I had a dream of him again last night. The person in this world I least want to lay eyes on ever again. It certainly wasn’t the first (I lost count in the first year following alone) & I’ve come to accept it probably won’t be the last.
Last night (in the land of zzz’s), my rapist was kicked back against the Island in my grandparent’s kitchen. He had a smug attitude, the one he usually had &, as he got up & reached for me, I started shooting. I emptied a clip.
The entire round & every bullet from the gun slammed into him from head to toe.
& that son of a bitch still didn’t die.
Even in my dreams he’s still somehow untouchable. As the dream went on & my Michael Myers rose from the dead, my family had called the police.
Sitting around the dinning table, they announced what I did was wrong because I could’ve killed him. I countered with never mind the fact he could’ve killed me in all the countless times I considered giving up after innumerable weekends of torture. Never mind all the flashbacks & pieces of hell that have haunted my darkest dreams.
With almost no affect, my aunt asks, “What are flashbacks?”
Tired, dream me just burst into tears while everyone else at the table looked on in a dead sort of unemotional stare.
The dream ended with the police taking me away. Where was he? Standing in the spot I found him in, picking out the bullets as if they were burs from the hills that were stuck to your clothing. Oddly similar to how I felt in the years I was indentured to him. There was no fault on him. It was my responsibility to ensure I didn’t get raped on a given weekend after all.
Before the detective took me into custody, my aunt had given me a popsicle. She said she’d bought her two children one & figured she’d buy me one too. That’s what we did in my family. We didn’t solve problems, we buy things. We didn’t acknowledge issues, we covered them.
From the moment I woke up today, I’ve felt dirty. Not in the sense that I can shower & wash it off. The kind of dirty that covers you in a sticky sort of slime. My green slime has covered me the entire day. No matter what I’ve done, there it remains. Like the dreams I hate so much, it isn’t our first meeting. He may not have died in my dream & he may not have killed me either in our real life meetings ogether.
But he did take away who I could’ve been. I’ll never be a person without the dreams, the scars, & the green slimy gook I just can’t shake. I’ll never be able to look at, or feel a trigger without wanting to shake, or vomit. He did that to me & suffered nothing in return. I can only hope that, one day, my scars will be of use to me….&, hopefully, a few others as well.