To my rapist,
I feel like there are pieces of me scattered all over the city.
Because of you.
There’s a piece at the bar where you found me. The bar where you pushed drinks on me and got me so inebriated that I couldn’t walk. The bar where you told me not to sober up. The bar where I think you drugged me. The bar where you first started exercising your control over me. The bar I can’t go to anymore because the smell reminds me of what you did to me.
There’s a piece of me in your car. The car you carried me to and put me in. The car you used to drive me to the destination where you would hurt me. The car where you thought we should have light conversation about music even though I could barely form a sentence. The car where everything was spinning, and I don’t even remember the drive except that I was tired and wanted to go home.
There’s a piece of me in your house. Actually, there are several pieces here. A piece on the stairs you drug me up to get me into the house. A piece in the hallway where you carried me to your room. A piece in the bathroom where the bright red liquid exploded from my insides and into the toilet. There’s a piece in your bed.
The thoughts of your house – the small parts I actually remember – haunt me. The way your roommate sat there listening to what happened and didn’t help me. The way he paid me no mind as I stumbled trying to find my footing. That house represents pain. The house represents hurt. That house will always be the house where you raped me.
The piece in your bed… that’s the big one. The piece that lies on your navy blue sheets in your messy room. The bed where you undressed me. The bed where you smiled at me while you did horrible things to me. The bed that is stained with regret and hurt and blood.
I remember your yellow polo shirt. It was disgusting. I remember your black curly hair. I remember how it seemed like you hadn’t bathed. I remember how you used me and didn’t even care what happened to me. There are some things I don’t remember, but the parts I do remember are enough.
The thought of your hands on me makes me sick.
I have this image stained in my brain. This image I can’t escape. The image that shows up in flashbacks and nightmares and blares in my mind when I think of you. It’s not a pretty image – it’s sick. It’s disgusting. The image of you standing there completely naked and stroking yourself.
I feel sick.
I hate you for doing this to me. I hate you for taking these pieces of me and scattering them around town. I hate you for being so nonchalant as you took every bit of control I had. I hate you.
There’s a piece of me in the street across from the bar where you dropped me off. The street that called my name when you relinquished me from captivity. The street that held me while I cried. The street that led me to my car where the bubbling in my gut was tempting me to spill my guts again. The street that let to the parking lot where I met someone that wanted to help me. The street that gave me freedom from you.
Now, I’m here. Collecting the pieces you scattered. Trying my best with tape and glue to fill the holes you left burned into me. I’m trying to fix myself, and you’re fine. And I think I hate that more than any other part of this. That YOU get to be okay and I don’t. This was all because of YOUR doing. YOU inflicted pain on ME and it was all YOUR fault, and somehow, you get to be okay while I suffer. How is that fair?
I’m done wasting my breath. I have to go find something to replace the pieces you stole. I’m stronger because of you. I hope you know that.