This piece is written by my friend Amanda, who is a phenomenal storyteller and amazing human.

It’s a bit longer and a bit heavier than the work I’ve been posting this month, but I wanted to give her the space on the internet to share her story while being semi-anonymous, so I asked her to guest post today.

Trigger warning: sexual assault. 

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It was a Monday and I remember not being able to breathe.

You had one hand around my neck, holding me by it, pushing me back on the bed. You had taken off my dress and my bra, which I didn’t remember happening. Too drunk and choked up to speak, you shoved your fingers through my underwear and into me, which made me gasp.

“Baby, you’re so wet,” you said to me.

I was not.

“Baby, I want you so bad. I’m just losing it,” you said to me.

I did not want you.

You were a stranger. I didn’t know your last name yet. Didn’t that matter?

I remember the cold fear, fogged up by the alcohol in my body. I remember not remembering how to say no out loud, not being in control enough to push you away.

You took my hand and shoved it towards your pants. “No,” I remember thinking, at least. I involuntarily twitched my hand away. But you shoved my hand towards your pants again. When I wouldn’t oblige, you pushed your hips up against mine unevenly, without rhythm. I stayed as still as I possibly could. I didn’t want it. You kissed me and pecked at my neck. I was uncomfortable. You weren’t good at it. I didn’t want to be kissing you.

What saved me were people trying to get into the room. I remember now that it wasn’t even your room. “Hey, ____. Get out of there, fucker. Not cool.”

“Hold on, hold on, just give her a sec to get her clothes on.” You quickly got up off of me and nodded. “Come on, we gotta go.”

I somehow found my dress and pulled it on automatically. I was too drunk to think straight. Then I heard a phone buzzing.

It buzzed repeatedly. I made the connection that that meant it was a call. “That’s yours, I think,” you said, handing my phone to me from where it had fallen on the floor.

“Hi, I’m here,” she said.

“I’ll be right there.” I couldn’t concentrate on the words that were spilling out of my mouth. All I knew was that I had to get out of there.

We walked out on the porch of the frat house and you grabbed my phone from me. “Here,” you said, typing your name on Facebook. “____ ______. I’ll text you, okay?” I nodded, because what else was there to do?

You kissed me goodbye in front of her car. That was the last time I saw you.

I asked her if her car windows were closed as we drove away. That’s when I knew it was okay to cry.

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This post is part of the A-Z Challenge. My theme is April Scribble, which includes microfiction, small vignettes, and poetry.

For more alphabetical goodness, click here.