I remember him, no, It. I remember it. There is something about it, that didn’t fit the definition of rape until I did some digging around in a few other survivors stories. I started to realise that though I was drinking, I wasn’t at fault. It had dark hair, dark eyes, and M.D. 2020. I was sixteen when it happened, it was 26. I hung out around the bus plaza a lot in those days, a plaza rat if you will. A day like any other at first, skipping school to hang out with tweakers and homeless people. I’m not sure how or why we started talking that day. I don’t remember the date or time. I don’t even remember going to his house. I don’t remember agreeing to anything, and I barely remember drinking.

I do remember it’s sweaty face and greasy hair, I remember it’s roommate rubbing my leg and foot while it was happening. I vividly remember asking, no, telling it to stop. I remember that when I tried to go home, the busses weren’t running. I remember it convincing me going home right then would be dangerous. I remember it trying to cuddle me all night, I remember standing across the street from it’s house the next morning, staring at that ugly red door for two hours before the bus finally came. I remember feeling empty, and dirty, I felt horrid.

I remember getting home and crying in the bathtub, scrubbing away what was left of it. To this day, five years later, I don’t feel clean.