Worth It (32 page)

Her face turns blank. “I need to go.”

I’m so shocked that I stand up and step back. She closes the door, starts the engine, and drives off. The whole time, I just stand and stare. I know it’s fucking freezing out here, but I don’t feel a thing. As her taillights disappear, I come out of my daze, and I want to punch something.

What the fuck just happened? And why is this girl trying to drive out of my life?

I thought we were finally getting somewhere. She said on Saturday that she’d open up to me one day, and tonight was a perfect opportunity. Instead, she ran. I’m trying to understand that she’s scared and she panicked, but I’m pissed that she wouldn’t unload on me when I’ve been telling her and showing her that I’m here for her, that she can come to me.

God-fucking-damn it.

My patience is wearing thin. I know she cares about me, and God help me, I’m not letting her go. She might be broken, but I’ll help her put herself back together if it’s the last thing I do.

I barely make it out of his parking lot before I burst into tears. As I make my way home, I try in vain to pull my shit together, but nothing helps. It’s hard enough to calm down after those nightmares, but to have Jed witness it, knowing what I am—a disgusting person—is too much.

You should have told him.

I shut that thought down. There is no way I’m ready to show him that piece of me—the dirty, used, disgusting part of my soul. Even though the dream was about the incident in college and not about
him
, I can’t let Jed into my darkness.

I’m still sobbing when I get home, so I quickly and quietly slip into my room before anyone notices. I crawl into bed without bothering to wash up or change. I just want to forget everything that happened and melt into sleep. It doesn’t come easily though. When I realize that I might have just thrown everything with Jed away, I cry harder. He has told me and shown me that he wants to be there for me, that I should trust him. Instead, I ran away, faster than an Olympian, at the first opportunity to show him that I
do
trust him. I eventually fall asleep, my tears never subsiding.

I begin to regain consciousness because something is on me. I’m dizzy, and my mouth tastes of vomit. Whatever woke me up is still pushing hard on my stomach.
Fuck, I didn’t think I drank that much. Where the fuck am I?
I’m barely lucid, but I manage to half open one eye. I’m waking up a little more when I realize a guy is on me. Oh my god! It’s that guy—the one who said he’d help me
.
I can’t see his face, but I’m sure it’s him.

I’m going to be sick.

I’m going to die of shame.

Memories come back to me. I went to my first college party, and I was having fun and drinking, but I don’t remember drinking that much.

I moan and roll my head. “Sthop! Wahda ya doin?” I slur. I try to lift my hands to slap at him, but I’m numb, and my arms feel like limp noodles. Then, the numbness in my body starts to fade, and my body starts to throb. “Ged offa me.” I make an unsuccessful attempt to swat him off me again.

“Shut up,” he whispers. “I’m almost done.”

There’s a horrible ache between my legs, and the more awake I become, the more intense the pain gets. “Plleeaasse sllopp,” I slur.

Two more grunts, and he pulls out, spilling himself on my leg. He huffs a few big breaths as he sits up and adjusts himself back into his pants. Then, he throws a rag at my face. “Clean yourself up, slut.”

I jerk straight up in bed, panting and shaking.

“Just a dream, just a dream, just a dream,” I chant to myself. I haven’t had this one in a while, and now, I just had a repeat in one night.

I was so damn mortified and ashamed when I woke up a couple of hours ago, and I realized that Jed had just witnessed my dream—
no, my memory.
I rub my face, frustrated with myself. I can’t believe I bolted like that. All I’m missing is the damn straightjacket. Blowing out a deep breath, I flop back on the bed. I was so fucking panic-stricken that I didn’t know what to do or say, so I didn’t say anything before I just bolted. The panic clawing up my throat and threatening strangulation was too much. The panic from the dream, panic that Jed knew what had happened to me, panic at his judgment, panic from the overwhelming disgust I feel whenever I think about what happened. Part of me, a big part, wanted to spill the beans. I wanted to see if he really could be there for me like he said he wanted to be. The fear is what stopped me, what shut me down.

I don’t know how other people handle rape. I’ve heard that some victims are terrified to be touched intimately. Maybe it’s just me and my life experiences, but I don’t feel like that. I feel like trash. After all, I was used and tossed aside. When I allow myself to think about it, I can’t see past the revulsion that churns my gut and breaks my soul. I get so low that it’s difficult to pull out of the canyon I’ve fallen into.

