Please welcome Chrissie to The Wounded Warrior Blog.
Chrissie sent me this piece some time ago but due to circumstances out of my control it is only now I have been able to post it here for her.
Born and raised in Southwestern Virginia, Chrissie Anderson Peters received stories from those around her from a young age. Many of those stories serve as the frames or foundations of what she writes today.
A 1989 graduate of Tazewell High School, Chrissie received her BA from Henry College (1993) and her Masters of Science in Information Sciences from the University of Tennessee (2002).
Always an avid reader, Chrissie began writing in fourth grade. After college she continued collecting writing ideas, although she did not write much for several years. Her dedication to writing rekindled in 2005 when she took a Creative Writing course at Northeast State Community College, where she works as a librarian. She has received accolades in several contests, as well as being accepted at the Hindman Settlement School’s Appalachian Writers Workshop (2010-2012).
Chrissie and her husband Russ reside in Bristol, Tennessee, with their feline children. Dog Days and Dragonflies is her first full-length publication.
or Via email TheWriteWayToGo@gmail.com
and Twitter @WriteWayToGo
Trigger Warning
Call
It Paradise
There I am again, that same dream. I
am in Carl’s friend’s dorm room, over in Hillman Hall. There’s a Janet Jackson
video playing silently in the background, the newest video from her Rhythm Nation album in October 1989. It’s
the one where they’re all in army-like mode. The video in its odd
black-and-white taping adds to the surreal nature of everything else that
happened that night.
Nothing happened
the way that it was supposed to. The fact that I went to Hillman to go to a
party up on the third floor with Gabe Wilson, but I somehow ended up with some
guy named Carl in his friend’s room on the first floor. The fact that I’d only
had alcohol once before in my life – the previous weekend at a Homecoming party
up on Treasure Mountain, delivered with discretion by a good friend with no
ulterior motives – and then tonight I’d just taken up the challenge to drink
this Bacardi 151 (“It’s like Bacardi times ten,” Carl’s friend had laughed) and
shot it back like it was nothing, because it tasted like nothing, until I tried
to stand up and then the world started spinning like a tilt-a-whirl that I
couldn’t make stop. The fact that Gabe came looking for me and Carl and his
friend told me to be very quiet, like we were playing some sort of game, and I’d
gone along with it, not really because I thought it would be fun, but because I
don’t think I could even talk. The fact that Gabe, God bless his sweet soul,
then tried climbing into the room through the window from outside, short little
Gabe, and something inside me thought I was still on the third floor and I
thought, “Oh, God, he’s gonna fall off the ledge and kill himself and it’ll all
be my fault,” and I gasped really loudly and sucked air in until I nearly
passed out, completely falling out of my chair and falling onto the lower bunk
of the two beds in the dorm room where all of this took place, and hitting my
head on the painted cinder block wall and thinking, “Wow, I’ll bet that hurt,”
yet not feeling a thing. The fact that I kept seeing that video and thinking
how militant it was, how completely unromantic the song was even though the
music wasn’t even audible, how unlike my lifelong expectations for my first
time this was all going to be. Because I knew somehow that we were going to
have sex, this Carl guy and me. He kept kissing me, caressing me. Yet I felt
none of it. I kept wondering how it could possibly happen this way. I hadn’t
necessarily been saving my virginity for someone “special,” but God, I at least
wanted to be present in body for it, you know?
Then I see
myself lying down on the bed. I’m wearing that pretty blue sweater with the
delicate little white hearts on it and a pair of blue jeans. I love that
sweater. It actually looks good on me. I’m eighteen years old and don’t have
the most positive body image in the world. Hell, what eighteen-year-old girl
does? Especially one who has been fat her whole life? I weighed ninety-nine
pounds in third grade. When I had my physical done the summer before starting
college, the doctor who did mine felt my breasts and proclaimed, “You’d never
know if you had breast cancer or not, your breasts are so lumpy!” That’s
exactly what a girl who has never even been felt up wants to hear, you know? No
self-esteem. I have a pretty enough face, I think, though I won’t go anywhere
without make-up. Or without styling my long, spiral-permed brown hair – and
teasing the front way up (remember, it’s the late 80’s and the higher the hair,
the closer you are to God). But the rest of me… The rest of me, I’ve never been
so sure about. And I could never ask my mother. We don’t talk about sex. Or anything
remotely sexual in nature – which is ironic, now that I think of it. The first
record she ever bought for me, when I was probably around four or five years
old, was by the British band Hot Chocolate and was called “You Sexy Thing.”
