Page 87 of Badd Love
I took her hand. "I'm here."
"I know," she sniffled. "It's just hard to talk about." Another long pause. "I woke up to the sound of my door opening. It was Danny. He closed the door and locked it. He was drunk. He…I had a nightlight that was just bright enough to let me see his face clearly, and the look on his face? Dane, it made my blood run cold. I started crying before I knew what he was gonna do, because I just knew nothing good was about to happen. It was this…evilexpression. Not just evil, but, at the risk of sounding Biblical,delightingin evil. He knelt on the bed and covered my mouth with his hand. He carried this pocket knife, one of those fancy box cutters. Not the cheap plastic ones. It looked like a folding pocket knife, but it was a razor blade."
"I know what you mean."
"He opened it and pricked my lip with it. He told me if I made a sound, he'd cut my tongue out. And the look in his eye, Dane? I believed him."
"Linz," I whispered.
She shook her head. "He also told me that if I cooperated, he wouldn't hurt me. But if I gave him trouble, he would. And I…" she blinked hard, looked away, yanked her hand away, and dashed at her eyes with the back of her wrist. "I didn't want to be hurt. And I didn't really understand what he was going to do. I loosely understood what sex was, but only vaguely." She sniffled as tears began to fall. “He showed me. It hurtsobad. I bled. Not just because I was a virgin, but because I was only twelve and he was twenty-two. And because he was violent about it."
Hate burned inside me, seared my eyes, and stained my cheeks. "I don't know what to say."
She looked at me, sniffling a sad laugh as she wiped at my face. "You can't do that, Dane, or I won't be able to get through this." She brushed a thumb under my eye. "You don't need to say anything. There's nothingtosay." She collected herself and began again. "That was the first time. It wasn't every day afterthat—he and Larry were too busy being hoodlums to waste every day playingCall of Duty, because despite their many, many faults, theywerehard-working—they were just hard-working fuckhead criminals." She sighed. "Sometimes he'd just come in and fuck me and leave. Other times he…he wanted to….to play."
"Ahhhh god, fuck," I snarled. "Play?"
She nodded. "His favorite game was to play tonsil hockey with his dick. He thought it was hysterical to shove his dick so far down my throat that I would retch. I barfed a lot before I learned to control my gag reflex."
I felt sick to my stomach, especially thinking about the day she freaked out. "Linz—fuck. No wonder you had a panic attack. I would never,ever—"
She clapped a hand over my mouth. "Hush, Dane. I know. Just let me talk."
I nodded.
She removed her hand and gazed back out at the water. The wind picked up, tossing her blonde locks this way and that. A strand of hair stuck to her lips, and she scraped it behind her ear. "The question everyone asks is,Why didn't I say anything?”
"He threatened to kill you."
"He threatened to cut out my tongue, actually. Threatening to kill me came later." She paused, started again. "He convinced me that if I told anyone, I'd get in trouble. Sounds dumb to an adult who's never been molested as a kid, but when you're twelve, scared, alone, being brutally sexually assaulted multiple times a week by a strong, violent 22-year-old, it's hard to think rationally. And you can't see what's right and wrong from there. You know that what's happening is very, very wrong, but you can't stop it. You know it's wrong because it makes you feel so fucking awful. You wonder why it's happening to you. And he's telling you that you'll get in trouble, you'll go to jail, and it hurts, and you want it to stop, but it doesn't ever stop, and you wonderwhat you did wrong, why you deserve to have that done to you. You start to believe that itisyour fault. That youdodeserve it."
I couldn't summon a single syllable. What was there to say?I'm sorry? That sucks?Words are useless, sometimes.
She searched my face for a moment, gave me a sympathetic smile—tearful, but understanding. "Don't look at me like that, Dane. I'm okay, now. Or, I'm getting there."
"I just…" I swallowed hard. "How could anyone do that to a little girl? Toanyone, let alone a twelve-year-old?”
"Predators and pedophiles," she answered with a shrug. "Dudes with no soul. I dunno." She cupped her chest. "I developed early. I got my period at ten and had C-cup boobs by twelve. I figured it was that—that if I hadn’t had such big tits, maybe Danny wouldn't want to rape me. I tried taping them down. Wore too-small bras. All sorts of dumb shit in an attempt to be less…whatever, to him and guys like him. I got nasty comments from more than one male staff member at school. I knew no one would believe me, though, so I didn't bother telling anyone."
“Jesus,” I breathed. "Disgusting. Men like that oughta have their dicks chopped off, sauteed, and fed to the hogs."
"I don't disagree," she said. "I did tell my mother about Danny, also. But her only response was to ask what I'd done to ask for it."
“Your own mother said that?" I asked, incredulous. "I can see sexist old men saying shit like that, but a woman, and your ownmother?"
"Ironically, when it comes to rape and sexual assault, women are just as likely to be judgmental and victim-blame as men. Which is super weird to me. But yeah, my mom figured I must have been a little slut whoring herself out to her brother’s best friend. Didn't do a damn thing. I told my brother, and he just laughed. He may have even kept watch in case my momcame home—not that I think she'd have done anything, mainly because she was always so drunk when she got home that all she could do was pass out in bed." A shake of her head. "That's my mother."
"When did it finally stop?" I asked.
“When I was sixteen. It’s honestly a miracle I never got pregnant. He might be infertile or whatever, honestly, because he never used a condom." She was quiet for a few moments. "He got arrested for rape and went to jail. I ran away not long after that and moved out here to go to Stanford as soon as I could.”
"A homeless girl who spent four years being molested earned a full ride to Stanford," I said. "Fucking amazing."
"I've never wanted to let that define me." She swallowed hard. "I still don't. I refuse to be a lifelong victim. I refuse to letthatbe the defining element of my life and who I am."
"I think you've succeeded," I said.
She shook her head. "No, I haven't. I hid from how I felt. I hid how deeply I was hurting. I've seen therapists for years, but I never let anyone in far enough to actually help me heal. I suppose that's why I've been through six therapists in the last four years. I just couldn't talk about it. I mean, Idid, but only in general terms, and I always downplayed the severity of my feelings."
