Dealing with Sexual Abuse

 Until I graduated highschool and moved on to my college life, I did not realize how many women had undergone sexual harrassment or abuse. In high school i had always felt alone in my shame of what had happened to me. It was an awakening experience to finally have the understanding that i was not alone. I began actively pursuing "getting better" or dealing with the PTSD I was told i had from my experiences. What i found was the best thing I could do about it was talk to someone. However, what helped the most was my creative writing class. I was able to kill my predator in my stories. It was a healty form of revenge.

This was my revenge:

He wanted to turn off the lights. I let him. His face fades away with comfort from the fluorescent beams. It is night. The sun’s fingers cannot caress my cheeks and warm my skin with her faint touch. The dark is daunting; a villain brought by the moon as the sun fleets from his grasp. All I can do is count the time until she wins her battle and is queen of the sky once more.

                The sudden diminishing light is a shock to my eyes. I see swirls and dots of color as they adjust, and my pupils become larger absorbing what little light is leftover in the shadows of the dark room. I blink a few times, and the outlines of the looming furniture stare into my face. Bodies glare down at me, ever-growing and laughing.

                I hate the dark. It reminds me of the past. I was only sixteen.

 “Isabella!” My mother would say to me, “What is going on with you? Why are you acting this way? I don’t know what to do to make you feel better!” She would sigh and walk away. The longing in her eyes would linger in my mind after she left. Still, I would turn into my pillow screaming and crying. It was as if I had been gagged the moment it happened. My mouth was no longer my own. It belonged to the night. Guilt and anger were the only emotions I was capable of feeling.

“Shit!” He hollers. The thump is piercing in the silence of the dark. He must have knocked the coffee table on his way to the couch. The dark masks my cruel smile. If only he knew my intentions.

“Are you okay?” I say in sweet undertone. It’s convincing, even in my ears. Years of reliving have created this monster. “Come here,” I declare, “I can make you feel better.” The sweet seduction of the syllables encompasses his body as he staggers to the couch. I know what he is thinking. It is exactly what I want.

He opens his mouth to speak. “Oh, hush now.” I bring my finger to my lips. “Shush…”

He sits beside me on the couch and scoots close. I feel the body heat radiating from his skin. It sets me on edge. One by one my arm hairs stand on end and my senses heighten. My body is preparing itself, but this time it is not the same.

I inhale deeply to maintain character. I love movies, and imagining myself as the perfect screen criminal, unstoppable and immortal makes my muscles relax. “Why don’t you come a little closer? I won’t bite.” Out comes a giggle.

Obeying he leans in. That wretched face is only a half inch away. The lines of his expression are ugly catacombs. No amusing aspect lies in the topography of his character. Beside his nose his cheeks leave a deep inlet, like a cave in his face, and his eyebrows are made of bunches of scraggly hair that don’t quite meet between his eyes, but come close. His oily pores are distinguishable, and his rough skin sinks into what becomes his neck. Pursed lips and closed eyes leave him susceptible to whatever I action I take. He is my prey.

I wait. I feel his breath, but I wait. I sense his lips, though they’re not quite touching me.

It is time.

My purse rests beneath me on the ground. He failed to notice my hand coaxing the beautiful treasure lying inside. Although I cannot see her, I know she smiles with me in this moment. No longer does the dark laugh in my face; I laugh in his, and she laughs with me. Vengeance is best served cold.

My baby is ready. She is excited in my hand. It is the killing time. He won’t know what is coming, just as I was unsuspecting. I take the gun from her shelter. Like a caged bird, she finally flies free. So slowly she moves toward her target. She is cautious, not wanting to miss. Finally glaring into his eyes—I can see the fear. It is empowering. She fires. Now I am the queen again. The moon no longer casts his shadow in the sky.

I believe that anyone dealing with the emotional torment sexual abuse brings should write out her (and on occasions his) revenge. It truely helped me. Even after two years of therapy, I found that it changed my way of thinking and allowed me to let go of some of my anger. Although the pain of what has happened to me will always be a part of my life, I feel like a stronger person after dealing with my issues. I believe everyone should stand up to the one who has killed a part of them by killing them in a story.