Dear Matthew

Dear Matthew, 

Fairy tales always start with “once upon a time,” and that’s how I initially saw our relationship unfolding as it flashed before my eyes the moment you sat next to me. It’s sad that I am hoping that you remember who I am, but I am passed the point of feeling embarrassed anymore. I was reading The Great Gatsby and drinking coffee in the Little Red Café that is located next to campus.  You walked over to me, setting your drink down next to mine. You were wearing a dark blue knitted sweatshirt, since it was chilly out that day, and grey jeans. Your drink steamed next to mine, threatening to heat up my frozen coffee. “Frozen coffee on a day like today,” is what you said to me while I stared at you, absorbing your features. You talked to me about the book that I was reading, expressing your hatred for Modern Literature. In that moment butterflies began to flutter aimlessly in my stomach and I agreed with you whole-heartedly. I fumbled with my book and my words as I tried to explain my lack of sympathy for F. Scott Fitzgerald and his characters that mimicked him. I’ve never been sure how to talk to boys. I’ve never been particularly pretty and when you came up to talk to me, I was baffled by it. All through life my mom referred to me as an ugly duckling. She told me that eventually I would become beautiful, but being twenty, I was starting to doubt that day would ever come. It seemed like a scene from a romantic novel; geeky girl meets handsome boy and they live happily ever after, of course, after some comical situations and miscommunications. We talked for an hour when you finally told me your name; Matthew. That night I repeated your name over and over, letting it roll off the tip of my tongue like succulent honey.

I was so excited when you called me the next day. You told me that you enjoyed my company and that you wanted to see me again. “Dinner!” you exclaimed full of an alluring excitement. A date; my heart jumped into my throat and I said yes. Panic gripped me as I hung up the phone. What do I wear? What do I talk about? What if he tries to kiss me? What if I’m a bad kisser? What do I do if he asks me to dance? Everything that I knew about dating and boys was from books. I wouldn’t even flirt with the idea of sex. My parents made sure that I stayed aloof in the ways of love. I was a virgin, sex was a completely foreign concept that terrified me then, and does even more so now.

It was 6pm and already getting dark when the doorbell rang. I was wearing my deep red dress that flared at the hips, begging to be twirled. You smiled when I opened the door, “you look remarkable.” I felt the blood rush into my cheeks and I turned away to hide my face from your searching eyes. You laughed, deep and powerful, then pointed out that our outfits matched since you were wearing a red button-down shirt. “Our reservations aren’t for another hour,” you said, sliding into my apartment; looking around anxiously. Making your way to the couch you commenting on how clean my home was and pryingly said that my roommate must be a neat freak. I giggled, sitting on the opposite end of the couch, “it’s just me.” You smiled and moved closer to me. My whole body tensed up with a strange anxiety that was a cross between nervousness and excitement. You leaned forward.    

I remember the way you held my face when you kissed me, firmly and with purpose, but gentle enough to show that you cared. You would breathe slowly through parted lips held close enough to mine that I could almost feel the pressure of them. “No,” I whispered until it became a cry, fear gripping my lungs and threatening to suffocate me. I can still feel the calluses of your masculine hands as they caress me; rough against my supple flesh. Bodies entwined and sweat pooling between them, a tangible sign of the effort and raw force you felt necessary to use. Hot breath warms my neck, reminding me that you’re there while my eyes are closed tightly. Your strong hand clasped firmly around my wrists, holding them above my head. A shudder of longing radiates through your body when you finally entered me; tearing and burning. My body tenses against yours, rejecting you, but you persist. With a sudden burst of excitement, you reach down and tear my shirt open, as if I wasn’t exposed enough already. When I finally yelped from fear, those once tender hands came down hard against my face and the copper taste of blood filled my mouth. With every move you made, my body screamed out in pain, twitching and jerking away from your serrated body. For a moment I opened my eyes, and yours met mine, and in that split second, which felt like hours, the violation became spiritual. The evil pleasure that shone from your eyes tore my soul in two leaving only a gaping hole that could never be repaired. Heavy breathing turned into grunting and with that your body tensed into a grotesque figure; in an instant you collapsed on top of me.  I was humiliated.

     You stood up after some time, with your back turned toward me. I lay on the bed, broken. When you turned and again our eyes met, you looked at me with such disgust, without pity or regret. I’m ashamed to admit, that at the time, I felt that I had disappointed you. I can’t explain the profound emptiness that was left inside when you exited me. You put on your clothes nonchalantly and left like nothing had happened. I lay on the bed, disgusting and filthy.

I never told anyone what happened, not even a doctor. I never knew that people could be so cruel as to violate your body in the way that you had to mine. The abuse was inexplicably abysmal that the world changed, never to be the same again. My life stopped in that instant that you forced yourself on top of me. It’s impossible to leave the house. People stare at me; either aware of my tainted soul or eager to darken it further. Perhaps I was in denial when I decided to overlook the fact that my stomach was swelling, but my parents sure didn’t. Last night my father called me a w***e while spitting bible verses at me. My mother wouldn’t even look at me. I could hear the disgust pouring out of their mouths while they discussed what to do with me as if I wasn’t there.

      I want to tell you a story Matthew.

 Once upon a time there was a girl named Chastity. Chastity had a wonderful life. She was pursuing her dreams and spent her life with her nose buried in a book. She had caring parents that raised her with love and with God. All that was left that Chastity could ask for was a prince. Finally, she thought she had found him, but she was mistaken. This man that she had let so carelessly into her life hurt her beyond words. When he left, he took with him her dreams, her family, and her ability to love. And the only thing this man left her with was a burdensome reminder of the injuries he inflicted. Chastity knew that the child would be a demon, spawned from a man possessed by the devil. She knew that she could not raise a monster, nor could she live in the lonely prison that the devil had left her in. So she prayed, and she took a knife that flickered with a welcoming light that she knew was a sign from God, and plunged it into her throat. As the life left her body, she could feel the demon shift in her belly, and she slumped down into a warm pool of blood. But before that, she wrote Matthew a letter. 

Goodbye, 
Chastity

Reviews

[Kesha]

Wow. That ending though! It wasn't what I expected at all, I thought it was going to be some sort of love letter and sweet & caring but it was the complete opposite. So profound and saddening.