“He raped me,” I told Vicky. “I can’t breathe.” She gave me the look of shock and unbelievability before she hugged me and said she felt guilty. I assured her that it wasn’t her fault, that it was his. I asked her not to say anything to anyone because I just wanted the memory to fade.
I spent the next few days curled up in a ball, unsure of how to react to what had just happened. I was replaying the scene over and over in my head and asking myself why I didn’t go to the police. I was scared. I was petrified to sleep because I was sure that he would eventually come up in my nightmares.
I finally had the courage to speak up to a few close friends, and their response questions all insinuated that it was my fault. Maybe my cleavage sparked a little testosterone inside of him. Or maybe I didn’t say the word “no” as much as I should’ve. Maybe I didn’t use enough force to fight against him. I was beginning to think I was right, until I thought twice and knew that I didn’t ask for it.