Page 17

Sundrop: April 2005

The world is upside down and pressed against the wall as I come around to consciousness. I think. Maybe. What the ever-living fuck is happening. I can’t quite open my eyes. There is something, a noise, a grunting, accompanied by movement, something is happening to me and I’m not exactly aware…

What the?

Some form of reality shreds through my thick resolve to never stay awake in this world for too long because I don’t like what is happening to me.

Is that panic?

Something is bubbling up inside of me because I know what is happening to me is wrong

There is a word rolling around the inside of my skull that I don’t want to listen to, that all too familiar four-letter word. The noise in my head is too loud, TOO LOUD, as loud as the grunting of the man who is on top of me.

I can only assume it is a man because I’m pretty sure the grunting is a man who is currently fucking what was my sleeping body.

Unconscious.

Black out drunk?

Unresponsive.

Dead?

I wish I were dead right now.

Tears.

I can’t stop them as my body becomes all too aware of the intrusion. A penis, there is a cock inside of me and I cry out then.

“Yeah!”

The grunter makes louder noises that they’ve realised I’ve woken up. “You’re awake!”

The thrusts speed up as if they had been waiting for me to wake up so they could finish with me lucid enough to what? Pretend to like it? Stroke their ego how they are stroking me against my will with their dick?

I hate the feeling, his big, dirty, smelly body is suffocating me, and I feel trapped. I start to kick out violently, throwing as much weight around as I can but as a 20-year-old who refuses to eat because I like being able to count my ribs on both sides and show off my hip bones, I realise I’m not a match for his size.

I cry more, in frustration, in rising anger as I feel my pussy being spread open by his filthy most likely ugly cock.

I don’t even know who this is, I don’t recognise them.

Just as well, nothing good will come of them.

I roar, I hear myself growl and it’s nothing sexual; pure violation and malice at my attacker.

How fucking dare he.

What I lack in size and strength right now, is coming back to me in adrenaline and rage. He will regret picking me tonight. I will make sure of that. I take one deep breath, take in his face, which is so close to me that I can smell his rancid breath, and I bite down on his lip, hard.

Twenty years' worth of containing myself, twenty years of telling myself not to react, twenty years of being played with, toyed, abused and abandoned. Twenty fucking years of hatred and I bite down in spite and in condemnation of it all. I bite and I tear, I don't let go even when he stops raping me. I don't let go when he starts to scream, I especially don't let go when he hits me.

Not the first time.

Or the second time.

SLAP.

In fact, that just makes me grind my teeth together harder and pull. I rear my head back, taking his lip with me whether it wants to come or not and I use my forehead, striking him hard at the bridge of his nose.

It’s been a few years since I've done this and whatever drugs or alcohol I've had is already messing with my head. I'm wobbly, my focus is in and out, but I don't care. I laugh, blood streaming down his face and I realise I’ve torn part of his lip from his face.

Serves him fucking right.

It's a moment but it's all I need to push him off me and try to get to my feet. That takes more effort than I like as my whole-body tilts wildly to the side as I topple over. He’s screaming at me.

Bitch. Bitch. Bitch.

There is music playing somewhere, loud, thumping, banging, shouting, singing, screaming, swearing, noise is everywhere, and his noise is dipping in and out as I try and remain upright. Which is fucking difficult. The floor keeps wanting to meet my face or the other way around as I wobble.

This is a bedroom; I have no idea who it belongs to.

I look around and see something someone was really fucking stupid to leave out.

Just sitting there, begging to be used.

A baseball bat.

A wooden one too.

My eyes light up and I pick it up, swinging around to meet him.

He’s clutching his face with both hands, trying to staunch the blood flow. As he watches me, not seeing the bat or genuinely believing that even with the bat, I'm not a threat to him.

Fucking stupid piece of shit man.

His ugly cock is hanging out of his jeans, his blood is pouring everywhere from the split in his nose and the tear in his lip. It’s funny to me. I can hear the maniacal laugh rising in my ears but it’s not bubbling out of me, yet.

It's not enough blood though.

It’s brought something out in me, the sight of it.

So much blood, I can smell it in the air.

He looks fucking ridiculous.

I must look ridiculous too. I'm sure I'm covered in his blood, and I probably look crazed, holding the baseball bat in both hands. One at the very base of the hilt and I’ve spread my left hand further up, you must make sure to get a good, wide hold or else you lose control of the swing.

It's a decent enough bat, solid enough for what I need.

He will not be leaving this bedroom, but I will be.

I look at him for a moment, he's not a bad looking guy, normal enough I have assumed. It's hard to tell with all the blood but he looks just like your normal nice guy.

Fucking disgusting pig.

Fucking men.

He starts to speak, he's trying to get up, but I don't let him. The moment is over, and I swing the bat around and bring it down hard on his head.

I think I scream and cry out as I do, maybe I do it in my head, maybe it's out loud, who knows. For the moment, I am glad we are in such a noisy house, I hope that no one comes to investigate.

The rage is taking over though, as the bat comes down across the top of his skull, there is a loud crack and for a few moments, neither of us knows what to do, even I just pause, curious to see what will happen. I can’t believe on my first swing I've cracked his head open; can you crack a head open? Or is that something people just say. I don't know. I guess I'm going to find out.

