Short Stories

SUNDAY WALKS AND LONE STREETS

It is a Sunday afternoon; I head over to my friend, Ama’s house. We live in the same area. I choose to wear a floral sundress about 3 inches above my knees, short by most standards instead of my go-to jeans. I use a shortcut. Sure, it’s bushy, but there’s a clear-cut path. The path is lonely today. Still, I press on.
 

Suddenly, I feel a hand clamped over my mouth. I scream, but my voice is muffled. I am held and carried against my will, kicking and flailing into a nearby bush. I swing my arms wildly about hoping to hit my assailant, but to no avail. He is a good head taller and quite well-built; my petite frame does not stand a chance. He pins me to a tree in the bush. He has one hand over my mouth, while fumbling with his flap with his free hand. I cannot move. His bulky weight prevents all attempts to squirm my way out of his grasp. His flap free, he unzips my dress, pulls my pants down and enters from behind with a force that shakes my core. The pain is unbearable. It does not stop; he keeps pushing, each time more forceful, grunting as he does so.

 

I try to shout for help, but his hand suppresses the sound of my voice. The tears run down my face quite steadily now. He notices, but makes no effort to stop. He continues till he has reached satisfaction. He stops, pulls out and pushes me to the ground. I try to crawl away, with what little strength I have left, thinking that the worst is over.

 

He leans in on my broken frame and holds me to the ground. I cry for help, my mouth no longer prisoner of his rough palm. He responds to my calls with a series of slaps across my face and proceeds to clamp his hand on my mouth. He uses his free hand to pull up the hem of my dress; the weight of his body on mine constricts any movement. His thrusts are steady and violent as he tears apart any innocence I have left. With a final grunt and jerk, he stands up, a sneer of disgust across his face as he looks down at me. He zips his flap and walks away, not a glance behind.

 

My dress is torn and dirtied, there’s blood on my legs. I begin to bawl, mourning the death of my dignity. What seems like an eternity passes by. I slowly pick myself up, and limping, turn to go back home. As I leave the path for the street where I live, I can feel the stares of the passers-by. I can’t even raise my head. I hear the murmurings of disapproval and scorn. Why can’t these people see past my dishevelled appearance to the horrific ordeal of the past hour? Truth is, they can’t and most likely won’t. In the end, it is not his fault that he attacked me; it is mine – I wore a dress 3 inches above my knee.
Image: Google images

 Author’s Note: Rape is never justifiable. Join the movement for change. Stop shaming rape victims. 

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