Anywhere Other than Here

The telephone rang.  I groggily rolled over and reached for the phone.  It was already into the afternoon, but I still lay in my bed, covered by thick blankets and an even thicker depression.

“Hi, it’s me,” he said warmly. I wanted to believe he cared the way his tone currently suggested – but life liked to remind me otherwise.  If he cared, he would not have fucked her.  So, why was he still calling me?  My stomach twisted and I felt confused.  I should have slammed down the phone then.

But I didn’t.  I replied, “Hey.”  My voice was low and lacked enthusiasm.  I had nothing more to say to him.  I already did my cursing.  I already did my crying.  What did it all matter? It was over; we were over.

“Can you come over?” he questioned. There was not the tiniest trace of guilt to be found in his voice.

I denied his initial request, but he pleaded further and I was weak to his will. 

“I need to see you, Angela.  I need to say I’m sorry.” 

It had already been said.  Silly, empty words that left me feeling like a hollow shell.  Silly, empty words spurred by filthy actions that left me questioning my worth.  Why wasn’t I enough? What did I do wrong?  I blamed myself for his fucking indiscretions.  He promised to give me back my tee shirt, so I agreed to come.

He told me, “Honestly, I don’t even know where your fucking tee shirt is,” after I had walked in, and demanded it back, fully prepared to depart after receiving my belongings.  I stood there willing all of myself to remain cold and resolute in the presence of his deep brown, ever enchanting eyes. 

He sat down upon his bed, and begged me to take a spot at his side.  “Just sit by me a moment,” he requested while patting a place next to him on the mattress.   I shook my head no, although my more rapidly beating, and foolishly ignorant, heart wanted to say yes.  I continued to negate his request with silent shakes of my head, but I approached him more closely.  He reached out and gently grabbed my wrist, and I succumbed to him, joining his side as he softly stroked my stimulated skin.

I said nothing, but he poured out more pitiful apologies.  Soon, those eyes and his lies had convinced me not only to sit near him, but also to kiss him back as his full lips pressed against mine in a familiar fashion.  I knew it to be wrong, but it felt so right and I allowed him to lay me down upon his bed as he continued to send sweet, satisfying kisses from his lips to mine.  Quickly, this sweetness faded as my mind regained its command and I recalled how our relationship had gone so sour.  I asked him to stop kissing me, to allow me to leave this room now, and his life forever.  I attempted to rise up and out of his arms.  He made no grant of my request.  Rather, he pressed his body hard down upon me and continued to press his lips to mine, no longer returning the favor.

This felt horribly wrong.  My mind and body came into quick agreement and informed me: You need to go.  It’s time to go.  Forget about your shirt.  Just leave right now.

“Stop please," I whimpered as my body began to tremble with terrible knowing.

His callous hands traveled down along the sides of my chest and rib cage and up under my white linen shirt.  They cupped my bare breasts and his fingertips ran across my pale pink nipples.  His groping became more feverish and my awful fear became more real.  His hands had been here before and it had felt like home then – warm and comforting.  It felt distant now – cold – and I desperately wished for his touch to decease.  I asked him to stop once more, and again my words went unheeded.  His hands made rough and deliberate motions upon by bare skin.  My heart raced as the sound of metal in motion rose above my cowardly silence as he proceeded to unzip my pants with his left hand while using his right to hold my arm firmly down.

 

He used both hands now to slide down my pants and unzip his own.  I looked at his face, trying to meet those eyes and beg silently for sympathy.  I met a vacant stare, eyes that I didn’t recognize.  I closed my own eyes to what was happening here as I cupped my tiny, trembling hands over that which I wanted to keep mine.  Mine to give -- not to be taken this way.  I wanted to be safe; I wanted to be clothed and closed.  I wanted to be anywhere other than here.  I began to cry as I realized it no longer mattered how many times I repeated the word “no.”

He pried my hands away from that which they wished to protect, and I lay there exposed and vulnerable.  Insane disbelief rushed over me while he sunk his fingertips deep into my skin, holding my arms firmly in place as an assurance that he could continue with his wicked wishes. 

I turned my sobbing, soaked eyes up toward the heavens, and memorized each indentation in the white fiberglass panels of his suspended ceiling.  I just imagined myself any place other than here as his body shifted roughly and violently inside of me.  How could this be happening?  He was my first love.  How could I honor any man when he was the one to so ravage my body and my trust? I stopped wondering how this could happen and tried convincing myself that it wasn’t happening.  This isn’t happening now.  This isn’t happening to me. Anywhere other than here.  Anywhere other than here.  I repeated this phrase with each forthcoming tear.

Not a word or glance was exchanged after he had completed.  Completely lethargic and lost, I simply zipped my pants up, walked out of the door, and back to my car.  I turned the stereo off and drove silently back home – without my shirt, and without a piece of me.

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NO MEANS NO.

I hooked up with the folks over at yeah write again for their challenge grid.  They are all such stellar writers.  For some reason, this makes me feel incredibly brave in what I share through my words.  You should check them out!




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