He starts to move, to stand, despite the head wound and in a little panic, I swing the bat again, this time hitting the side of his knee. He fucking screams at that, a sharp sound that almost makes me want to stop and cover my ears. It's a terrible sound. I wince, and don't stop hitting him then. Those first two practice hits complete, I feel more confident and something in me snaps, what was funny a moment ago is now razor sharp. This fucker was raping me.

Whether he made me unconscious in the first place to do this to me or found me and decided to rape me in a vulnerable state… Either way, it doesn't matter.

There will be no mercy for this one.

Never again will someone rape me and walk away in one piece. I will break his shitty ugly fucking horrible body in as many pieces as I can, and I will leave him like that.

Nothing but blood, a body broken smashed into little, tiny pieces.

My anger comes undone with a battle cry, the roar that comes from me unleashes it all upon this rapist and his body.

I bring the bat down repeatedly, no discrimination because I don't care. I want to make him hurt; I want him to feel everything break as I tear him apart.

I don't know if I’m physically strong enough, I don't care, I am stubborn enough to stay here and keep going until I fuck him up.

He cries, he says things, I can't take in what he is saying. Every swing of the bat, every crack and break that my ears register, brings me higher out of myself and into a realm of peace and tranquillity.

His death brings me peace, a stillness I could never achieve otherwise.

This is heaven and hell and everything impossible to imagine and yet, here I am.

He deserves to die, and I am high on his blood and death.

His cries become silent, and I keep going.

Crack.

Crack.

Crack.

Crack.

Crack.

Crack.

I keep hitting, swinging the bat above my head and back down again onto his body. His head, his arms, his legs, his groin, I take time going repeatedly on his groin. His crotch, now a bloody mess of God knows what but hopefully I can erase any of my own presence from his body. I want none of me anywhere near him.

His body is broken, just like I wanted.

I hope he is happy with himself wherever rapist pieces of shit go where they die.

I hope putting his dick in me without my consent was worth his while.

I hope he got exactly what he wanted.

I hate men.

I hate their entitlement.

I hate them for sticking their dicks into anything that moves or doesn't move, that wants them to or says no, or is unable to say no.

I wouldn't dream of doing to someone what he did to me.

I laugh… I lost count a while ago how many times I’ve been raped. I don’t even know where I am. This has been my life these last few years. This isn’t the first time it’s happened, but maybe it’ll be the last.

This is the first time I have snapped and killed someone though.

I don't feel bad about it.

I feel… good, justified, righteous. That is supposed to be an issue, I knew about this, I knew I could end up like this.

I’ve been waiting for this day to happen. It was inevitable.

It doesn’t feel like I did anything wrong. He did wrong, he deserved this.

I don’t deserve jail though.

I don’t want to go to jail.

I think of Cole and wonder what he would think of me.

He'll probably blame me and tell me I need to do a better job of looking after myself.

I’m struggling though, can a young woman on her own for the first time in her life not live, and drink and party without being molested? Why do men put their fingers and their penises inside of me when I’m fucked up.

Because I wouldn’t give them the time of day if I were sober.

But living sober is too difficult.

What am I to do?

I feel so alone.

The idiot had removed my panties, and I eventually found them on the floor. All my clothing, although the tiny little dress I’m wearing can hardly be called a dress, it’s little longer than a t-shirt, it’s ruined now. I strip it off, I stand there naked. The dress is caked in his blood. It’s starting to dry. The drying blood feels wrong against my skin though, it’s drying and itchy and I want to bathe in bleach. Boil my skin and myself alive.

I want to scratch myself all over, but I can’t allow myself the obsessiveness to distract me right now. I am literally standing naked in the middle of a crime scene.

I do like the feel of the blood on my toes though, that does feel right.

My purple glittery nail polish is ruined too, my feet seem dyed red, and I know I should get cleaned up. I genuinely have no idea where I am though, is this a house or a flat? A dorm? I have no recollection of where I was or how I got here.

This is proof that I am being too reckless. There is some blame on me here, I accept that.

Counting to three, I look around. The bedroom is small, cramped with so many things lying around in huge piles. Clothes mainly, I think but who knows. I take a hoodie from the nearest pile of clothes. It’s a dark green, I think and put it on. It does a decent job of covering me up.

Maybe there are already bodies hidden in this room. Here I am believing my assailant it a garden variety rapist when perhaps, what if this fuck was like me? I might have been intended to be a different type of victim when they brought me here. The room has an orange glow from some dumb lamp perched upon a pile of books on the bedside table. I can’t really tell the colour of things anymore, the orange glow covers everything, the blood covers the rest. It is a sunset, a blazing fire…

FIRE

And here is my idea for concealment. What destroys evidence better than fire? Or at least contaminates it to a point of being almost useless. Oh, I'm sure there will still be DNA evidence, but this is a party, there must be vodka… there will be bleach, I’d hope…

Am I thinking of setting a fire in a bedroom knowing there are other people in the house? Yes. Yes, I am. I hope a few other people die because then it will look like a party gone wrong, out of hand rather than a specific murder of one bright young man.

I’m sure someone thinks he’s bright, he’s male, they get praised for fucking nothing after all. Round of applause for not shitting your boxers in front of the company, darling…

I am angry and that anger is directed at least. I have a plan, something to do with my hands because they miss the feeling of the bat. It’s a shame I can’t take it with me. I need to take something with me though, something to remind me not of one of many rapes but of my first confirmed kill.

It is a special day. My cherry has well and truly been popped.

I’m just worried I’ll never be able to stop.