Going Under

by S. Walden

  “Because afterwards, I’m gonna make it all better. I’m gonna fuck that sweet little cunt of yours until you pass out all over again.”

  “I hate you!” It came from deep within my chest, one last burst of energy. I screamed at the top of my lungs, loud and long, burning my throat until it went hoarse. I screamed for the girls who endured this torture in the past. I screamed for Beth who couldn’t survive it. I screamed for my uncertain future, my rights that were being violated, and dropped to my side, passing out at the height of my terror, heartbeat pulsing fast and hard into starry blackness.

  I awoke again but didn’t open my eyes. Actually, I couldn’t open my eyes. My lids were too heavy, so I had to rely on my ears to help me discover where I was. My arms were lifted over my head, wrists secured together with something thin and tight, and I vaguely remember feeling it once before. Somewhere, a long time ago. I tugged on my arms but couldn’t pull them down to my sides. Only then did I realize my shirt and bra were missing, leaving me half naked on an unfamiliar bed.

  “You sure she’s drugged enough?”

  “Dude, she’s out of it. I slipped a pill in her drink earlier and gave her another half just a few minutes ago,” Cal said.

  “I thought we said two pills.” I recognized the voice. I just couldn’t match it to a name.

  “I didn’t want to take the chance. People die from that shit all the time, you know,” Cal said.

  “So?”

  The question sent a shiver down my spine.

  “Look, I was all over her tits and she didn’t feel a thing. Relax. If she wakes up, she’ll still be too out of it to really know what’s going on,” Cal said.

  “She seemed to know what the fuck was happening to her in your closet.”

  “Man, you know how this shit goes. They go in and out. When it’s all over, they’ll be so fucked up they won’t know if it was a dream or reality,” Cal said. “You need to chill out.”

  “What was that shit anyway? Putting her in the closet? You’re one sick fuck.” I realized it was Tim speaking.

  “I really just wanted to see if she’d pee her pants,” Cal replied.

  Tim chuckled. “Man. You’re messed up.”

  The panic started instantly. My head swam too much for my body to be completely consumed with fear, but I felt my heartbeat from far away increase a little, signaling danger, and I was incapable of fleeing for safety. Out of pure reflex or instinct, I pulled hard on my binds.

  “Brooklyn?” Cal asked.

  I froze.

  “Brooklyn,” Cal taunted. “Are you waking up to join us?”

  He ran his hands over my breasts, squeezing them hard until I yelped. He pinched my nipples, and then I felt his mouth on me, sucking long and hard. He drew away abruptly, and I felt his hot breath in my ear.

  “I love you, Brooklyn,” he said, and I wanted to vomit from fear and disgust.

  I felt his hand snake down my belly and in between my legs. I fought hard to keep them closed, rolling my hips from one side to the other, but all I managed to do was assist Cal in sliding my shorts off more easily. My panties followed shortly after, and I screamed as loudly as I could. It felt weak and heavy on my tongue, but I screamed anyway until someone’s hand clapped down firmly on my mouth, stifling my cries for help.

  “Who wants to be first to love Brooklyn?” Cal asked.

  I shook my head violently, twisting my body and pulling frantically on the ties around my wrists.

  “Now, Brooklyn,” Cal said. “There’s no use doing that. Why don’t you just enjoy it? You wanted this, remember? You were the one snooping around, trying to find out stuff about our league. We figured you wanted in pretty badly, so here’s your chance.”

  I felt two sets of hands pry my thighs apart and another touch me between my legs.

  “Let’s make her come.”

  A new voice, and familiar, too.

  “That’s generous,” Tim said.

  “Well, it’s not rape if they come,” the voice replied, and the boys laughed.

  Parker! It was Parker’s voice!

  Three of them, I realized, and I had no chance. I was becoming more lucid, thinking back to the beginning of the year, my ludicrous plan for revenge, and then the forgiveness that came when I realized I didn’t have to sacrifice myself, that Beth wouldn’t want that. I learned to forgive myself, to move on, and found a new peace in protecting the girls at my school. But now I was trapped, about to experience violence I was certain I could never recover from, and the terror turned me primal. I bit down as hard as I could on the hand covering my mouth, breaking skin.

