#101

She didn't usually allow herself to get too out of sorts because losing control was not something she enjoyed. Being happily buzzed, on the other hand, was something she looked forward to. Usually, a couple of cheap beers and some music were enough for her, but someone had brought a bottle of Southern Comfort that night. They were passing it around and taking shots of SoCo and lime as if it were tequila. She was cutting loose and having fun, but now that she was close to the spins, it was time to call it a night.  

They were partying at Sam Smith's place. It is a loft apartment downtown, walkable from home on an ordinary night. Sam and his roommate were older and liked to host weekend parties, and she and her friends would often find themselves there. Sam had a recording studio set up in an extra bedroom and ran a small business catering to the local grunge kids who all thought they would be the next Kurt Cobian. They would make it big and leave Smalltown, USA, to become rock star legends. But first, they needed a demo tape.  They brought Sam the business, and he bought them beer and let them party at his place, as long as no one got too rowdy, and the cops never showed up. It's not a bad deal for any sixteen-year-old.

The studio room was soundproofed, professional, and off-limits. But that night, Sam was out of town. His roommate was hosting the party, so no one noticed when she grabbed a throw blanket from the tattered sofa and slipped into the room.

She had just fallen asleep when someone nudged her awake. It was Lars begging to share the blanket. She had not heard him come in. She tried to ignore him, but he kept poking and nudging her and begging her to share the blanket until she finally gave him a corner so she could go back to sleep.  Lars was one of those punk rock kids who wore Doc Martins and plaid pants. He only wore white t-shirts under a leather jacket regardless of the weather. She knew him, sort of. He was always around, but they were not friends.

She slept again for maybe an hour before the urge to use the bathroom pulled her awake, so she returned to the party. Things were not close to slowing down, and she took another shot with her friend Moira.

"Hey, we thought you were asleep!" 

"I was," she said. "Just need the bathroom." 

"Didn't I see Lars go in there?" 

"Yeah - he's sleeping." 

"Be careful, Nita!" 

"Ha ha ha. Don't be silly. I'll still be a virgin in the morning," She joked.

She said good night and stumbled back into the recording room. She unbuttoned her pants but left them on, slid under her half of the small blanket, and started to slip back into sleep, the room tilting slightly, and the sounds of the party muffled behind the soundproof insulation of the room. She was almost asleep again when she felt Lars rubbing her back, gently massaging her shoulder and up and down her arm.  With every stroke, he inched a little closer until, finally, he was fully pressed against her back.  He continued to caress her arms and eventually made his way to her breast, nuzzling her neck. After a few minutes, she finally relented and rolled over to face him.

They kissed for a few minutes, and it was okay. He was a good kisser, not too sloppy, just aggressive enough to be sexy but not overwhelming. But she'd had too much to drink and wasn't really into it. She ended the kiss, gave him a peck on the cheek, and wished him goodnight before turning away so she could sleep. 

It seemed like she had barely dozed off when she was jerked awake. Before she could make sense of what was happening, Lars had pushed her onto her back and was on top of her, pushing his knee between her legs and trying to kiss her again. She tried to push him off and roll away, but he had her pinned down and was biting and licking at her closed mouth. His attempt at a kiss was angry and harsh; his breath was foul with sour beer and cigarette smoke. She wondered briefly if this was even the same person she had willingly kissed not long ago.

She turned as far away from him as she could and tried to buck him off of her, but he was heavy and strong for his size, and the rest of the alcohol had hit her. She felt like she was downing, moving in slow motion. She was dizzy and couldn't focus. She kept screaming, "No, get off me!" over and over, but did the words ever leave her mouth, or in her terror, did they only echo through her mind?

She felt his grip soften, and it brought a moment of relief. He had given up and was letting her go. She wrenched her arms away from him, rolled to her side, and started to crawl away. The room was spinning out of control. She needed to get away. She needed to get to the bathroom. She needed to vomit. She needed a glass of water. She wanted to be home.

She didn't get far. In one move, he had her and flipped her back over. Her jeans and panties were ripped down below her knees, and her knees were jammed up to her chin. She was completely immobile. Her arms were pinned to her side.  She couldn't breathe, she couldn't move.

She couldn't scream, even as the burning pain ripped from her privates to the top of her head as he thrust himself into her. He pounded into her over and over, and all she could do was lay there praying that it would end. It did not take long for him to finish. It took an eternity. She took tiny, shallow breaths and tried not to choke on her tears and the snot running down her face. She was counting. How far did she get? She lost count and started over. 60? 110? He rolled off of her and yanked the blanket out from under her. "That wasn't your first time, was it?" She will never forget that creepy splintery cackle. She managed to pull her pants back up but passed out before he even stopped laughing. 

When she woke up later in the morning, Lars was gone. Her body ached everywhere, and she was thirsty and nauseous from the cheap beer and the cheap booze. She had a beginning of a bruise on her chin where her knee had banged it. She crept home and slinked into her own bed but didn't sleep. It took most of the day for what had happened to hit her. That was it. She wasn't a virgin anymore, and that scumbag Lars had stolen the only thing she ever had control over.

She took a hot shower and washed herself carefully. She was sore and tender and would occasionally bleed a little from where he had hurt her. It took days for his smell to fade away. The thought of him made her sick to her stomach. She hated herself for enjoying his kisses not long before he did what he did. She remembered her comment to Moira and wondered if Lars had heard her. Did she bring this on herself?

A couple of months later, there was an all-ages show at a bar downtown, and he was there, wearing the same stupid red plaid pants and white t-shirt. She walked up to him, fury written on her face, ready to confront him. He saw her coming, and as she approached, he turned and did not acknowledge her; he walked away before she could even open her mouth to speak.

She never saw him again.