Flash forward to early 1985, a typical Saturday when I’m cleaning house while
blasting music on the stereo, listening to the latest album by another British
band, Duran Duran. “Save A Prayer” finishes playing and my mother lifts the
needle from the record and asks, “Do you know what that song is about?” Well,
let me think here… The lyrics go: Some
people call it a one-night stand/ But we can call it Paradise… I smile in
the dreamy way that all thirteen-year-old girls smile when smitten by lust and
answer, “Yeah, isn’t it cool?” But that was just a thirteen-year-old girl in
lust with five hot guys from the UK, not a drunk, first-semester college girl
who can’t even feel her limbs, trying to figure out what the hell is happening
and how to have an active role in it.
I’m suddenly
aware of Carl fumbling with the zipper on my jeans. Holy crap, this is really
going to happen! I remember going to the movies with Bobby Dunford and swatting
his hands to try to make him watch A Fish
Called Wanda. I knew Bobby Dunford and I liked Bobby Dunford. He never
asked me out again. I know almost nothing about this Carl guy except that I
think he said he was a football player. Yes, he must be a football player; he’s
wearing his room key on a shoe string around his neck like all the football
players do. Why do they do that? Don’t they know how stupid it makes them look?
One hand slides
up under my sweater, cupping my doctor-proclaimed lumpy breasts, groping them
eagerly, while his other hand begins working its way into my unzipped jeans. I
squeeze my eyes shut. Then I’m acutely aware of his erection pushing against my
backside, through my jeans. Why can I feel that, but not my legs? I try to
move. Maybe I can get up and leave. But I still can’t feel my legs. My arms,
too, feel as heavy and useless as lead. And my mouth won’t work – no voice
comes out. Maybe some mumbles or indiscernible noises, but who knows what this
guy is taking any of that to mean? I definitely feel his fingers make their way
inside my panties. I have to do something. I must do something. Something.
Something. Anything…
And I’m awake.
That is where I wake up every single night. I wake up at that point in the
dream, crying. On the nights when my beautiful party-hearty roommate Martha Lee
is there, she comes over to my bed and asks if I’m okay. As though I am still
paralyzed, stuck in the dream, I shake my head, no voice coming out through my
sobs.
I honestly don’t
remember the sex. I just know that it happened. I know for a few reasons. I
know because Carl’s friend completely went off when Carl snuck me out of the
room to take me back over to my own dorm – because I’d “fucked up his sheets.”
I remember looking back and thinking, “Dear God, someone must be bleeding to
death.” Maybe I was hallucinating; maybe in that intoxicated state everything seemed
more intense than it actually was. I really don’t know. I just remember
thinking that whoever was bleeding like that surely needed medical attention. Carl,
being the gentleman that he was, walked
me to my car, which was actually parked in the Chapel parking lot, near my
dorm. Never mind that he had a car right there in the parking lot behind the
building where we had been. Besides, the fresh air would help me sober up
faster. I remember that I had to pee. I had to pee desperately. I didn’t care
where. At this point, was dignity really at stake? So I lowered my jeans and
panties and peed against a weeping willow that stood next to the Duck Pond. I
remember thinking something along the lines of “Weeping willow, cry for me,
‘cos I just don’t have the strength right now!” But I’m still not sure if I was
lamenting or joking when I thought it.
Carl took my car
keys, unlocked the door for me, put me in the passenger seat, got in and drove
me around for a while. I have no idea where or for how long. After the drive,
he found a parking spot behind my dorm, MaWa, and walked me to the main door of
the building. No goodbye kiss or anything like that. He handed my keys back and
said, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I looked at the
entrance to the building, thinking it simultaneously seemed like the open jaws
of a monster and a landing pad to home, a feeling that I would have hundreds
more times in my four years at Emory & Henry, for various reasons. I took a
deep breath and tried my best to look sober as I walked through the main door.
