Hello people. Here is the second entry on this series by @Isaacola. Enjoy the first, then, follow suit with another unedited version:
HE RAPED ME BUT I …..
My case is unique and I know you might have a terribly different opinion but that is your opinion and everybody no matter how big or small is entitled to his or her opinion. Like I noted, you are the General Overseer and General Superintendent of your opinion but hear me out before you take me to the gallows.
I am the only female in a family of three. To say my family was dysfunctional only understates the obvious. Hardly did a day pass without a bout of fighting in our home. We grew up seeing exchange of fisticuffs as normal most times one sided fistful fight.
My fierce looking father had this warped thinking that using your wife as a punching bag is a parameter for measuring manliness.
Whenever he arrived from work in the evening, we scurried, scampered and scattered in different directions to avoid the wrath of a permanently angry man. It was always in our interests to avoid the living room whenever he was around. It was so bad we avoided him like a plague, which he actually is. Like they say, he is the terrorist, the lion of the tribe of his dysfunctional familia.
My poor mother was a case study of wretchedness and emotional wreck. She took in all the pummeling with stoic resignation to her fate. She never complained, not even once. He forced her to stop working when we were young and that made her totally dependent on him financially. He was the sole provider so she had no choice but to be absolutely submissive and totally subservient to him. I think he relished the situation and it tickled the fancy of his sadism.
We were stuck to this man like leech and there was no way to avoid it. Mother soon ended up in the psychiatric ward due to the terrible emotional and psychological trauma arising from her constant pummeling by the beast she called husband, same one we called father.
Love was a strange thing in our lexicon because we all grow up without any trace of the human emotion called love. My older brothers left home as fast as possible leaving me behind with my monster father.
I also gained admission three years after my immediate elder brother. The irony of the matter however, was that I kept getting attracted to the so-called bad boys, like moth is drawn to a flicking light. As at this time, sex was out of the question because I was preoccupied with building myself up and creating a niche for myself as an independent lady.
I lived off campus in the high brow area of town because my monster father saw to it that my bank account was fat due to the fact that mother was ‘incarcerated’ in her psychiatric ward and my elder siblings attended a different school. My neighbor in the BQ (boys quarters) was one of the baddest boys in town. Big, bearded, well toned muscle and rich. All the wrongest combo that got me reeling and mushy, the closest I have ever been to emotional.
It happened one night while I was busy battling with my Generator. He offered to help despite us not being on talking terms aside the normal “hello”. He tried but as fate would have it, the generator just sputtered and hiccupped numerous times before packing up for the night. He tried to persuade me to come to his room to get my electricity needs met but I refused politely. Noticing that I was no going to yield ground, he joined my room to the power from his generator.
It was a cold evening littered with drizzles and the occasional rain. After going through the electrical connection process, he was a little drenched and started coughing. It was more like wheezing to me and I was right. I asked him what happened but I didn’t need to be told. He managed to tell me where to find his inhaler and I ran into his room to get it. I was surprised to see him follow me into his room and in a very swift motion, before my brain could process anything, he grabbed me. What I saw in his eyes in those few seconds rivalled what I saw in my monster father’s eyes whenever he was in his psychotic state, beating us or my mum up.
The terrible flimsy thing I saw disappeared and I saw something I could not really decipher. He brought out his well-muscled member, stripped me and forcefully had me. My protests were meaningless as he pinned me down and had his way. After some minutes, he collapsed in a heap and his wheezing returned. His bloodied member lay limp on his thigh as he grabbed empty air. I saw life slowly ebbing out of him and the desire to save him despite the fact that he violated me overcame. I stood up, even with virginal blood trickling down my thighs and I searched frantically for his inhaler.
Sighting it, I thrust it into his twitching hands. After a few minutes that look like eternity, he became normal. The full impact of what he did settled in.
I hate to love him, but in my more than two decades of living, he is the first person I am falling in love with despite the wrong footing on which it all started.
I have a feeling that you are judging me, calling me all sort of names that you deem fit. I really won’t want to care about that but all I know is that, he raped me to deflower me, and now I am terribly in love with him. I think I read it somewhere that if you don’t learn to forgive you will be living a life that is better forgotten.
Someone once told me also, that “to live, we must learn to forgive”. My conclusion is that, though the relationship started on a sour note, I must forgive or end up being like my dad living in perpetual bitterness and burden of anger.