Goodbye innocence
I was thirteen when I was sexually assaulted
It was the 1980s. It was supposed to be a time of hesitant slow dances at the school disco, of experimenting with a bit of make-up, of hormones playing havoc with my skin, my shape, my sense of self.
The in-between time
It was the hiatus summer. I’d finished my final term at the village school and was waiting to make the big leap to one of the high schools in the nearby town. I was excited but worried about what a whole new swathe of teenagers would think of me. With braces on my teeth, sensible shoes and unruly hair I wouldn’t be one of the cool kids.
We had gone down to the Rec, a friend and I. A scrubby patch of ground with a small playground surrounded by dry grass, it was where the kids from our side of the village hung out.
My friend was off to a different school after the holidays and I could already feel the tenuous bonds of village life fraying like an old piece of string.
But in the meantime here we were, lazily swaying to and fro on the swings, sucking on ice lollies and squinting in the sunlight. We weren’t saying much. It was a time of teenage torpor.
Out of the shadows
They came out of nowhere. Two lads, loud and large, oozing testosterone and menace. Not from the village. Town lads.
“Let’s go,” I muttered, my stomach churning.
My friend wasn’t bothered. She had older brothers. She was used to their ways. I was not. She shrugged.
I stood up, hoping they wouldn’t notice me sidle away.
Like a predator homing in on his prey, one of them observed me for a moment, eyes glinting through his greasy, floppy fringe.
He grinned, then launched himself at me, yanking me to the ground.
He dragged me across the rough grass. I was on my back, squirming, trying to catch my breath, clawing at him, trying to break free.
Failing.
A sharp odour of sweat, cigarettes and victory engulfed me. He pinned me down, still grinning, now grunting. He had spots. One of them, recently picked, had a yellow crust.
A belt buckle raked my hip. Along with something else entirely more known-yet-unknown and threatening.
I was wearing a red summer dress, a childish style with spaghetti straps and an elasticated bodice. He slipped one hand inside and groped my breasts, rough and grasping. His other hand snaked inside my knickers, pulling the crotch aside, exploring my most secret, private places with nicotine stained fingers. His knuckles dug into my inner thighs.
Play dead
I froze. I couldn’t shout, couldn’t breathe. A wounded animal, I shut down.
His co-conspirator called him off, eventually. It was a minute or two of their lives, nothing of any consequence to them, just a bit of fun because they could.
My so-called friend had gone. I never saw her again. Not to speak to.
Play dumb
So I didn’t talk about it, didn’t name what had happened to me. I ran home, had a searingly hot bath, scrubbed myself raw, threw away the dress. And shut down.
I was thirteen when I was sexually assaulted.
That’s all.