In case you have never tried to look sober, here is something you should know: the more sober you try to look, the drunker
you obviously appear to everyone else in the world. As this was my first
time being drunk, however, I didn’t realize this very important rule of the
universe yet.
When I walked
in, there sat a resident advisor and the Residence Director of Women. I must
have looked like hell. Both of them stopped the game of cards they were playing
and stared at me, just short of having their jaws drop open. The resident
advisor spoke first. “Are you okay, Chelsea?”
Stay cool. Stay
calm. “I’m fine.” I answered a little more shakily than I would have liked, but
I got it out without breaking down.
Then the
Residence Director of Women spoke. “If you need to talk or anything –”
“I’m fine,
thanks. Just tired.” And so it was set. The tough act was on. The mask was
placed. And denial had set in that anything “wrong” had happened at all. I was
the one who had made a bad decision and I would now deal with those
consequences. Whatever the hell that might mean.
I took the
elevator to the fourth floor and walked all the way to the end of the hall, and
then to the end of the “short-L” where my room was. I never locked my door,
something I was glad for tonight, this morning, whatever it was by now. My
answering machine was blinking. Gabe had left a message sometime after midnight
asking if I was okay. How could I ever hope to explain any of this to him? I
couldn’t. I wouldn’t. Not ever.
I started to
undress, but caught my reflection in the floor-length mirror and lost control
of my emotions. With my sweater half-on and half-off, I just stood there
sobbing. I didn’t want to see my reflection and thanked God when my vision
became so blurry that I could no longer see any part of who I was. I didn’t
know this new person standing there and she didn’t know me. She was not the
same person who had waited for Simon LeBon to whisk her away to that promised
Paradise of “Save A Prayer” that he sang about when she was thirteen; she was
some girl who had just had sex with a guy she barely knew – while she was drunk
– and all she knew for sure was that there was nothing Paradisiacal about the
place she was standing in right now.
About five
minutes later, once I’d flung myself down on the bed, glad that Martha Lee was
gone for the weekend and that I didn’t have to explain anything to her, my
stomach began churning. I still hadn’t managed to get into my pajamas
completely, just into the bottoms. I knew what was coming next. The shame of
what had happened was not to be enough. No, God was going to punish me
righteously. I ran down the hall to the bathrooms, barged into a stall, and hurled
like I had never hurled before. The acidic taste of the Bacardi 151 filled my
mouth, my nostrils, and flew like projectile missiles from my face. I hugged
the toilet with what strength I had regained in my upper extremities. “Really,
God?” I wanted to shout. “Is all of this
necessary, too?” I looked down at that gorgeous blue sweater with the little
white hearts on it. Puke covered the front. How
appropriate, I remember thinking. It’s
just like me. Stained. I’ll never love it again, either.
By the time I
left the bathroom, I was too weak to walk. I literally crawled back to my room.
I took off the sweater and balled it up, throwing it into the corner, as far
away from my view and range of smell as I could. I’d wash it when I had more
strength. Or maybe I’d throw it away; if only I could do the same to myself…
Martha Lee and
another friend woke me up when they got back around 4:00 on Sunday afternoon. I
still felt like hell. I described the tremendous headache, the vomiting, the
“wanting to crawl somewhere and die” feelings. Martha Lee grinned and surmised,
“This is your first hangover, isn’t it?” I wanted to be sarcastic with her, but
realized that she was the most worldly person I knew and that I probably needed
to be nice to her, that I might need to ask her questions about some of this at
some point. So I simply answered yes.
“Where was the
party? Were there hot guys there?” Her eyes brightened as she pummeled me with
questions.
I told her about
the party and skipped as many details as possible about the rest, saying only
that I ended up drinking with some guy and that we ended up having sex. Her
eyes got wide, as did the other friend’s. Then she smiled really big. “Chelsea Anderson
– got drunk and had sex?” It was like it was some miraculous thing, like one of
the Seven Signs or something. “What’s his name?”
“Carl,” I
answered. “No clue what his last name is. Football player.”
On a campus of
fewer than 1000 students, the two of them figured out who he was pretty
quickly. “He’s in my comp class,” the friend volunteered. I pretended to follow
their chitchat, but I honestly didn’t care.
I was relieved
when 4:45 rolled around and it was time to get ready to go to the cafeteria for
dinner. Little did I know that mealtime would never be the same for me again.
