The Night the Table Turned

Thanksgiving came, and I was at a friend’s place. I didn’t think about what could go wrong. I never did until it was too late. Her ex was there. I didn’t know him well, but he was part of the room, part of the noise. That was all I needed to know at the time. The night ended with him on top of me, and I didn’t scream. I don’t remember if I wanted to. I just remember the weight, the smell of him, the way the room spun after. When it was over, I got up and tried to act like nothing had happened. Like I could just walk it off. But the room didn’t spin the same way for anyone else. No one noticed. Or if they did, they didn’t say anything. I went to the bathroom and locked the door. I didn’t cry. I just stood there, looking at myself in the mirror. My face didn’t look any different. That was the worst part. I thought it should. I thought something should show. When I came out, he was still there, laughing with the others. I left without saying goodbye. I didn’t have a phone. I didn’t have anywhere to go. I walked for a while, but walking didn’t make it go away. The next day, I told my friend what happened. She told her ex. He said it was my fault. Because I dressed like such a slut. That was the word he used. Slut. Like it explained everything. Like it made what he did okay. I didn’t argue. I didn’t have the energy. I just stood there, listening to him say it was my fault, and I believed him. Not all the way. But enough. Enough to make me wonder if maybe he was right. If maybe I had asked for it. If maybe I had made him do it. I didn’t call anyone. There was no one to call. No one who would answer. No one who would care. I just went back to the place I was staying and tried to forget. But forgetting wasn’t something I was good at.