Page 7 of Vengeance of Childhood Proportions (Till Death Do Us Part #7)

Prologue

Holly

Fifteen Years Ago

It was a stupid prop for the school play.

To be honest, I don’t even remember what performance the drama department was putting on that year.

I had no intention of seeing it or participating in it.

However, a prank by a senior led me to the auditorium and the stage where I had to unglue my school books from the backdrop.

They had been added to the decor to look like pieces of brick.

I was too distracted by my anger and despair at my circumstances to hear the approaching crowd behind me.

Something collided with the back of my head and I passed out.

I woke up center stage, a place I had metaphorically feared my entire life. I was better off living in the shadows.

The cool draft on my skin let me know immediately that I was naked.

My hazy vision could see the silhouettes, but not the details of the people before me.

I was bent over, locked inside the pillory the school was using for their play that was supposed to be bringing class and culture to a den of delinquents and miscreants.

The prop had been sealed closed. Later on, I would learn they had used the same wood glue that had been applied to my books. I was stuck. Naked, cold, and vulnerable.

Though my vision was hazy, my ears worked without fail. This is how I know that rape had not been the intention of my humiliating circumstances. At first, it was only pictures. Nude though they were, they were also harmless. I could have survived just pictures .

I’ll never forget the voice that asked me if I was a virgin—or the laughing replies from both genders of my audience that stated of course I was a virgin.

After all, who would ever want to touch me ?

I was a loser, a nerd, a freak . I was not sexy or even noticeable.

While pranks had been done to me over the years, I never would have believed myself visible enough to the student body to warrant this .

What followed that laughter was indescribable. It went beyond pain and humiliation. It broke me. I was not a person or even a girl to them. I was a hole, an object. Something to satiate their collective lust on. I was nothing . I was no one .

They didn’t even have the decency to release me afterwards. Bleeding and numb, I was left center stage overnight until the janitor found me the next morning. To say he was shocked at the discovery was an understatement.

The police and an ambulance were called.

I gave names, including those who had witnessed and taken pictures for their own sick pleasure.

I recognized most of their voices; some were even stupid enough to call each other out by name.

What followed was more humiliation and so much doubt that even I questioned my own story.

Fifteen students were accused and fifteen students were set free. Not a single one was punished beyond recommendations to sign up for volunteer hours within the community to show their sympathy for my attack.

Since not a single one bothered to use protection, it was no surprise to anyone when I became pregnant. As my belly grew larger, the insults increased. I was dubbed a slut, a whore, and a harlot by those in town. Many were saying I wasn’t the victim but the instigator.

I stopped attending school. I stopped eating. I stopped drinking. About five months into my pregnancy, I lost the baby. My entire life became a blur. To be honest, I don’t even remember the hospital stay following my miscarriage.

On the one-year anniversary of my rape, I hung a rope from my ceiling fan.