My head still
pounded and I felt like I was looking at the world through something other than
my own contact lenses. Nothing felt right. Nothing looked right. Things sounded
different. I felt like everyone was watching me. And maybe they were. I looked
around, suddenly not sure of what Carl or his friend even looked like. Less
than twenty-four hours had passed and I was either already blocking it out or forgetting
it. Either way, I was kinda thankful for the memory lapse. However, it took me
all of five minutes in the cafeteria to realize that, just because I hadn’t made it to brunch that day,
certainly did not mean that stories from the night before hadn’t made it on my
behalf in living color.
I got the
blandest thing to eat that I possibly could – cereal. As I stood there waiting
for the milk to come out of the dispenser, a guy walked up and touched me on
the shoulder. I jumped. “Hey,” he said quietly. “It’s me, Carl.”
“Oh, yeah, hi,”
I mumbled.
“I didn’t see
you at brunch,” he said nonchalantly, as he got a glass of milk.
“No, I wasn’t
much feeling up to coming over here. And I was working on some homework,” I
lied, not wanting him to think that I was in any way inconvenienced by anything
that had transpired the night before.
“Well, I just
wanted to make sure you were okay. I’ll see you around.”
And that was it.
I’ll see you around. Which I totally understood. I’ve done my part. I’ve checked on you. You’re alive. You’re okay.
We’re finished here.
I went to my
usual table in the back corner and sat down with my friends, all of whom were
careful about asking how I was, how my weekend had been, what I had done last
night, etc. It was like seeing the proverbial elephant in the room, only the
elephant was me. Or rather, what I’d done. Everyone knew, or knew some part of
it, and probably wanted to know more. They were waiting to see if I would tell
more or if they were going to need to pry it out of me, or if they would have
to wait for tidbits from somewhere else. I offered nothing of substance. It had
been my stupidity and I would deal with it. I wasn’t ready to share it with the
world just yet, even if the world was more than eager to hear about it.
After downing my
second bowl of cereal, I took my tray up to dump it. I took my usual route, not
even realizing that it would take me by the table where Carl and his friends
sat. Maybe I should go a different way. Why, though? For Pete’s sake, we’re all
adults here. Judging from the snickers, guffaws, and stifled laughter, I gave
the friends too much credit. Well, fuck them; I was an adult. I wasn’t changing my life just because they were
immature cretins!
The dream
started that night. It didn’t get very far before I forced myself to wake up. I
didn’t want to remember. Remembering was going to be bad. Remembering was going
to be some kind of ugly that I was not yet prepared to face. I refused to go
back to sleep. I couldn’t take the chance of ending up there again.
To say that the
next few weeks were long ones would be an understatement. One day the week
after it all transpired, I stopped in at the student health center on campus,
or as we called it back in the day, the Infirmary. It had been four days and I
was still bleeding. I didn’t know if that was normal or not; I had no frame of
reference and was not about to ask Martha Lee. Donna, the nurse, took me back
into her office and closed the door. I’ll never forget how nice and unobtrusively
she dealt with the entire situation. “Was this your first time?” I set my jaw
hard to keep all of my emotions in check and nodded my head. “Did your
boyfriend use a condom?” Again I nodded my head, but inside, I set off into
panic mode. My boyfriend – what a joke! Had he used a condom? I had no clue!
How was I supposed to figure out that
piece of the puzzle? My mind whirled around all of the horrible things that
could result from the absence of a condom while sweet Donna was trying to
explain to me that I had probably just torn some and that, if I continued
bleeding, I should probably go to a doctor, just to be on the safe side. I must
have had that deer-in-headlights look as I thanked her and started to leave,
though, because she stopped me with just a gentle touch to my arm. “Was there
alcohol involved? Chelsea, was the sex consensual?”
Words spilled
out quickly. “No, I consented.” No turning back now. “It was stupid on my part,
but I knew what I was doing.” I thought I saw her shake her head as I left, but
I didn’t turn back to see for sure.
