Taylor knew what he was about to do; I knew what Taylor was about to do. And like many other girls who came before me, I let it happen because I thought I wanted to live to see another day. But I’d soon realize that was only a fleeting thought. If this was what life was going to be like, I felt certain I didn’t want to live through another minute of it.
I walked into the kitchen, and Taylor followed me. Looking around, I noticed a set of brand-new steak knives glistening across the room, but Taylor didn’t need a knife to hurt me. His need to be powerful was much more dangerous. I kept my mouth shut, even though my sarcastic tendency wanted to talk non-stop. Taylor bent me over the counter and ripped my t-shirt in half from the back.
Before I realized what had happened, he’d knocked my head against the counter, and my head began to pound louder than I could handle. The pain made a frightening sound louder than my own screams when I begged Taylor to stop hurting me. I knew it had only made him crave to hurt me more, but I couldn’t think clearly in that moment of terror.
By the time all my clothes lay in the kitchen floor, I realized I had lost the war against the boy I once thought I loved. Every time he moved, I felt a little piece of my soul being crushed under his boot. With every touch, the grooves in his fingerprint felt like sandpaper, leaving little invisible scars behind that would never quite heal. I knew I’d never quite feel like the same girl again, and I didn’t want to be. That girl was the one who allowed this to happen to me, and I might never forget how easily I lost my power that day.
He didn’t hold me. He didn’t caress me. He didn’t kiss me passionately. He didn’t tell me he loved me. He didn’t ask for my permission. Instead, he ripped my virginity from me like a bandage that had been stuck to him for over a year. He left my house without saying a word—if there were any words that would have made sense in that moment.
Click Follow to receive emails when this author adds content on Bublish