Part 3: Coffee stains, a decade and the things we don’t say outloud.
I notice him watching me.
"I was wet when I was raped" I said.
Looking at Pax’s big eyes, I realize I’ve just handed him the most raw part of myself.
His eyes don’t widen in shock more like recognition. Like something reckless and slightly stupid in both of us just nodded at each other in silent agreement.
It feels like I’ve stumbled upon a kindred spirit. The kind you meet in the late night spill of Brewer’s Market, the kind you offer to share a Yango with in the middle of a panic attack steeped in cheap liquor.
Someone I can finally say things to, that usually get undressed in a therapist’s office.
I turn away from his gaze, suddenly aware of how much I’ve said. Shame creeps up behind my collarbone. I focus on his arms instead covered in what he calls meaningless tattoos, most of them born in some wire-type Tura street setup at 2 a.m., when he was high, broke, or healing. Probably all three.
“How do people survive this sh!t and still go to work on Monday?” I mutter, mostly to myself.
As if on cue, Pax grins. “F!ck what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. I think what doesn’t kill you just gives you a weird sense of what to laugh at, and mild PTSD.” “But yeah its all about getting the help you need” he adds.
I laugh harder than I mean to. Maybe too hard. His humor isn’t just humor; it’s a mask. A scream wearing a trench coat.
He sees the shift in me. I clear my throat. The tears are already on their way.
“Well... there’s the one time. At least, the one I remember.”
He echoes, “The one time?”
Yeah. There were more than one that did it to me.
I look away as my face warms up with color.
“At least I don’t have an STD,” I say, trying to defend a boundary that hasn’t even been breached.
His face flickers with concern.
“No, no, it wasn’t, like...a group thing. I’m not like a slut or anything”.
We both burst out laughing at the absurdity of that sentence.
Then I add, half-jokingly.
“There were three different men, and it happened on three different occasions... but this one was at least kinder if i can even put it that way, Let me tell you how it happened...”
*Ozon?u Chronicles; uncovers the secrets that never see daylight. Each story is fiction. Yet, as you read, you may sense that reality has already whispered its own version. For readers 18 and older.
"I was wet when I was raped" I said.
Looking at Pax’s big eyes, I realize I’ve just handed him the most raw part of myself.
His eyes don’t widen in shock more like recognition. Like something reckless and slightly stupid in both of us just nodded at each other in silent agreement.
It feels like I’ve stumbled upon a kindred spirit. The kind you meet in the late night spill of Brewer’s Market, the kind you offer to share a Yango with in the middle of a panic attack steeped in cheap liquor.
Someone I can finally say things to, that usually get undressed in a therapist’s office.
I turn away from his gaze, suddenly aware of how much I’ve said. Shame creeps up behind my collarbone. I focus on his arms instead covered in what he calls meaningless tattoos, most of them born in some wire-type Tura street setup at 2 a.m., when he was high, broke, or healing. Probably all three.
“How do people survive this sh!t and still go to work on Monday?” I mutter, mostly to myself.
As if on cue, Pax grins. “F!ck what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. I think what doesn’t kill you just gives you a weird sense of what to laugh at, and mild PTSD.” “But yeah its all about getting the help you need” he adds.
I laugh harder than I mean to. Maybe too hard. His humor isn’t just humor; it’s a mask. A scream wearing a trench coat.
He sees the shift in me. I clear my throat. The tears are already on their way.
“Well... there’s the one time. At least, the one I remember.”
He echoes, “The one time?”
Yeah. There were more than one that did it to me.
I look away as my face warms up with color.
“At least I don’t have an STD,” I say, trying to defend a boundary that hasn’t even been breached.
His face flickers with concern.
“No, no, it wasn’t, like...a group thing. I’m not like a slut or anything”.
We both burst out laughing at the absurdity of that sentence.
Then I add, half-jokingly.
“There were three different men, and it happened on three different occasions... but this one was at least kinder if i can even put it that way, Let me tell you how it happened...”
*Ozon?u Chronicles; uncovers the secrets that never see daylight. Each story is fiction. Yet, as you read, you may sense that reality has already whispered its own version. For readers 18 and older.
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