My stomach is a mess, and I need the pain crushing my heart to go away. Glancing at my nightstand, I consider grabbing the box cutter.
Ease my pain.
I shake my head to clear the thought, and think about that girl with crazy eyes and blood dripping down her arm from two years ago. That image helps clear the urge.
I will not become her again.

Now that I’m a little calmer, I turn on my side and close my eyes. Even if I’ve lost Jed, which is likely, I appreciate the time I had with him. He’s helped to show me a glimmer of what can be. I’m devastated that I might have ruined the great thing we had going, but I can just barely see through the murkiness of desolation. As I begin to drift back to sleep, I realize that even though I just ripped out my own heart, I might be able to be happy—someday.

I wake up groggy. I’m in a horrible mood. My barely hopeful thoughts after my repeat nightmare last night have seemed to vanish in a puff of smoke. Maybe it’s the light of day, but reality of what I did is crashing in. After fleeing like some scared cat, I feel myself sinking further.
Fuck! Where the fuck did my protective barrier go?
I hate wallowing. I’m sick of it, but I can’t seem to put the brakes on it.

I’m a reject.

Ugh! Stop this. This isn’t helpful.
I can’t focus on the past. I need to focus on the future.
Keep moving. Just put one foot in front of the other.

I think about the dream again, and I feel the bile rise in my throat. I’m nearly positive I was drugged that night, and I still don’t know who he was. I was so out of it that I can’t picture him in my mind. He’s faceless.

With a growl, I rise out of bed. This thinking shit isn’t working. It never works.
What the fuck does thinking of the past do, huh? What can I possibly gain by reminiscing about the way I was used and discarded?

I grab my things and make my way to the shower. With the hot water beating on my face, I think of Jed. I don’t even know what to do about what happened last night. I’m sure I fucked that whole relationship up, and for the first time ever while in the midst of my spiraling, I think that I might need some help. Throwing away such a great thing with Jed makes me see that I can’t be happy with life if I’m not happy with myself. With the shit I’ve been handed, I should have seriously considered therapy a long time ago, but I’ve always thought that would make me weak. So many people go through so much worse—death of parents or children for example—and they handle it, so why can’t I?

I’d like to think that I’m strong or at least resilient, but I’m in such a chaos of emotions right now, and there is no control in sight. I feel like I should just maybe get some help with putting these emotions in order. The idea makes me sick to my stomach and break out in a cold sweat. On top of being weak, if I sought help, I’d have to say what happened to me out loud and I’m not sure I can do that with a stranger. I was beginning to think I could talk with Jed because he is beginning to mean so much to me.

Then, why didn’t I say anything last night?

I glance at the clock and see I have half an hour left until I’m done with work. The dinner rush is over, and now, I’m cleaning and then stocking up. It keeps my hands busy, but unfortunately, not my mind, and I’m beginning to think.

I haven’t heard from Jed all day. My stomach is in knots and my shoulders are tense. Things were going so well with him. It was so good to be myself, and he was still interested in me. Then, I went and acted like a psycho, and all but donkey-punched him away from me. Any hope I had that last night wasn’t the end is slowly wilting away. My thoughts and emotions are all over the place, and try as I might, I can’t suppress them.

I’ve been able to push down my self-hatred and the memories, so I can get through the day. The memories and feelings are like mud that I’m trying to tread through. The more I acknowledge the mud, the higher and thicker it becomes, making it harder to walk through, to move forward.

I glance at the clock to see that I still have twenty-five more minutes.

I’m so disappointed in myself that I let it all hang out like that. I know I had nightmares when I was living with Sam, but he never noticed or cared. I never had to explain the reasons behind them, so when Jed confronted me about it, I freaked. I swallow my frustration. If I don’t think about it, it won’t drag me down.

Twenty minutes.

I really need to find a way to bury these emotions and stop them from rising like zombies. The memory of Jed laughing at me as I ran away from the zombie ambush makes me smile, and then it fades when I remember I probably lost him.

Fifteen minutes.

What if I told him?
I could just go over to his place tonight and talk to him. I don’t have to tell him everything about my past, just what happened in the dream. As horrible as it is, I know I’m not the only one who’s been raped. So, as dirty as I feel about it, maybe Jed would understand. I shake my head. Maybe if I had told him before I slept with him, he’d understand. Now, he’d probably be pissed that I didn’t tell him beforehand. I don’t have an STD, but still.
Do people want to know about that before they have sex?
I don’t really know.
Would he feel appalled that he’s been with someone who was raped? Or is that my warped mind’s way of thinking?