1, 6, 44, 18, 3, 4, 17.7, 84, 40, 97, 15

 

First year, first day.

 

She wanted to be a teacher.

She wanted to be a cute, innocent girl

in a cute, innocent dress who

inspired

kids to succeed in school.

 

Second year, second semester.

 

One day before sixth period,

the physics TA asked for her number

and as she typed each digit and checked the spelling of her name,

she marveled at how lucky she was

that a twelfth grader wanted her.

 

Sporadic texting became

midnight Skype calls, with topics like

morality, mortality, and escape.

He

was

infectious.

She never got enough of him

She clung onto his every word as if

his voice were her ambrosia.

She spent late arrivals sneaking off to his house,

heart racing as if she was on some epic adventure,

and she skipped lunches,

ignoring the growl in her stomach to indulge in the growl in his voice.

 

They held their noontime trysts in the sound booth of the theatre,

and sometimes they’d go up on the catwalks and only the air explored more than his hands and even though she was scared of the dark he would tell her

it’d all be okay. And

she was utterly and irrevocably

in love.

 

When she wasn’t with him, she found comfort in numbers:

1, 6, 44, 18, 3, 4, 17.7, 84, 40, 97, 15.

 

First imperceptibly and then like a stampede, things changed.

1 out of every 6 Americans has been the victim of rape

44% of these victims are under the age of 18

 

“It always hurts the first time”

they say.

But they’re wrong.

It hurt because she didn’t want it

Because she told him NO, even if it came out like no

It hurt because she couldn’t defend herself,

because he seemed to think he was entitled

to her

“You say you have boundaries but I know you don’t mean it.

You should feel lucky I chose you.

You know you want it.”

She used to find solace in numbers

3, 4, 17.7, 84, 40, 97, 15

Survivors of rape are 3 times more likely to suffer from depression and

4 times more likely to attempt suicide

 

Second year, second semester.

 

She didn’t want to be a teacher anymore.

She wanted to be dead.

 

17.7, 84, 40, 97, 15

 

When her numbers failed her, she reached out for help

and was shot down where she stood.

She was blamed for her clothes, her words, her body language, her helplessness

She was blamed for playing the victim, for blaming him, for secretly liking it

But most of all, she blamed herself for loving him.

 

For loving him despite the fact that he scared her, and despite

that he took advantage of her need to please others, and despite

the constant reminders that he was twice her size and

easily

twice her strength.

And she had to love him, so that he would love her back

because she could bear his weight, but not the weight of being unloved.

 

Third year, first semester

 

She is one of 17.7 million assaulted Americans

and her college-bound love contributes to the

84% of rapists who truly believe they’ve done nothing wrong

 

40, 97, 15

 

Her numbers still can’t help her

when she wakes up in the middle of the night terrified

so certain he is down the street, at the window, behind her door, l u r k i n g in the shadows

and now she’s scarred and scared of the dark for a whole new reason.

Deep down she knows she’ll never be safe,

and it’s no wonder only 40%

of rapes are reported,

when 97% of rapists never see

the inside of a jail cell.

 

She tried hard to believe in her numbers again,

what else did she have?

Her world was ripped apart

She lost her confidence, her beliefs, and her certainty in one instant.

She believed her worth was

directly proportional

to what some guy defined it as, because

if he could take her virginity,

why not take

her dignity

too?

 

1, 6, 44, 18, 3, 4, 17.7, 84, 40, 97

She was

only

15