This truely happened.
To me.
It isn’t pleasant, but I am not looking for sympathy. I am a writer, and I have a story.
The beginning started with my first stupid mistake. Recently, my phone had crashed. All my numbers, gone. So when I got a text; “Hey, wot u up 2? Number: unknown” I text back without thinking, assuming it was my friend Jess.
Half an hour later, I got a reply. “Sorry honey, im busy. Txt u l8r.”
This confused me, none of my friends were the type to call me honey, so when I got another text, I asked who it was.
They explained that they had got my number off a mutual friend, and told me their name. For this, I will name him Tim.
So, unwisely enough, I kept texting him. He seemed alright, funny at times, but very sad. If I thought it strange he turned to me for support, despite we had never met, and lived 400k away, I didn’t let it worry me. Eventually, after talking to him for a while, he asked me out. I had never been asked out before, and against my better judgment, I said yes.
For the next month, I was charmed. Poems, compliments, you name it. I was smitten, and ignored his many faults, clinging to young hopes and naïve dreams. But one thing I could not deny, he made my life harder. He had, within that month, gotten into many fights, and told me some rather… unbelievable stories. He messed with a friend, and upset us both, but foolishly, I forgave. He claimed his mother hated him, would call me in tears, and mentioned frequently the idea of suicide, going as far as claiming to have cut himself.
But every time I got fed up, he would tell me how much he loved me, how much he needed me, how he was trying to get better, just for me. So I would discard my common sense, my misgivings, and my chances to get out.
So it went on, highs, and lows. Then, one day, he rang, saying he had been kicked out and had no-where to go. It was the middle of winter, and the place he lived was known for the rough streetlife, so besottled, stressed and worried I told my mother. She, giving him the benefit of the doubt, bought him a bus ticket, and told him he could stay with us a few days.
Mum and Dad fought over this. It was terrible. But eventually, Tim arrived.
He was charming, affectionate, full of praise and compliments. Telling me how beautiful I was, how lucky he was, and how he loved me. He also kissed me and held me a lot, and so, all of a sudden, I was thrown in the deep end.
The first few days, I was happy. I liked to be around him, and all thoughts of his flaws were discarded. It was like a whirlwind, my life had been so… monotone, every day the same. But this was so different, exciting, new.
But the third day, well, he asked if he could take my virginity. Originally I said no, I wasn’t ready. But the rest of the day, he told me over and over how much he loved me, needed me, didn’t I love him? I avoided answering, my mind reeling. I knew, somewhere, that this was exactly what they had warned us about, but being in the situation is much tougher then thinking hypothetically.
So I went to bed that night, and Tim slept on the sofa.
At three in the morning, I needed to go to the toilet. I could barely look at him as I passed. But on the way back, I stopped to give him a hug. That’s as far as I got. Somehow, my ability to say no switched off. I was scared, very scared, and was very unsure about what I wanted. To my shame, I let him, and followed instructions without protest.
Half an hour later, I was in my own bed, feeling sick. I was fifteen.
The next day, I felt like shit. I was the scum off your boot, as far as I was concerned. I found it hard to look mum in the eye, and ate breakfast silently.
Tim acted as though nothing had happened, and I played along. I was ashamed, and felt dirty, but too proud to say a thing.
That night, I went to my own bed, still bleak. I was woken yet again, this time by Tim by my bed. “No.” I said. I rolled away from him and curled up.
But he was back, in five minutes, then ten, each time more and more insistent. My wounded confidence broke, and to my greater shame, I followed him.
The next day was the day he was going home. Regret was mixed with relief as I walked him to the bus, but then emotions fled. I didn’t think, thoughts were too confusing. I didn’t feel, emotion was too frightening. I carried on, playing a game of “Nothing happened, I am fine.”
The next day, Mum asked, and I snapped. I told her that her little girl was not a virgin anymore, and spent the next hour crying.
Mum, understandably, was upset, and angry. How could I be so stupid? I didn’t know.
The worst was yet to come.
Dad calmed Mum down, and they got my the emergency after morning pill.
I struggled through the next week, then found out he had gotten my friend’s (Jane for the purpose of this story) number and had convinced her to let him stay with her.
So Jane got me to go stay, and I faced him once again.
Again he was nothing but affectionate and charming, so I began to relax.
That night, we slept on the floor, under the same blanket. I wanted to keep my top on, but he persuaded me otherwise.
It started out as a simple hug, his arms around my waist. For a short while, I was happy enough, and was willing to stay there. But slowly his hands got lower, and I stopped him, grabbing his hand and crossing my legs.
No, I asked. Not now.
But he didn’t stop, and I knew he was stronger then me. As far as he was concerned, I had let him before, so it was now his right whenever he liked.
I told him again, please, no, but it was no use.
I just lay there, feeling sick.
I remember, even now, over a year on, his hand on the back of my head, forcing me to do things that I didn’t want to do, almost gagging.
Let’s just say, the next day I brushed my teeth three times and drank water obsessively.
That day, I broke up with him. That morning was the last time I saw him.
But he didn’t stop there. He tried to do the same to Jane, but didn’t get as far. Instead, he bruised her thigh while wrestling, in spite of her cries of stop.
Jane’s mother sent him home.
That day, both me and Jane got threats. Death threats, via text, telling us what he would do to our bodies, how much he would enjoy it.
Jane took the messages to the police, but all he got was a threat from a cop, via phone.
Now I would be lying if I said I hadn’t been warned. One particular friend, he knows who he is, knew from the start and tried repeatedly to warn me. But my own foolish hopes got in the way, and his sense was lost on me.
I thank him for trying, and for the support he gave in the aftermath.
I thank, also, those few friends who knew what happened, including Jane, and helped me out of the depression that followed, who helped me regain my self-respect.
And I say to all you others, don’t believe it only happens to other people, to idiots, to poor people in bad neighborhoods. It happens everywhere, and many, many stories are far worse then mine.
So look out for your mates, as they may need you one day. Or you may need them.
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