Every time I drive by that house, my stomach rolls. I remember how much I trusted you, how much my friends trusted you. I remember how nobody believed me.
I remember begging my friends to leave me with you on Halloween, that I wasn't sober enough to walk home. You had been so nice to me, we got along so well. I remember you promising that you would make me tacos while I watched Archer and tried not to vomit up those last few shots of Skol.
I remember that you threw me a semi-cooked Hot Pocket. I remember telling you that me coming over at this time of night didn't mean that I wanted to have sex. I remember telling you that I didn't want to have sex. That I was too drunk to have sex. I remember blacking out.
I remember waking up to you taking off the condom, saying that you couldn't finish with it on. I remember realizing what you were doing. I remember that you had tried to hide my bra and panties so I couldn't leave. I remember finding my bra and leaving my panties there because they weren't worth it. I remember you yelling at me as I slammed the door and ran away.
I remember telling our friend what happened. I remember her laughing and saying that you were just a player, that I wasn't remembering things right because I had been drinking.
But I remember.
I remember having to struggle not to fail my very first quarter at college. I remember being afraid of seeing you anywhere on campus. I remember never reporting it because not even my friends believed me; why would the police? I remember thinking that nobody would listen to the cries of a college freshman who got too drunk at the Halloween parties in her skimpy costume.
My body remembers every time I try to be sexually intimate with a new partner. My body remembers when it sees you on social media, even though I remember blocking you. My body remembers when my professors talk about bystanders, assault, consent, protection, all of it. My body remembers being attacked.
My ex-boyfriends remember you. They remember me sobbing in the middle of sex because I had a flashback. They remember me ruining our relationship because I was scared to be alone with a man. They remember me refusing to say where you lived or even your name, because I was too nice to let them beat the shit out of you.
My mom remembers you. Or rather, my mom remembers when I was finally honest about you. My mom remembers me sobbing in a mall parking lot when I just couldn't handle hiding it any longer. My mom remembers that it took me a year to tell her. My mom remembers the person I was before you. My mom remembers the undying optimism I had and the fearlessness with which I approached life.
I remember you. I remember every detail of your face, your apartment, every thing you told me about yourself. I remember who I was before you. I remember who I was after you. It's been a year and a half since you did this to me. I remember you.
