1A Stroll In the Dark
I wasn't asking for trouble. I wasn't dressed promiscuously. It wasn't supposed to be a bad neighborhood. But that doesn't change the fact: It happened.
I was walking home from a friend's, her name long forgotten. The street was slightly dark, the only one of the three streetlights beaming its white halo of light. The two other were flickering, and when I had passed underneath them, I had heard a slight buzzing. But then as I stepped into view under that white circle, the buzzing changed. At the time, I didn't care much for it. But as I got closer to the next flickering light, I heard laughter. Faintly, but it was there. It gave me goose bumps along my arms, but I still didn't look behind me, or really anywhere. I could feel the blood that pumped through my veins like ice, and I kept moving forward. I just kept telling myself this: I'm almost there…almost there.
I was. I could already see the porch light of my house, shining out like a beacon in the dark. I almost smiled, that is until I heard it again. Someone was laughing, and they were close, so dangerously close. I still didn't give in to running; I didn't want to give this prankster the treat of seeing me scared. That was probably my mistake.
One minute I was quickening my pace as I got closer and closer to my house, and another I was being held down, my mouth and nose blocked by a big strong hand. I tried to scream, I tried to fight, I tried everything I could. All I got out of it was a nasty ball of cloth stuffed into my mouth as a gag and a hard slap on the cheek.
"You better shut your mouth girlie, or I might accidentally drop this." I stilled as he brought something cold and smooth to my cheek. It was sharp, and even in the darkness it seemed to glow. It was a knife.
"Now we wouldn't want that, now would we?" I didn't move, or say anything, and he seemed to sense my submission.
I don't like to remember this part, but for this I'll try my best. It was dark, so dark. I kept searching for my light, the one my mother left on in the porch for me. But the darkness, so thick and so all-consuming, seemed to have swallowed it whole. I heard grunts, heard curses, and heard his raucous voice telling me to be still and quiet. I felt my clothes being torn apart and felt pain on my skin, pain everywhere. Skin was torn. Bones were broken. Bruises were made. Blood was shed when I lost grip of my control and let out a small wail of pain. In my mind, and my dreams, the agony never ended.
He left me on the road, covered by only rags and bleeding slowly to death. I felt like a bag of skin and bones, emanating pain and surrounded by a small moat of blood. To breathe was hard, but I was able to last until I was found. To live with this memory and story was the hardest part.
Someone found me, I don't know their name, but I was saved; even if it doesn't feel that way. To this day, I still wished that I was never found. I wished that the man with the big strong hands and raucous voice did accidentally drop his knife. I still wished that that knife accidentally slit my throat. But, who would I be to let violence take me over? Who would I be to let cruelty drive me over the edge? Who, am I, to let darkness cloud over the light? I would be a coward, not a victim.
I've looked at this as a lesson, something to carry me—and others—on in life. Violence is capable by anyone, anywhere. It is not what people imagine as what happens when you take a wrong turn into a bad neighborhood. It is not what people imagine done by a thug or criminal. It is not something obscure and indigestible. It is right there, lurking in the deepest and darkest corner of someone's soul.
The man was caught and he was locked away, but he wasn't any regular thug or criminal. He was my neighbor, the one who waved 'hi' every day I walked to school.