I know I’ve been away for a long time but writing the rest of this story was even harder than writing the first part. It took me three weeks before I could go through my notes again and start working through the horrors she had disclosed to me. My brain simply could not comprehend what had happened.

I could not put the strong, independent woman I knew in the same box as the scared, broken sixteen year old whose soul laid in tattered shreds. It sounds melodramatic to say the least but as this story unfolds I guarantee you will also be wondering how on earth anyone could survive such a horrific and traumatizing teenage experience.

She had this deadly calm look in her eyes (the mug of hot chocolate long time finished but still softly held in her hands like protection) as she prepared to tell me the rest of her story…

“Isn’t it ironically funny how I went from white jeans to black ones? Like even the heavens knew my soul had crossed over to the dark side…” she whispered before continuing, ” I’ve never worn white socks since that day. Not even secret socks.”

My heart leapt to my throat at her innocent confession. In that moment her eyes were so transparent I could almost see the broken cracks she had tried to fill behind them. She blinked and instantly the look was gone and she was back to being super professional again.

“He handed me a slab of whole nut chocolate, like a prize, and left without a goodbye. If that wasn’t bad enough, he messaged as soon as he got home.

He said, ” I’m so sorry, I raped you.”

I was 16. Confused, scared and raped. I had no idea what to do. All I could think of was getting the stink of him off of me before my parents smelt it. I took a burning hot shower and stayed in there till the water ran ice cold.

I avoided him for a week trying to process what had happened. By the end of the week, I was burning to know why he did it. I cornered him at school (surprise attack since I’d been avoiding him) and straight out asked him why he raped me. At first he played dumb then he simply said he could not control himself.

After he said that I eventually decided that I didn’t get raped, I had simply made it up. I continued to talk to him firmly believing that he hadn’t raped me it was just too tempting for him since I let him kiss me before that.

He raped me three times within a month. The last two were within a week of each other. The whole ordeal was too much for me and I started self harming and blamed myself for tempting him.

My school Councillor got whiff that my arms were all scarred and called me into her office after the third rape. She consoled me and eventually got me to tell her the whole story. Keep in mind that, by this point I just wanted someone to comfort me. She promised she would not tell a soul.

But I cried myself to sleep in her office and woke up to my parents staring at me.

She had told the principal and called my parents in. It was a crazy fiasco of events that unfolded after that. She told my parents the entire story.

My principal was a disgrace. He told me to go get counselling but not while in school uniform because it would be too embarrassing to the school that one of their students was raped and suffering from depression.

At this point, my blood was boiling. Of all the idiotic and backward things to say, this is what a PRINCIPAL thought was appropriate to say to a traumatized and humiliated sixteen year old? It is time for these “community run” schools to stop covering up for their precious male students and perpetuating a cultural image which leaves the victims as the ostracized members of society.

She continued by saying, ” For some bizarre reason, my Councillor, parents and the principal all think it was consensual and I’m just regretting it because I’m worried about what the rest of the community will think if they find out.

I left with my parents that day and I’ve never had therapy for it. Instead I was grounded and blamed for wanting it.

My best friend blamed herself for not stopping him or for not knowing it was happening. In the meantime, the douche made friends with my sister’s friend who is about four and a half years younger than me. On my 17th birthday, she phoned me to wish me and tells me something about  “even after everything you and moe did.”

And I’m here, jaw dropped, thinking what the actual eff. This asshole had gone and told a thirteen year old that we’d slept together.

I confronted him the next day and the little sh*t says he didn’t tell her anything, “she’s lying, plus I didn’t rape you so I have nothing to be ashamed of.”

Yep, you heard me correctly, he lied straight to my face.

At this point, I was dumbstruck and did not know how to respond but she had more to add.

By the end of matric, his entire story had changed. He claimed he’d started doing drugs, failed grade eleven and would not be writing finals with us and it was all my fault. Then out of no where he asked if I had been pregnant ( I wasn’t) then he said that if I was he would have married me and taken good care of me.

Such bullshit, but clearly I used to attract a type because my ex and him had similar nicknames….

I started dating my ex around the time this guy was telling me all this rubbish. After seven months of dating, he started talking to me about marriage ( while cheating on me but that’s irrelevant). He told me, “I’d have to tell my parents you aren’t a virgin and I don’t think they’ll like or accept you.”

Okay, hold up. Are we living in the 18th century or something? Since when do his parents need to have a full sexual history of yours before you marry their son? (also on a seperate authors note: Even though dating is not accepted in Islam, it is a common practice amongst the youth and is not the point of this story).

She grinned and added, he also said, “you come with a lot of baggage… your depression isn’t my burden to carry and you should feel special that I’d marry you even if you aren’t a virgin.”

It’s almost as if this rape will always be painted as my fault.

And so the circle continues…

Giving you time to process this part of her ordeal, I’m working on the next part.

Yours Always,

Brokebella