Little Girl

It's funny how little I care. I probably should. I should probably go into meltdown crazy-ass breakdown complete with Ben and Jerry's and Ever After on repeat. But – finally: it doesn't matter to me. You, I mean, or, well let's just say Recent Events involving a spliff, a rapist and a chav. I wonder if you'll read this? I suppose you will, and so will she (and you'll probably have to read out the long words, and explain what they mean). Flibbertigibbet. Sorry, couldn't resist. That was one of Kim and I'd words, that we'd say just for the hell of it. She's not talking to me now. I told her. She doesn't believe me.

I'm lying, by the way. I haven't told Kim, never will, and if I did, I doubt she'd be surprised.

See, I told you: only to knew. And a certain someone who thinks Charles Wells is a kind of beer. Oh, and a couple of other people. But you're the only person in the world who knew absolutely everything, non-censored just how it happened un-glossy truth. And, for some reason that escapes me now: there was a reason at the beginning, I'm sure, perhaps you have an honest face, or you were the closest person to me (physically, I mean. I'm probably closer to my rapist emotionally, not that that's hard really – not that we aren't close, I mean, but my rapist and I have a weird relationship. Hell, you should know.) Whatever the reason was, little girl, I told you, didn't I? My deepest, darkest secret.

But, long, boring story cut short – you told an obnoxious young girl my deepest, darkest secret. Did it ever occur to you, in your world of vampires and things that go bump in the night, that there might be a reason I didn't advertise my rape?

Because, little girl, I don't want it becoming next month's gossip. You see, walking into a room and hearing everybody stop talking gets old, very, very quickly.

I never expected you to understand this. In fact, in the two years I knew you, I expected one thing – just one thing – from you: to not tell anybody. But you did. I hope you understand why I'm ending our friendship.

You see...

I was raped. I suppose worse things happen. It doesn't change anything really, because it's a part of who I am. Something I can't change, although I've tried to pretend it didn't happen, many, many times. I think you thought it was something I was proud of having survived it. I'm not. The only positive thing I feel towards it is glad that it's over. Or at least, it had been. Now it's back, part of my life, and it's either going to kill me or I'm going to have to learn how to live like this, and right now dying seems better. It's like being killed.

Worse. Because you're still here, still tied to life, still look the same, but you're not. You can't sit still longer than ten minutes, can't listen to songs you listened to Before (ever wondered why I stopped listening to Nirvana?). Weirdest thing, that. I can spend an entire day talking to my rapist, but I can't listen to William, It Was Really Nothing and sit still.

Anyway, what I'm trying to say here, little girl, is that I've been violated in the worst way imaginable, something nobody should have to go through – and you made it worse. It seems harsh for me to say that, I suppose. But so is telling somebody they're lying about being raped to get attention from their rapist. I'm not sorry that I'm not going to speak to you again. You see, what he did, that was awful. But I honestly believe he didn't have much of a choice, it's a mental illness he has. But you – what's your excuse?

Except being a little sixteen year old girl, I suppose. But so am I.