It hurt. She thought it was supposed to feel good—it looked like he enjoyed it—but all she felt was pain and so much nausea it was a wonder she hadn’t covered him with processed chicken nuggets and soggy French fries.
He finished first. She wasn’t really sure what “finished” meant for a girl, no one had ever told her but thinking about that made her realize, oh God, had they used—she bolted upright in a panic then breathed a sigh of temporary relief at the ugly wrapper lying on the floor, right next to the coin he used to decide whether or not she’d participate for her. At least one thing had gone right.
She was about to lie back down when there was a loud thump from upstairs. She jumped, tense already, but he just lazily sat up and listened for a moment. When he heard continued noises, he said “My dad is upstairs. You need to go.”, then pulled out his phone and started texting. She sat there for a moment, confused and hurt, until he looked up again with an expression that clearly asked “Why are you still here?”. Tears sprung into her eyes but she knew she was unwanted so, with as much dignity as she could muster, she gathered up her clothes and dressed. On her way out, she looked back, to see if he would watch her go, but he remained glued to his phone, oblivious to how she felt.
At home, she numbly walked past her mother and father, both as happy and cheerful as ever, past her older brother and younger sister working on summer reading, past her loving dog, straight to her room, where she sat on the bed, still in shock from what she had done. Confusing thoughts twirled through her mind, so she got up and got out her journal; writing always helped her sort her feelings out. Only, this time, when she picked up her purple sharpie to put her thoughts down on paper, only one thing came out: It didn’t happen.
She wrote it over and over and over, filling up a whole page with those three words, as if writing it enough would make the words true. She wielded her purple sharpie like a sword against the terrible thoughts that began to creep into her mind—asked for it, you wanted it, he doesn’t care, it’s no big deal, you’re overreacting, lame, loser, you were terrible, slut, whore. After her sharpie ran out of ink, she finally stopped repeating herself, but she still felt cold, so she climbed under the covers of her bed and hid from herself and her actions, and went to sleep.
She thought her parents would ask about her unusual behavior the next day, but they saw nothing. The next time she saw him, she expected him to say something about what had happened, to make a joke or ask about it, but he said nothing. At school, she expected to hear whispers of what she had done, but she still heard nothing. No one seemed to know but the two involved, which was at once a staggering relief and a horrible reality. She needn’t face the consequences of her actions, but there was also no one to talk to about how she felt, and no one to tell her the truth about what happened.
She never told anyone. Middle school ended, high school ended, college ended, and still she kept her secret locked away in the back of her mind, unwilling to revisit that night. Eventually, however, she was forced to, by her new boyfriend. She loved him deeply, but couldn’t be with him because she was too scared. It strained their relationship until she finally told him the truth, finally relinquished her secret and confessed her sin, fully expecting him to tell her what she’d been screaming at herself for eight years—her fault, her fault, her fault—only…he didn’t. He held her and he said he was so, so sorry, and she finally realized that maybe…maybe it wasn’t her fault. Maybe she wasn’t solely responsible for a decision that had ruined an entire aspect of her life.
Maybe.
With the help of a counselor and her mother and the support of her friends, she finally started admitting to herself and others what happened, and forgave herself and him for it. They were young and dumb and she was desperate to fit in, and she could forgive the two of them for a bad decision. She finally moved on. She finally allowed herself to heal.
Still, she bears the marks of that purple sharpie. She still has it and her journal, and she shows them every time she gets up to speak about the importance of consent. She shows the pages of the same sentence over and over, and tells her story, and encourages others to come forward to talk if they need. She always ends her lectures the same way, with the same words, what she wished she had heard at some point in her high school career: “Consent is not a coin flip. You are worth more than a 50/50 chance. Don’t be afraid to say no.”