A Little Innocent

A Little Innocent

He was grabbing at me, snatching a breath if he could. His legs didn't move under me much. Maybe it was because of the jeans he was wearing. He did rock and wriggle, his stomach and hips underneath me. I can't even begin to imagine how angry I was.

I remember insignificant things. I remember that I was sweating a lot. The room felt hot. Sweat dripped from my nose, my hair, and slid down the back of my sweater. I remember how tired my hands and arms felt afterwards. Leaning over him, my head was on his chest, breathing against his neck. My fingers felt out of place suddenly as they curled. I was so tired. My breaths were slow and rough but my heart was beating so fast I thought I'd die there too. He couldn't reach me. He had these short arms, you see. He swiped at my arms, but it was so hard for him to move after a while. He scraped my arms up good though. I was bleeding, and after a few seconds, he went limp. His eyes got red first, rolling back in his head. I didn't stop though. I kept right on. I had read somewhere that they pass out before dying. I kept on with all my might, until I couldn't feel his heart beat in my palms, because I had to make sure. I listened closely, holding my breath, until I heard nothing. I didn't cry right after though. I got up and went to the bathroom. I pissed in the shower, running cold water on my clothes. I was burning up, like I'd soon spit fire, like the monster that I was. I thought I was going to pass out. It was hard to breathe, the air felt thin, but I didn't. I just felt the water slowly wet my clothes and get heavy. When they got to be too much, I stripped them off, clawing into my back. When I was down to cold sticky flesh, I leaned there, my forehead against the marble, and for a long time I didn't move. I don't remember what I was thinking, but the ache started then, at the bottom of my stomach, dull.

I went back into the room, a shabby, dimly lit motel efficiency, dripping wet, and naked. I looked at his body, messed up and dirty, and I wanted to clean him up. That's why I took off his clothes. I knew it was a bad idea when I was unzipping his pants, but I had to clean him up. I wouldn't want his mom to see him with his clothes looking filthy like some kind of bum.

I stripped him down to his socks. I'd forgotten to take them off, you see. That's why they got wet. I lifted him up and I laid him in the cramped bathtub. This was a bad place to leave him. I knew that, but I still had to. I turned on the water; I washed his hair. I started to cry. I don't know where it came from but the tears had started, and before long, I couldn't stop them. I was curled over him, scrubbing his chest, under his nails, behind his ears, and down his short arms like a mother. I dried him. He needed a shirt. Only his shirt was dirty.

I left the motel naked. I didn't realize, you see. I was dead set on clothes for him. I walked to the convenience store. I felt numb all over... , but that was when they grabbed me. I was at the police station and they asked questions.

"Were you taken advantage OP." one asked.

I tried to think about the "right thing." It wasn't going to save me, wasn't going to bring him back, and wasn't going to console his parents. It would only be punishment. I told them that I had been raped by some big guy in a trucker's hat outside of a gas station. I told them he had a tattoo on his stomach that I studied for hours as I begged for God to save me. If I told, he'd come and get me. He'd cut me up into little pieces. They got me a blanket and something warm to drink.

They found him swollen up big in a bathroom. The water sucked right into him. His socks pooled water on the metal table where they dissected his now shiny, taut body. They asked me questions, but they couldn't prove anything. I'd been found naked in a convenient store, having been raped by a monster whose tattoo looked like a lion. I was the girl who had stopped talking after my confession. I was the girl who had been adopted by a new family, just adjusting back into life. I am the girl starting to smile again. They didn't find my clothes until a lot later. I must have buried them at some point, but I don't remember. They couldn't use it against me. They did ask, however. It seemed awfully convenient that I showed up naked when he was killed. He was killed by someone about my height. They found my clothes surprisingly close to the crime scene. But I didn't worry. The rapist ripped off my clothes. See, I remembered that distinctly. When I got away from him, he scraped me. I kept on running because I had to get away from him. I had to get away.

-—000---

The police have stopped "harassing" me, because my new mom said, "She's told you all she knows or is going to know about that awful night. "

Now, here I am, with my new family. They adopted a son. He's little bit smaller than me, but that's not a problem.