A #SurvivorStory by Samantha
She picked me up in her husband’s car, haphazardly driving with the music far too loud. I thought that we were having a girls night, pizza, movies, and memes.
Her husband was home, but he said he was going to be in the other room. He said to pretend that he wasn’t there.
She and I drank; we were probably more drunk than either of us had noticed. We watched embarrassing old videos of ourselves that we posted online years before, and I suppose that our laughter must have drew him into the room.
He sat himself beside me, not his wife. Perhaps that should have been my signal to run, but I never noticed that anything was amiss. The videos from our youth slowly crept into odd foreign music that none of us understood, then I proclaimed that I was tired.
He said that I could stay there that night so that I wouldn’t have to go home drunk. I accepted the offer as he turned the futon couch into a bed. She sat on the floor at the head of the bed and I laid down to go to sleep assuming that they would go to their room and do the same.
She kissed me and she giggled. I tried to draw back, and as I did he pulled down my pants.
The alcohol had hit me full force, with waves of nausea and vertigo plaguing my existence. I said no, and tried to move away but found myself unable. Before I could react, move, cry, or even speak another word he was inside of me.
I mumbled the word no over and over as I cried. She held my hands down and giggled every single time his thrusts made me shriek in terror. She kissed me with a confusing passion, she forced my mouth in unspeakable and uncomfortable places while he grunted in my ear. He demanded that I tell him that he was better than my lover.
I did not indulge him in his fantasies, so he pulled my hair so hard that I could have sworn he snapped my neck. He demanded that I tell him how good he felt inside of me. I only sobbed. My sobs aroused them both.
She was now touching herself and moaning in my ear as I tried to move away. He smacked my behind over and over and over again. He smacked me so hard that I was later unable to sit appropriately for at least a week.
Then he grabbed my hips hard and he pulled out of me. I thought it was over, but then he told her to cover my mouth.
She complied and he pushed himself inside of my anus with great force. The pain was so great that I’m pretty certain that I fainted.
He continued assaulting my behind for what felt like hours. After some time he removed himself for me and stood up. He then leaned over the bed and forced himself inside of my mouth. He told me that he would beat the shit out of me if he even felt my teeth on him.
He forced me to swallow as he ejaculated inside my mouth. It tasted like poison, and humiliation, and death.
My broken and drunken body lay on that bed while they proceeded to engage in intercourse next to me, but my mind was somewhere far away.
Soon, they finished their deed and he threw my clothes on top of me and demanded that I get dressed. Horrified and broken, I did exactly that. He told her that he had work the next day and that he was going to sleep. He told her to get me out of his sight and to take me home.
She acted as though our girls night went exactly as planned as she escorted me to his car and proceeded to drive me home. She tried to make small talk, she tried to make jokes. I only stared out of the car window and cried.
I arrived home very late, still very drunk and in horrible shape. Everyone was already asleep so I had no fear of waking a soul.
I crawled into bed and I cried until I lost consciousness. I awoke the next day around noon vomiting and bleeding from my rectum.
There was so much blood, I told my grandmother that I must have gotten my period in my sleep. I didn’t want her to worry about the blood on my sheets.
Every day since then I’ve pretended that it never happened. I told my friends that I don’t remember that night and they never try to fill me in.
I avoid it all until I have to do something as simple as use the toilet, because the damage that was done to my bottom has always served as a constant reminder of what they did. Then, and only then, I allow myself to cry. I allow myself to remember.
Then I proceed to flush my memories down the toilet with my blood and my pain. They are gone until the next time that I have to go, then I’m reminded of that night all over again.
Although I pretend that night never happened, I will never truly forget his rancid breath begging me to tell him he’s the best I’ve ever had. I will never truly forget her delight at my pain as her husband violated me. I will never truly forget the night that my friends raped me.
But, perhaps if I’m truly lucky I will forget that I continue to blame myself for that girls night.