  “Fucking bitch!” Parker yelled.

  “Stop!” Cal said, and I heard a slapping sound.

  For the first time, I opened my eyes fully though it was painful. Cal was holding Parker’s wrist, poised in the air above my face.

  “You wanna leave a mark?” Cal hissed.

  “She fucking drew blood, man!” Parker cried.

  “Then go wrap it,” Cal replied. He looked down at me. “Does someone need another dose?” he asked, resuming the probing between my legs.

  I shook my head, feeling the tears well up and run down the sides of my face. They pooled in my ears, distorting my hearing.

  “I think so,” Cal said, moving his finger in and out of me. He looked over to Tim who let go of my left leg and disappeared from the room.

  I immediately closed my legs, trying to squeeze Cal’s hand.

  Cal sighed patiently. “Brooklyn, spread your legs.”

  “Fuck you,” I spat.

  Cal jumped on me, knocking the wind out of me, and held my face between his hands. He squeezed tightly, and I was afraid he’d crush my skull.

  “No, see, that’s what I’m about to do to you. For hours. And then Tim’s gonna do it. And then Parker. For hours, until you’ve been used up like a little bitch ragdoll. And you wanna know the funny part? You won’t remember a thing.”

  I inhaled deeply for another long scream until I felt fingers go around my neck.

  “You scream, and I’ll fucking squeeze your head off,” Cal warned.

  I swallowed, or tried to, and Cal took it as a sign that I’d obey.

  Tim came back and hovered over my face.

  “I don’t trust that ecstasy bullshit, Cal. I told you that from the beginning.”

  “What is that?” Cal asked.

  “It’s called a Roach or something. That’s what the guy said, anyway,” Tim replied. “It’s supposed to be a memory wiper.”

  “Where’d you get it?”

  “Never mind where I got it. The point is that I don’t wanna take any chances with her. She takes it or I’m out.”

  Cal shrugged and lifted my head, and I fought with all my might, kicking my legs and twisting from side to side. But he was too strong and eventually trapped my face between his large hands, holding me perfectly still while Tim shoved the pill into my mouth. They forced me to drink down the water, and I coughed and spluttered most of it all over my cheeks and neck. But they succeeded in getting me to swallow the pill, and I cried out of fear and frustration for what I knew it’d do to me and what they’d do to me. I would be passed out in minutes, completely vulnerable to their sexual attacks.

  “Don’t cry, Brooklyn,” Cal said. “We all love you. And we’re about to show you. We’re even gonna let you come first. That’s how much we love you.”

  The boys snickered as I pleaded with them to let me go.

  “Parker, you’re the best at it,” Cal said. He looked down at me. “See, I never really cared to figure out how to make a girl feel good. I usually just make it about me. Tim? Well, he always makes it about him. But Parker, here, he’s a pro. He’ll have you screaming in a matter of minutes. The good kind of screaming.”

  “I don’t think I want to make her come,” Parker said. “She doesn’t know how to behave herself. My fucking hand hurts.”

  “Now, Parker,” Cal said. It was a stupid, placating sort of tone. “L
et Brooklyn have a little bit of fun. She’s gonna earn it, after all.”

  Parker shrugged, and Tim and Cal grasped my thighs, spreading them wide until my hamstrings screamed in protest.

  “Wow, that’s nice,” Cal said. “Don’t you think Brooklyn has a nice pussy, Tim?”

  “I do,” Tim said. “I can’t wait to shove my dick in it.”

  “What do you think, Brooklyn?” Cal asked. “You want Tim to shove his dick in you?”

  “Stop!!” I screamed, but Parker touched me anyway, one hand pressed firmly on my lower abdomen to keep me still while the other probed me between my legs. It wasn’t a predator’s touch; it was a lover’s touch, gentle yet firm. Experienced.

  “Wow, you must really be enjoying this,” Parker said, stroking me softly.

  “How do you know?” Cal asked, watching me intently as I struggled against Parker’s hand.

