‘You asked why I drank when I know what happens to girls who drink’: the letter you always wanted to write
It was after midnight when I finally plucked up the courage. “My ex,” I said, my voice rough. “He raped me.” There, I thought: it’s out in the open. I was disconcerted, though. The sense of relief that people talk about didn’t come. You just stood there. Staring.
So I explained that I’d been forcibly intoxicated. It was when I went to visit him at university. I’d been drinking, but when we got back, I’d sobered up considerably, until he reached for the bottle. I remembered the strangest details, like the colour of the tabletop it happened on, how it was tacky beneath my hands – he never was one for cleaning. I told you about the whole relationship, how he beat me and excused it as “kinky sex”. Still you stood there. I think you hugged me. We went to bed. I woke up and went to work. The usual mundane routine resumed. I felt as numb as ever.
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