Tainted
Trigger Warning: sexual assault
If you or anyone you know has been sexually assaulted and need help, here are some resources you might find helpful - https://rapecrisis.org.uk/get-help/, https://www.thesurvivorstrust.org, https://www.nhs.uk/live-well/sexual-health/help-after-rape-and-sexual-assault/?tabname=advice-and-support.
The hot steam of shower caresses the shrivelled skin. He grasps the bar of soap in his quivering hands, scrubbing vigorously between every pore of him: rubbing every orifice, every strand of hair, every piece of flesh, and whittling it all down to the bone.
He shall be cleansed from corruption. He must be cleansed.
He witnesses the dried blood between his thighs run red down the shower drain. Yet, he persists in scrubbing every inch of him. The plague of defilement never strays from his thoughts.
Shower gel and shampoo have been emptied. Steam engulfs the bathroom in its mist.
The shower’s heat begins searing his skin.
Yet he can still feel them on his exposed flesh. Their musky cologne tainted his presence. He scrubs harder, faster, peeling off the layers of skin.
His mind is a polaroid of trauma: every single detail documented as a haunting reminder.
Behind the shower curtains, he relives it again and again.
Those hands reached out to grope his body under the dim lighting. His chest pinned down to the bed. The music thumped through the walls as a dull echo.
A shiver crawls through him. His whimpers stifled under the falling spray of water.
His arms embrace himself. A futile comfort.
He could hear the tear of fabric ripping behind him. The cold air hitting the bare body of his lower half. Himself paralysed like a helpless lamb accepting slaughter. Praying that it ends quickly, while subjugated under the assailant’s weight.
Under the shower, he binds himself tight to seal off entry, furled into a tormented state of being. He washes himself again. He never feels cleansed.
The filth lingers on him.
His assailant’s hoarse breath tingled the nape of his neck again. The alcoholic fumes intoxicate the air, stirring a pot of nausea to well up inside him.
He remains a tarnished soul, attempting to purge himself until the well of water runs dry.
His assailant’s husky voice commanded him to “be silent”. He heard his muffled cries as he bit down on the bedding.
Sharp exhales as they grunted.
The bed rocking with each heavy thrust.
His oppressor’s sweat dripped down onto his back.
A moment that felt endless. An ownership of his body stripped from him.
They took something precious from him tonight: a piece of himself that he’ll never get back.
He finds himself coiled onto the shower floor. He still senses their shadow lurking in the mist.
When the ordeal was over, the weight unloaded off of him.
The zip of the assailant’s jeans screeched as they were fastened tight.
He remembers them stumbling out of the room afterwards. The door creaked open before being slammed shut. The thumping music roared briefly into the bedroom like a siren. A signal that they were gone. Fled into the night. He remained lying there as an afterthought; the bedroom serving as a silent witness to the violation.
He stares down at his own flesh in the shower; he can already see his vibrant character fading to a dull palette.
He can already picture them moving on as if nothing happened. He marked as another notch on the assailant’s streak. A casual brag - considered another one of the assailant’s “hook-ups” to his friends.
Why do they get to continue living while I begin to die?, he thought as he sat under the weight of shower rain.
Then a knock on the bathroom door. Panic ushers through his flesh. He is seized in place.
His flatmate yells above the din of the shower: asking if he is okay. A concern that eventually came after being locked away in here for the past couple of hours.
How can he tell them the truth? How can he tell anyone the truth?
To scan their expressions while he recalled his account. When his credibility would be under strain with every single word that he spoke. All it would take is a look of disbelief to fracture the foundations of trust.
The wicked accusations of “Are you sure?” unnerving his resolve to act and retaliate with justice.
So he endured the transpired events alone in his mind. A prisoner confined to his trauma. As he occupied the bathroom a while longer, the dissociation from himself had commenced.
This was an unsettling fictional piece to write, since it delves into the complex world of trauma. While I’ve had my own fair share of traumatic experiences, this piece was actually inspired by numerous accounts of sexual assault that I’ve heard, read about in literature or even watched depicted onscreen. Although it was uncomfortable to write, I felt it was important to reflect on the tremendous pain many people have to live with due to such tragic events.
Day 7 - This piece was posted as part of the 31 Days of Content Challenge that I undertook in March 2022.