Chapter 2 The Incident

Angela

I could feel it, my mind already checking out. I've done it so many times that I no longer beg my brain to. And I know it's not healthy to train your mind to do that. But I'm always waiting for something to happen, and I just check out. I've never had it easy in life, so I did what I had to do to protect myself. And this situation is no different from what I've been through.

I watched as my clothes were taken off my body without my permission. I didn't fight them because I knew that either way, they were going to take without asking. After all, even if they did ask, I was never going to permit them. By the expression on Matt's face, he was expecting me to fight. But I fought enough in my entire life that I don't see what use it would be for me to fight now. Because men always took without asking.

When I'm thrown on the dirty floor and I see him walking towards me, I do something that I haven't done in a long time: I pray. I pray to God that I don't even know if He's listening to me, asking him to take me at this moment. I imagine that God is laughing at me right now, that my first prayer to him is that he takes my life. But it's only fair, right? I've never had any use for him being on this earth of his, at least this way, I will be out of his hands.

When Matt roughly opens my legs, I look straight in his eyes, daring him to rape me. Seeing as this will be the first time he penetrates me, he must be very happy. It's a pity that he's not going to find me a virgin because this will not be the first time that a man takes from me without my permission.

His eyes glitter with joy when he inserts his limp dick inside me. Thus, it confirms to me that this is not the first time he has done this. When he finds that entering me there's no resistance, he frowns, and if I wasn't as angry as I am, I would laugh at him.

"I knew you weren't a virgin, you slut." He spat and started fucking me roughly. If I weren't used to pain, I would say that it hurts. "I'm going to destroy this hole until you have nothing left." He keeps on thrusting inside me so roughly that I know then I'm going to bleed.

When you throw the first slap and I start to see black and white spots, I will use my mind to transport myself to a different time. I would rather not feel anything than be unconscious. And like the well-oiled machine that it is, I start to imagine myself as a different person and a different life.

I imagine that I grew up with loving parents. A mom and dad who dotted on me. That we had money, and I was not struggling. I don't have to worry about where my next meal is going to come from. I didn't have to worry about looking for shelter for the night. Or about a man old enough to be my father coming into my room at night to take advantage of me.

One could say that my body is a work of art. All the scars and broken bones that I have tell a story. I have it all, scars of knives and whips on my body, some from nails when my foster mother slapped me across the face because her kid didn't want to stop crying. Or the injury on my head from when my foster father got home really drunk, and there was no food, so he threw me across the room, and I hit my head on the kitchen counter. The doctors had said that I was lucky to live.

My mind, though, was the real work of art. I never understood how I got this far without wanting to kill myself. My mind was more scarred than my body ever was. Traumas from a young age are held in there, locked with the key thrown away. Because I've been through hell and back, it's a wonder that I'm still standing. But honestly, what am I going to do? Because even if I do kill myself, what would be the use? Dying won't take away everything that I've been through.

This makes it the third time that I'm being raped. The first time was when I was ten years old. The son of my third Foster mother was the first one to rape me. He was twenty-seven years old, and he was very fat. I remember struggling to breathe under him as he kept pounding into my body. My screams and cries fell on deaf ears. My foster mother told the social worker that I was asking for it.

The second time I was fourteen years old. My foster father came back home drunk off his head, demanding food that was not there. I was alone in the house because I had been sick and was not able to go to school. He told me to come to his room and fetch money so that I could go and buy food; my mistake was following him. Right on top of his matrimonial bed, he raped me. And when he was done, he dragged me by my hair until we reached the kitchen, and threw me across the room. I don't remember much after that.

And now I'm being raped by little boys who feel the need to take my integrity. They say that a third time is a charm. I hope that it's true. I can't imagine myself living after all of this. It wouldn't be fair. Hopefully, death comes and picks me up in his black knight horse. I finally gave in to the demand of my body and let my conscience go.