Why I Apologized to My Rapist
After a football-playing classmate raped me, everyone in town acted like it was all my own fault. The worst part is that I started to believe them.
Illustration by K.L. Ricks
The night before tugged at me. Already, the images were foggy and warped. Perhaps it wasn’t the way I remembered. But I knew from the hollowness in my stomach that it was.
I shuffled into class. As I took my seat, I was silent, wishing I could be as checked-out as the other seniors.
Darrin’s best friend shifted in his seat behind me. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. He tapped his fingers on the desk, and let out a soft sigh; his breath rustled my hair.
“Darrin says you have a nice pussy,” he whispered.