Page 102 of As the Rain Falls (Sainte Madeleine #1)

LOSING MY GRIP ON REALITY

Cassandra

February starts, and everything about it feels bitter. I am trying to do better—at least, I’m trying. It’s… It’s just…

Texting a boy isn’t as difficult as it seems. Seducing him isn’t hard. Going to his house is easy. Every single step feels practiced now, like muscle memory.

I simply refuse to beg Nathaniel to open the door and let me sleep at my parents’ house tonight.

“Want to come to my room?”

André’s green eyes flicker with something tentative, almost nervous, and for a second I start to feel an ounce of premeditated regret.

Being here, with him, is a mistake.

I know that.

But I can do this; I know I can.

“I’d like that,” I say, taking his hand in mine.

He opens the door, and I brace myself for it. His room looks like any other. It’s filled with posters, shelves, and an unmade bed. I get him to lock the door, to close the windows, and to stretch out on the bed, lying next to me.

“I’ve always wanted to ask you out,” he admits it lightly, unaware that it makes me want to vomit.

I smile, keeping my voice soft. “Really?”

“Yeah. I think you’re really beautiful.”

The words make me grimace a little, but his voice sounds so sweet that I fight against every muscle on my face to keep them neutral.

André isn’t like Caleb. He’ll be gentle. I can tell.

That’s why I kiss him first.

Then, I pull off his shirt.

“Wait. We don’t have to do this, Cassandra.”

“It’s okay,” I reassure him, my fingers pressing against his jaw. “I want to do it.”

“With me?”

“Yeah.” I nod. “With you.”

I make him lie on top of me. I make him want to take my clothes off. I guide his hands and his mouth, watching him jerk and tremble against me. I make him sweat until he’s panting, all along feeling nothing at all.

The way he pauses, enamored and out of his mind? I do that.

Until André goes ahead and ruins everything.

“You’re so tight.”

It’s an echo.

I’ve heard that one before.

And suddenly, I’m thirteen again.

I’m a stupid little girl fighting for breath as my stupid brother pins me down and rocks himself inside of me, making me feel…

So.

Fucking.

Stupid.

André‘s face disappears, the ceiling above me turns white, and Nathaniel’s body slides into mine again and again.

Stop.

Stop.

Stop.

But it never does, does it?

Here’s the thing that people always try to avoid saying about rape: the vulnerability of others makes you vulnerable too. No one wants to face how we’re all one second away from finding out just how physical rape is, just how long it can last.

I can predict the reactions, and I don’t even have to think that hard to guess any of what’s coming for me.

Ahead of me, I can picture a future filled with pitying glances, an uncomfortable shift in the air around me, followed by low voices. I feel it against my skin; the way they will distance themselves from me subconsciously, because my vulnerability is theirs too, before it even happens.

Something bad happens to you, and you become a perfect reminder.

See?

This is what happens to young girls when they’re not careful enough.

I’m just another name written under a thousand other names, a random line between two others, until the list becomes so extensive that the letters start to disappear.

I’m a number.

Statistics.

I’m the one that falls under the probability of it happening not only once, but also twice. I read it somewhere how it may happen to me again. And if I start to look close enough, if I dare myself to dig deep enough, it didn’t all start that one night, right?

My breath catches, flashes coming at me, one after the other.

“Cassandra,” Nathaniel groans, and suddenly I’m smaller, younger, wearing my favorite Hello Kitty t-strap shoes that are starting to feel too small on me.

He’s carrying me in his arms, and I’m letting him take me behind one of the tall bushes that used to grow at the park near our house, the one Beckett told me Lucia liked to go play at once.

I’m begging him for more candy, because Mom never lets me indulge, and he’s asking me if I’d like to pull his pants down—

But wait, no .

I’m actually eight .

And we’re alone this time.

It’s Sunday morning, the very first time Mom ever allowed me to stay at home instead of going to church. The house is quiet, and we’re watching X-Men Evolution on television when his hands slowly drift between my thighs.

His touch feels so good, then.

It doesn’t hurt.

No…

I’m eleven, waking up scared from a nap.

My steps are wobbly, uncertain, taking me to his bedroom. I’m climbing on top of his bed, looking for comfort. Nathaniel teaches me how to kiss then, in the dark, like it’s a secret. And it doesn’t feel wrong because it simply doesn’t hurt.

I push every thought away, rejecting to face the truth. I can’t do this right now, or ever. I don’t want to think about it any longer.

It makes my head throb.

Nobody sees me.

Not my mother, not my father, but what about my body?

Why does he get to take the only body I get to have?

They’re all walking around the house like he isn’t ruining my body. It’s becoming a body that’s cursed to swallow down pain and knows how to digest it.

I can feel it in my bones, how he keeps rearranging them again and again. I am being broken to pieces and rebuilt to fit a mold that looks a lot like something he likes. He is completely destroying me, making me docile and weak.

Nathaniel is hunting me, suffocating me, killing me. I am being chased, targeted, and I’m a…

I’m a victim.

He grunts harder, and his moans turn louder.

I’m too young, too small.

I’m just a little girl.

Please, I’m just a baby.

I don’t know anything .

He tells me what to do, where to stay, and how to take it.

I love my brother; I want him to feel good, so I just listen.

How many…

No.

No?

This is not true.

This is not real.

His breathing is harsh, his pace is unrelenting. I make a sound, small and helpless, asking him to stop as my vision starts to darken.

“Are you okay?” André asks me, looking completely scared and frantic. “Oh my God! Did I hurt you?”

I want to be anywhere else.

I want to be someone else.

Someone good.

Someone great.

Someone better .

“I’m okay,” I whisper, tears streaming down my face. He pulls away from me, horrified with himself. “I’m okay, André. God, I’m sorry. I’m okay.”

I’m okay.

I’m okay.

I’m o—