my blood, the fear that must have oozed like acrid black smoke from my
pores, the salty smell of the sweat that was beading on my forehead. He
kissed the smooth skin at the base of my throat, and I could feel the slick
wetness that was his tongue. I was silent.
Abruptly, he picked me up and set me on the bed. I was wearing a
dress that day, my favorite one with the bright red flowers that my father
named me after.
At that point I knew he was on a mission that he intended to
finish.
There was no time wasted as he slid his charcoal-blackened hand
up my pale leg. There was no time wasted as he pulled first his jeans and
then my cotton “Wednesday” panties down. There was no time wasted as
he pushed me back onto the comforter, no time wasted as he positioned
his weight on top of me. There was no time wasted as he spread my legs
and the stiff monster between his legs entered me again and again. There
was no time wasted as he ruined my first time, ruined me.
I noticed the white powder on the nightstand then, so pure
against the deep black grain. I looked at the blind ladies surrounding
us as his acrid cologne strangled me: ironically, the only witnesses. I
wondered what they would do, wondered if they cared. I cried.
“You say nothing,” he said, zipping up his pants when he finished. When
he caught sight of my face he added, “Clean yourself up. It’s almost nine.”
I did.
When my mom came to pick me up a half an hour later, I was
still numb. I couldn’t bring myself to talk, but Dylan’s charisma was
enough.
“She’s been having problems making the snow caps on the
mountains,” he explained. “You know how she gets when she’s frustrated.”
My mom smiled knowingly, but I could see the worry in the lines around
her eyes and thin lips. Before we left I ran downstairs to grab the piece I
had bee