Damn Regret pt. 3

 

 

      The boys were not nice.  The boys were aggressive.  They were practically men.  Seventeen, sometimes eighteen.  I wasn’t raped, so I can’t complain.  But I guess they couldn’t get any, so they forced it.  I cannot describe exactly what they did to me because there are no words for it.  It happened more than once.  Almost every time I ventured out of my room, or at least the times when the staff were not around.  There was one incident that was horrible, unspeakable, and I will not describe it.  The rest of the times were not bad, or at least not compared to the one time.  My doctor says I have post-traumatic stress.  Maybe he’s right; maybe, though, I am just being dramatic and self-piteous. The gluttonous boys acted voracious and especially greedily seized the times when the staffs were all on another unit in an emergency.  These times were the worst.  This is why I stay a good distance away from boys.  Yes, I have dated.  Yes, I have kissed, made out.  Then I dump the boy.  Some were too forward, some I felt so bad because I knew I would hurt them, as I hurt everybody, and I’d hate to break their little hearts.  I wished more than anything to tell someone, something, I want my story to be known, I want it all to be known.  As I write this the tears stream down my face.   As I write this the rain pours outside.  It pours outside and inside.  It pitter-patters against my window, streaming down the glass.  It drips out of my eyes, streaming down my face, to be quickly wiped up and ignored.  They were not there, I promise.  They are not here.  Actually, I did not cry while I was there.  My eyes watered with the pain, the physical pain, but I did not cry.  Maybe once, but I don’t think I cried.  I never cried with sadness.  My eyes water with pain, physical pain, but rarely.  Only if it is very, very bad.  My eyes water with flashbacks, but the tears come when the flashbacks become real.  My eyes watered with pain, physical pain, of what those nasty boys did.  It hurt.  I don’t understand how my pain could give them pleasure.  Those vile creatures, inflicting pain on a twelve year-old girl, pain emotional and physical, unimaginable pain.  Maybe I am being a self-piteous drama queen.  But who knows if anyone will ever read this, anyways?  They are my secrets.  My clandestine enigmas.  It is a puzzle, a riddle, even I cannot figure it out after years of contemplation.  I remember their faces.  Maybe not all of their names, but their faces.  Isn’t it supposed to be only one?  One.  Not four or five.  On one.  One to five.  It wasn’t fair.  I was strong, though.  Very, very strong, like a ghetto person fighting for their lives.  I was fighting for my purity.  I lost.  Well, a little bit, for I am still a virgin at this point that I am writing this.  A virgin, to say, that I have not had sexual intercourse.  That is the only purity I have now.  The only one, and I am hanging onto it for dear life, though I pretend I am like the others, hormones raging through their hot blood.  I pretend to.  I pretend a great deal of things.  I pretend to be devastated by petty problems such as my mother being a b***h, my father being an a*s.  But those are the least of my worries, dear friend, the least.  David.  And the black boy.  And that white one, and that mutt.  Sometimes they brought a friend.  But it wasn’t always boys.  A couple of times it was girls.  This was horrible, and I ran away if I could, but sometimes they came on top of me; I was trapped.  I was little then.  Tall, yes, but little.  Strong, yes, but I could not always fight off these kinds of things.  It hurt.  It still hurts.  When I think about it, I feel the pain.  The physical pain, the suffering, the feeling of inevitable pain, the feeling of hopelessness, of helplessness, a person stuck in a ring of fire, a burning house, stuck under the snow of an avalanche or in a desert without any water, seeing mirages, hallucinating, delusional, with hours until death.  This is what I felt.  Hours until death.  Then again, this is what I hoped.  I hoped for death.  I tried death.  It did not work; instead I was placed in a white room with a blue floor that sloped downward to the drain to which my blood flowed like a river.  A red river, a crimson stream.  This stream did not have a pretty sight nor a pleasant, calming sound.  It was disgusting to look at.  There was no sound, or if there was, I did not hear it through the yelling of the staff.  They were yelling at me.  They did not know what the boys did to me.  And if they did, they would not care.  No way, no how, not at all.  Why would they?  The pain is still pungent in my body to this day; it is my mind, yes, I know this, but it still hurts.  It still hurts every day, every single solitary day it hurts.  The pain is unbearable, and I fear that they will come in the night to get me again, to take it away, to take me away, to take the one thing I have left away.