The next day, I
called Carl and asked if he had worn a condom. He acted for all the world like
my phone call had inconvenienced him to no end. How dare I even bother him with
such petty matters. Of course he had worn a condom. What kind of idiot did I
think he was? Why had I gone to the Infirmary? I didn’t tell them I was drunk,
did I? No, Carl, I wanted to say. I just told them I was stupid…
When rumors fly
on a small campus, it’s a special kind of hell for the person or people caught
up in the tales. Friends delicately began asking me questions about the things
they were hearing. One night when I was working switchboard, my friend Harold
was working sign-in, a thankless, mindless task where guys were required to
leave a license, ID, or keys and sign-in to indicate which young lady they were
going to visit (her name, room number and phone extension). During a few
moments of quiet for both of us, he looked at me with a grave expression and
said, “Are you doing okay?”
By now, it had
been a couple of weeks. I was getting pretty good at dealing with this
particular question on the outside. I had actually just about perfected my
response. “Oh, Harold, I’m fine. It was a crazy night. I got way too drunk, had
sex with someone I didn’t know, and life goes on, you know?” I could even say
it with a painted-on smile by this point.
But Harold
didn’t buy it. “You can call it what you want to, but you were raped.”
My eyes darted
around the vicinity, praying no one else had heard what he said. I glared at
him. “No, Harold, you didn’t hear what I said.”
“I heard what
you said. And I heard what Carl’s friend said. And none of it really matters
because what they did was wrong. They intentionally got you drunk and then Carl
took advantage of you. In Virginia, that is rape. Plain and simple.”
I wanted to
reach across the switchboard box and slap Harold. I wanted to shake him hard
and tell him no! I wanted to tell him that he couldn’t talk about it that way,
like it was just that way. Then what he had said registered. I heard what Carl’s friend said. “His
friend is talking about it?”
“All over the
place, Chelsea. All about how he had to change the sheets after you guys
finished, about –”
I held up my
hand for him to stop. I really didn’t want to hear any more. They really were
talking about me. And they really were laughing at me in the cafeteria. At
every single meal. It didn’t matter what I said. It didn’t matter how I tried
to handle what had happened, internally or externally. Perception was going to
go against me completely. I had been lying to everyone. Including myself. And
all for absolutely nothing.
Harold was
talking again. I had missed the first part of it, but he had pulled his chair
closer, so that our conversation was not being broadcast all over the
second-floor lounge of MaWa. “I know that it can’t be an easy thing to deal
with. And I know it sounds weird, but if you want a friend to go with you to
talk to someone, I’ll go with you. You need to report this. To someone.”
I blinked
unresponsively and looked past Harold, shaking my head. “No, the time for that
is past. I can’t go back there now.” And I really didn’t believe I could. Plus
the fact remained that I honestly did not want to.
I began skipping
more and more meals. It wasn’t worth the daily walk of shame that I had to
endure in going anywhere near Carl’s circle of friends in the cafeteria. I even
skipped classes occasionally and didn’t go out as much on the weekends. The
dream was becoming more and more intense each time I had it, so I slept less
and less. I realized one day that I had truly hit rock bottom. Not eating, not
sleeping, constantly lying about major facets of my existence… These were not
healthy behaviors. On the nights when I did accidentally doze off, I would wake
up thrashing under the covers or making horrific noises that woke up Martha
Lee, who, in turn, would rush to my bed to wake me up and make sure I was okay.
Yes, even Martha Lee, party girl extraordinaire knew that something was amiss.
“Chelsea, you need to talk to someone. This has been going on since you had sex
with that Carl guy. I don’t like the stories I’ve heard and you need to do something.”
I needed to do
something. Something. That was the problem. The one thing that I wanted to do
was to die. I wanted it all to end. I’m not saying that I wanted to kill
myself, though; that is an entirely different feeling and I have, at different
times in my life, felt that way, too. But I just wanted everything to cease. If
things couldn’t cease, then I wanted them to somehow go back to a way that they
had (I also realized), never truly been.
I spent the
entirety of that day, literally, curled up in a ball in the closet of our dorm
room. Something had to change that day. I had gone as low as I could go. And
the way I saw it, I had two choices from which to go on: I could either stay
curled up in that ball and give up or I could start rebuilding and I could
rebuild in such a way that I could become the person I had always wanted to be.
I didn’t have to be that insecure eighteen-year-old with a negative body image,
always doubting herself and every decision that she made. I didn’t have to be
trapped any longer because that other shell was beyond broken down – it was irreparable
and a new abode needed to be created for a new me. I might have given away a
part of me that I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to, but that didn’t mean I
couldn’t still look for Paradise!