  “Well, she’s wet,” Parker replied. “Really wet. I think she likes being used this way.” He leaned over and whispered in my ear. “You’re right. I hated you from the moment I met you. But look how nice I am, making you feel so good. Making you get all wet for me. Because you’re my fucking whore, aren’t you?”

  I don’t know why I was moaning. Whatever drug they gave me turned me to liquid all over again, eventually lulling me into a false sense of security, even tricking me into imagining that the hand touching me belonged to a different boy—a boy I thought I loved. And I should have told him that the day he confessed his love to me.

  I fought it. I tried to focus on my humiliation—my nakedness and their hungry eyes. Parker’s ugly words. I tried to remember I was being touched against my will, but I was quickly giving up the fight, letting Parker use my body against me. I replayed his earlier statement over and over in my mind while I begged him to stop: “It’s not rape if they come.”

  I wanted to pass out now. Then I wouldn’t come. I would be safe from that shame, dreaming somewhere far away in a place where evil doesn’t mask itself behind boyish charms and all-American façades. I closed my eyes and waited for the darkness to consume me, and it finally did, but not before my body responded to Parker’s hand, climaxing painfully while I was held down, stripped of integrity and hurled into some kind of limbo where I knew I was a victim but my body disagreed.

  ***

  I woke up, forehead pressed into the steering wheel. I sat up slowly, head pounding from what felt like a hangover. It was dusk, and the colors beyond my windshield were disorienting. It took me several minutes to recognize the student parking lot at school. Mine was the only vehicle, and I realized I was alone. Instinctively, I locked the doors and looked around for my car keys. They were dangling from the ignition, but I didn’t remember putting them there. I didn’t remember getting into my car. I had no recollection of the day.

  I noticed my wrists hurt badly, and I brought them close to my eyes to get a good look. There were marks on them, and I had a small cut on the inside of my right wrist. The blood was dried and caked in a smear over my skin. What happened to me? My muscles were stiff. My shoulders screamed. My hamstrings felt tight. The back of my neck ached. I felt like someone had beaten me up.

  I wasn’t sure I could drive home. My head continued to pound relentlessly, and I knew I shouldn’t chance it on the road. I looked around for my book bag, locating it in the back seat, and thought that was strange. I never put my book bag in the back seat. I always set it beside me in the passenger seat. I pulled out my cell phone and called Dad.

  “Honey? I thought you’d be home by now. Isn’t the game over?” Dad asked.

  “What game?”

  “Funny, Brooke,” Dad replied.

  I panicked. “Dad, I don’t feel so good.” I choked back the tears. I wasn’t ready to cry yet because I wouldn’t know why I’d be crying.

  “What’s wrong?” I could picture Dad sitting up in his chair, straight as an arrow, ready to go for the gun at my signal.

  “I don’t know. But I woke up in my car. I must have passed out or something. I don’t think I can drive home,” I said. “Will you come get me?”

  “Lock your doors. I’ll be there in ten minutes,” Dad said.

  I hung up and rested my head against the seat. What game? I thought hard trying to remember the game I was supposed to be attending. I was supposed to go somewhere after school. I was supposed to do something. And then I remembered. The baseball game! I went to the baseball game, but I don’t remember leaving it. Think, Brooke, think! But I could recall nothing. Not the slightest memory of events that took place after the game.

  Dad pulled up, and I unlocked my door for him. At that very instant I felt like a little girl, six years old again and bruised and broken from a nasty fall off my bike. I didn’t say a word but stretched my hands to him, palms facing up so that he could see the marks on my wrists, the deep wound just shy of a major blood vessel.

  I cried then. I cried because I knew why I was crying. Someone had hurt me. That’s all I had at the moment, but it warranted tears.

  Dad gently pulled me from my seat, and only then did I notice the dull aching between my legs. And then I noticed another ache, a stinging soreness in my anus.

  “Daddy,” I whispered, clinging to him while I cried into his shoulder.

  “It’s okay, honey,” Dad replied, stroking my back.

