I poured the first glass only half full. Not to
sound all philosophical, but my glass is almost empty.
The smell of the whiskey hit my nose lost like a fist of one of the bullies. It
didn't hurt but stung, and other than the fact that the punches hurt, this
smell was nice. With a sting the alcohol moved down my throat with an ease. I
closed my eyes tightly shut and tried to forget about the day. But I couldn't,
the images flashed through my mind like an old film playing on an empty screen.
It was the first time in two and a half years I thought about that day; the
first day I thought about what I really have done. Or that was with the
therapist.
"Why did you like her," her voice said cold; I still hear the voice
linger in my thoughts late at night. "She's funny and beautiful, she
smiles a lot, and she likes to talk to me," I said in a calm voice with
the sun setting in the back window where I looked, I remember. "So why did
you do it, was she afraid, didn't she want to go all the way?" Hesitation
came forth in her voice for a second but she let go of it after the first
couple of seconds. "I, I don't know, but I liked it," my face lit up
as I looked over to where she sat with the notepad on her lap, taking notes why
I, who am Jason, had raped a sixteen year old white girl.