The first time was after an intense argument. He pushed me against my front door and forced me inside. I submitted because I thought that’s just how sex was supposed to happen. That scene was so common in movies.
I feel like I let it happen.
The second time, I was drunk. It was New Year’s Eve. We were at his cousin’s house. He led me to a room and got on top of me while I lay there, incoherent, on a dirty mattress that smelled like dogs and urine. I still kissed him moments later when the ball dropped.
I was sore for a week.
The third and final time was after a six month long break. He invited me to his grandmother’s house to play video games with him and his little brother. I said yes. He picked me up and took me to a mobile home in an unfamiliar part of town. The rotting trailer smelled like old garbage and dirty clothes. Trash bags were strewn all around the living room. I saw a gun on the coffee table. He led me to his bed room and undressed me. He held me down, angrily. Forcefully. I didn’t dare fight back.
I have been suicidal since then.
It’s been four years and I still feel like it’s all my fault. I don’t dare tell my family because I know they will blame me. It’s a burden I never thought I would carry, but my story is proof that it can happen to anyone.