  I sobbed hard as my father rocked me gently side to side, like we were slow dancing to a terrible tune, one that sang the disjointed melody of a brutal assault.

  “I-I need to g-go to the hospital,” I stuttered.

  And then I heard my father’s sob, felt the shaking and shuddering of his chest, because he knew what I meant, and he didn’t want it to be true.

  ***

  It was humiliating: legs spread, swabs taken, blood drawn, questions asked. I screamed when my father left the room before the exam started, and they erected a hasty paper screen, separating us so that I could hold his hand while they prodded me.

  Most of my answers to the questions were “I don’t know.” I recalled the faces of each of my attackers, but I couldn’t remember what they said to me. It was mostly blackness with a few sharp rays of recollection: the stifling closet, something shoved down my throat, several hands in places they didn’t belong.

  The exam concluded with “three days.”

  “We’ll get the DNA test results in three days, Ms. Wright.”

  “Call me Brooke. I’m a fucking kid,” I snapped.

  The nurse bristled, then remembered I was a rape victim. A brutally raped victim. They had sodomized me, made me bleed, and there was damage done to my cervix. It would heal, and I could have all the babies I wanted, I was told. It was little comfort, but I understood they were just giving me the facts.

  “Honey, is there anything else you want to tell me before I bring an officer in here to talk to you?” she asked.

  I thought no, then remembered the terrible shame of one event. Right before I blacked out for good. I was embarrassed and asked Dad if he could leave us alone for a minute.

  “Girl stuff,” I said, and he nodded and left.

  I glanced at the nurse before averting my eyes. “I think I had an orgasm.”

  She said nothing. I waited.

  “Did you hear what I just said?” My head snapped up to meet her gaze.

  “Yes, Brooke. And it’s okay. It doesn’t mean anything if you had an orgasm,” the nurse said.

  “It doesn’t?” I wasn’t convinced. I thought there was something wrong with me, that my body was telling me I actually enjoyed it.

  “Orgasms are physical responses. They don’t speak to whether your heart wanted them,” the nurse said. “They certainly do not demonstrate consent on your part.”

  I was quiet for a moment, staring at my lap, thinking through what she said.

  “But shouldn’t I have been so scared and angry that my body wouldn’t respond that way?” I asked after a time. “Shouldn’t my body have shut down or something?”

  �
�You were angry. And I’m sure you were terrified. That doesn’t mean you aren’t still going to have a physical response to stimulation.”

  I cringed at the word “stimulation.” The nurse saw and sat down beside me.

  “The adrenaline you felt from your anger and fear could have actually aided your orgasm,” the nurse continued.

  I looked up sharply.

  “I’m just trying to help you understand how your body and mind work together to achieve orgasm,” the nurse explained. “And it has nothing to do with desire or being in the mood. You did not desire your orgasm. Do you understand?”

  “I’m so ashamed,” I whispered, and she hugged me.

  “Sweetheart, you have nothing to be ashamed about. You did nothing wrong. What you felt was something taken from you against your will. It doesn’t diminish or bring into question the validity of your attack. You were raped, whether you had an orgasm or not.”

  I nodded, trying desperately to believe her.

  “There’s research out there about this. Not enough, but it’s there, and some suggests that as many as one in five rape victims experience orgasm. Women are ashamed to admit it because they think it means they weren’t really raped or that they enjoyed it.”

  I buried my face in my hands.

  “Brooke? Please understand that you did nothing wrong,” the nurse said. “Your orgasm was not voluntary.”

  “I hate that they took that from me!” I screamed.

  “I hate it, too,” the nurse replied. “But if you’re brave and strong, you can make them answer for it.”

  I didn’t want to make them answer for it. I wanted to go hide in a cocoon somewhere. I wanted to run from my attack or, at the least, pretend it didn’t happen. I must have been shaking my head because the nurse kept encouraging me.

  “Brooke, you’re brave enough to do it. I know you are. I can feel it. You don’t have to settle for what they did to you. You don’t have to live with it or try to make do with the situation. You can heal from this. You can get justice.”

  Just then the officer entered, and I looked at her through tear-stained eyes.