Building a new
you can be fun, but it also isn’t easy, especially when the “you” that you’re
attempting to create is an ideal that the poet in you likens to a phoenix
rising from the ashes of a former self. The fun part, though, is that you get
to try out totally new things, kinda like buying a new wardrobe after a
substantial weight loss. Let’s see how this feels when I try it on; maybe this
color will work out better than that last one. There are boundaries, but you
don’t know what they are until you reach them. Each day is a new adventure in
exploring who you are becoming, in who you really are. And that is more
exciting than words can accurately describe!
That doesn’t
mean that there aren’t plenty of days, though, when you hit a snag in the
building process, or when the proposed blueprint doesn’t suffer a setback or
two. A dinner or two when the guffawing of his friends doesn’t just set your
teeth on edge and you want to do something horrible to each and every one of
them, when you want to stand up on a table in the middle of the cafeteria and
tell your side of the story, even if it was
your own stupidity that landed you in that situation…
Day by day,
though, I felt better; I felt stronger. I reveled in who I was becoming. I welcomed
her and was likewise welcomed by her. I had never known self-acceptance like
this before. The people who knew me and loved me didn’t care what Carl and his
cronies spread around campus. My friends embraced me and made sure I wasn’t in
a situation like that again, just like the new me did – no drinking with
strangers, no wandering off from the group. What had happened was bad, but I
did learn a lot from it. Lessons learned the hard way tend to stick best, I
guess.
The semester
wound down. The Saturday night of finals, just a week or so before Christmas, snow
fell in our little world nestled deep in the mountains of southwestern
Virginia. And at Emory & Henry, that meant one thing: sledding on the golf
course! Well, to be perfectly fair, it also meant a substantial amount of drinking
and general socializing. Still needing to study for an exam or two, and needing
to wrap my last few gifts for friends at school, as well as family members at
home, I decided to hang out in the dorm, but to leave my door standing open and
enjoy the holiday chaos up and down the hallway. Two friends, Brian and Donnie,
stopped by, their cheeks and noses red with “holiday merriment” (and likely some
high-quality bourbon), and I invited them in. No sooner had they sat down than
my telephone rang. I picked up in my usual manner. “Yeah?”
At the other
end, there was a slight pause and then the sound of static, like a tape
recorder starting up. And then a male voice, obviously on a tape recorder of
some sort, announced, “This is one of Carl’s friends and I’m just wondering if
you’re really as cheap as he says you are.”
I threw the
phone down, as though it had suddenly turned into a serpent in my hand. I
turned quickly and ran from the room, my entire world suddenly skewed and
falling apart, the ground was peeling away beneath my feet. I fell in the hall
and pulled myself up against the wall. How dare them! How could they do this to
me after weeks and weeks of me not giving a damn and showing them and the rest
of the world that I didn’t care anymore, that they couldn’t hurt me anymore,
that I was stronger than anything that they could throw my way? I sat there
sobbing, rocking back and forth with my knees pulled tight against my chest,
Brian and Donnie now beside me asking what had just happened. Before anyone
else could get a chance to see me that way, they helped me to my feet and took
me back into my room, closing the door. Brian reached into my refrigerator and
pulled out a Mountain Dew, handed it to me, and asked again what happened. I
finally pulled myself together enough to tell them about the voice on the other
end of the phone. Although I’d never discussed what had happened on that
October night with either of these guys, I could tell that they, too, had heard
the stories.
“Did you
recognize the voice?”
I really didn’t
know any of Carl’s friends personally, but I had heard enough of the jeers for
long enough that I was fairly certain of the voice. But I couldn’t prove
anything. Brian and Donnie, though, were friends in the truest sense of the
word – and drunk red necks, to boot – who were not about to let someone treat
one of their friends that way. They made their way back to Hillman, going room
to room searching for a tape recorder, but never found one.
I sat there the
rest of the night, watching the phone in terror, as though it were a living,
breathing organism, capable of harming me. Watching the phone gave way to
nodding off, and the dream was back again, more vivid, more in-depth. I started
to remember something important. Then the phone woke me up. I couldn’t decide
which was worse – the phone ringing or the dream. So I just sat there in
silence, looking at it. The clock on the wall read 12:30. It was daylight
outside. The answering machine kicked on; I held my breath and waited. “Hey,
it’s Lynne. Are you going to brunch?”
