private time just between friends. How did Monday sound? He advised I not pick up lunch, because he was going to bring in some food from Outside. This was forbidden and very risky. Kids were suspended over things like that. He even suggested I skip breakfast, and made some allusions to my weight. So I was assiduous about avoiding food during lunch time. Fortunately for me, I hadn’t bothered to avoid breakfast.

Come to find out, he’d only brought me a large beverage, saying I didn’t need those extra mickey-D’s calories. See, this was before Mc Donalds had salads.

He was going to play cello for me, finally. He not only alluded to music, but maybe some making out– in respect to my wishes that we go only so far and no further. Yeah, I was old fashioned and wanted to wait for marriage.

At any rate, I tried said beverage, and… it tasted funny. It was a huge 20 oz cup, they’d probably ban it today. But I was hungry and I took a few big swigs. He made noises about the machines being low on syrup. Funny, it even tasted a bit like that. It was my only access to any sort of food or drink that afternoon, so I had more than I would have based on taste alone. I watched him enviously as he wolfed down two big cheeseburgers. But then, he was slender and ripped, right?

He finally led me out the back way out of the lunch room and we went to the orchestra room. He played a nice cello piece for me. I remember thinking his work was technically proficient, but… strangely flat, without emotion.

Then he thought we should hide out in the double bass cabinet. You know, get some privacy. I thought it was all good fun, so, sure, why not? And, the first few kisses were really hot, so the the weirdness from before all seemed worth it.

Then, my left arm felt weird. It inexplicably went slack and slid down his side. I heard it thud as it hit the side of the cabinet– but I did not feel the impact. I took a startled step back in shock. It was more of a stumble as my legs did not work properly, so I slid down the side of the bass cabinet until I was crumpled down at the bottom in a heap. I wasn’t even aware of the discomfort that this contorted position should bring. At which point I started to hyperventilate and focus VERY HARD against this weird rebellion in my synapses.

I tried to cry out, or move my legs. But my body was as responsive as sacks of wet sand. My limbs felt cold and dead… I could sorta vaguely feel the blood pumping, but that was it. I threw all my will into making myself move, and that’s when I realized that Weaver had been helping the slide down, and not asking the usual sorts of “is something wrong?” That you would expect when your body suddenly doesn’t work properly. He was maneuvering me back into a sheltered corner of the music room where he had more room to work yet not be seen.

He’d gone into a workman like fascination– maybe a fugue state. The look on his face that of a delighted child, as moved me out into the room proper. He layed me down and started undoing my pants and shirt. I still tried to will myself to move, but it was about as useless as hitting my head against a brick wall. Eventually the effort became painful. . He was working slowly, without saying anything to me. He mouthed words, but he was talking to himself. “And now… we open the shirt…”

I managed one last twitch of my face. He didn’t look up from what he was doing. My face was irrelevant anyway. After he’d assured himself access to all my hidden parts, he sat back and admired his handiwork. I mentally screamed and struggled to no avail. Then, he picked up an arm, then dropped it. I heard the thud of my arm against the carpet, but I still didn’t feel the impact. Yet I could feel it when he touched me to move. It was the heat I think. He laughed out loud and giggled like a happy toddler. He did this to my legs, too. Then, he did this to other parts… it wasn’t even a sexual thing, somehow, just… a monstrous and childlike expression of total control. He continued flopping arms and bits around just to see them move in novel ways, and laughing with glee as things flopped back to neutral when he stopped.

In this process, I knew what it meant to be a thing and not a person. He spent a fair amount of time doing this, but I can’t say how long. I just know that I made him happier as a volition-less object than… as me. I kept asking myself “WHY THE HELL DOESN”T HE JUST GET HIS OWN BLOWUP DOLL AND BE DONE WITH IT?! At this point, my sense of time was starting to warp, and my perceptions were making cut scenes, and things were getting colorful blurry and weird…

Yeah, I think that’s a good place to close the curtain….

 

 

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