Trigger warning: graphic sexual violence.
Killing me on the floor of the living room in my childhood home would have been way too risky. He knew he wasn’t going to kill me that day. But I didn’t.
It must have been about 2 months since the first time James* raped me. Every morning he would come over to my house after my parents had left for work. He’d watch me getting ready for school, he’d rape me and then he would drop me at the school gates.
I had started setting my alarm earlier and earlier so I could make sure I was ready before he arrived. Subconsciously, I must have thought maybe he wouldn’t rape me if we weren’t in my bedroom.
On this day, we were sat in the living room watching TV before school. He started kissing me forcefully. I recoiled. He didn’t like that.
He stood, grabbed my feet and pulled me off the sofa and onto the floor. He knelt on my legs and pulled my school shirt up. I remember tears falling down my face into my hair. I tried to move my body just enough to make things difficult for him but not so much I would be punished for it. I was starting to learn how to minimise the pain. He pulled my knickers down even though I politely asked him not to. “Please don’t”. He raped me anyway.
And, when he was finished he sat back on his feet and looked at me as if dissatisfied. He put his hands around my throat and squeezed. He rocked his whole body weight forward onto me. I was terrified. The pain in my throat was excruciating. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest and felt the blood rushing to my head. My fingers were cold and my arms felt weak but I garnered all my strength and pushed against his face.
The room started to fade. I looked over to the sofa when my childhood cat, Archie, lay, his eyes wide. It was as though Archie was moving further and further from me. The darkness came and went quickly. It had been quiet as the world had faded away but, when it came back it was sudden and loud.
He strangled me again. I looked towards the clock on the mantelpiece and counted with the moving hands. 52, 53, 54…
Again the room flooded back in. He was strangling me just long enough to make me pass out and then he would let go. Toying with me like a yo-yo.
I looked over to Archie, I thought if I was about to die, I wanted him to be the last thing I saw. I stopped crying. I stopped moving. I didn’t want to die but I wanted it all to be over.
He released me and leaned back, “next time I’ll kill you”.
He stood and left. I stayed sprawled on the living room floor, exposed. My clothes were bunched up around my waist and under my shoulders. I heard the front door close behind him and his engine ignite. I heard him pull onto the drive, heard his gear shift into reverse and then into drive and then I knew he had left.
I got to my knees, straightened my uniform, and crawled across to my cat. He met my head with his. And I burst into tears.
20 minutes later I was on the bus to school. An extra layer of foundation on and a scarf around my neck to hide the bruising.
*In order to maintain their anonymity some names and identifying details have been changed.
I am so grateful you started this blog. It must have been really hard but I am glad you’re sharing your story. So much of this resonates with me and I never knew anyone who had been through similar so I just felt really alone until now. Until I found your blog. Thank you.
Thank you so much for reaching out and connecting. It is always hard to hear there are other survivors but please know you are never alone, I’m here to listen 🤍