I grabbed the
phone and made up an excuse not to go. “I’m trying to pack up stuff so I can
get out of here right after my two exams tomorrow. I’m just ready to get the
hell out of Dodge, you know,” I tried to be breezy.
“I heard about
your phone call last night.”
“How the hell
did you hear about that?”
“Donnie’s dating
Cassie. I saw her in the bathroom this morning and she told me about it. Don’t
let them tear you down again, Chelsea. You’ve come too far. This semester is
almost over. See it through.”
She was right. I
owed it to my new self to do that much. The foundation of the person I had
become was strong enough to handle the test; I felt certain of that, but I
needed to walk into that cafeteria and prove it. I had to face down the cowards
who had pulled the phone prank to let them know that they did not have the
upper hand in this or any other matter that involved me. Not today, not ever
again.
The first night of Christmas break,
I lie alone in my own bed, back home in Tazewell. It is cold in my room, like
it always is in winter. There is frost on the windows and I scratch my initials
onto the glass, CIA. Home doesn’t
feel much like home tonight, though. This new me cannot seem to settle down
here; the old me wasn’t happy here, so I don’t know why I thought the new
version could thrive here at all. But this bedroom is still mine, it is still
me; it is still my hideaway and safe place. The posters of Duran Duran have
been replaced by some other rock band, probably a couple of rock bands since
the Fab Five plastered the walls. But I close my eyes and remember that time. I
still have the same boom-box. I still sleep on the same pillows in the same
Holly Hobbie pillow cases (although I keep another pillow case over those now).
I am at peace in this one room and I drift off to sleep in the one place where
I know that nothing bad in the world can or will happen to me…
I’m suddenly
aware of Carl fumbling with the zipper on my jeans. Yes, the dream. Again. One
hand slides up under my sweater, cupping my doctor-proclaimed lumpy breasts,
groping them eagerly, while his other hand begins working its way into my
unzipped jeans. I squeeze my eyes shut. Then I’m acutely aware of his erection
pushing against my backside, through my jeans. Why can I feel that, but not my
legs? I try to move. Maybe I can get up and leave. But I still can’t feel my
legs. My arms, too, feel as heavy and useless as lead. And my mouth won’t work
– no voice comes out. Maybe some mumbles or indiscernible noises, but who knows
what this guy is taking any of that to mean? I definitely feel his fingers make
their way inside my panties. I have to do something. I must do something.
Something. Something. Anything… And in one final attempt to do anything, I see
myself in that dorm room in Hillman. As if in an out-of-body experience, I see
the inebriated me who cannot feel my body somehow manage to turn over onto my
stomach and I hear myself utter one word and one word alone: “No!” And then I see Carl flip me onto
my back as though I am nothing but a rag doll and everything goes pitch black.
But it is
enough. I know what really happened. I know what I have not allowed myself to
remember for two long months. I know that Harold was right and that my gut was
right and that I have lied to myself and to everyone else. And while I’m not
sure what in God’s name I am to do with any of that, I know that I am free from
it. I know that I am terrified, but liberated. And even though I know that I
will not report it, because I will not put myself through it over and over
again – for I am now finished with it and this dream is forbidden to keep me
awake any more nights – I will call Carl when I get back to campus after
Christmas break. I will call him and tell him that I finally remembered and I
will ask him what gave him the right to do what he did, what gave him the right
to rape me. And when he tells me that it is my
fault because I kissed him, I will ask him what kind of twisted
son of a bitch he is. But I will not hate him because hating him will mean that
he wins. And no one will ever have that power over me again.
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Book Information:
Dog Days and Dragonflies, by Chrissie Anderson Peters
- Paperback: 154 pages
- Publisher: CAP Publishing (June 8, 2012)
- Language: English
- ISBN-10: 0985257407
- ISBN-13: 978-0985257408
- Product Dimensions: 9 x 6 x 0.4 inches
- Shipping Weight: 10.2 ounces
The Underwear Rule is a simple way that parents can help keep children safe from abuse.
