I remember everything about that night.

I remember the street. I remember the way the wind was still. I remember shuffling along, minding my own business with my hands balled up in fists beneath the fabric of my jacket pockets. I remember that man, the way he grabbed me, the way he changed my life forever.

I remember everything.

The sky is dark, with a few twinkling stars peeking their way through the growing blackness of the evening. I wave a goodbye to Spencer, my best guy friend and the person I consider to be my older brother, as I amble along the sidewalk.

"I'll see you later," I yell to him.

"Are you sure you don't want a ride?" he asks. "It's getting late."

I shrug off his offer casually. "Nah. Don't worry about me. I'll be fine."

"Alright then. Text me when you get home."

"Yeah, yeah. Bye!"

With that said I continue my way down his street, whistling a random tune I make up as I go along. I wince as I hear a rustling in a nearby bush, only to sigh in relief when it's nothing but a squirrel.

I soon approach Whicker Street. In our town it's known to be the home of several prostitutes, who supposedly occupy the many condominiums there. And with prostitutes came horny old men looking to get any piece of ass they could reach.

This is the sole reason Spencer has such a problem with me walking by myself. But time and time again, I try to convince him that I'm not as weak as I seem, and that I can take care of myself.

That's when he comes over, taking the smoothest strides he could but failing to walk in a straight line.

"Why, hello there, gorgeous," he purrs in my ear. I shudder as a strong waft of alcohol reaches my nose, and I hold back a cough. This is the first time I have ever encountered a stranger on my way home, and I'm trying my best to not lose my cool.

I choose to ignore the man but he is persistent in stopping me in my tracks. He towers over me by a good seven inches, and despite the growing darkness in the sky I can see brown stubble decorating his face. He probably weighs twice as much as I do.

"I'm talking to you, bitch," he snarls. "Answer me."

I swallow the lump in my throat and try to push past him. He shoves me back, catching me off guard, and I stumble to the ground in a surprised heap. I hop up quickly before he has the chance to do anything.

"Just who the fuck do you think you are, buddy?" I snap. "Get the hell away from me so I can go home."

"You're not going anywhere, now." His hand makes its way across my face, the ring on his middle finger slicing a cut in my lip. He pulls my arms to my sides and drags me into the nearest condo.

"Let...me...go!" I protest, kicking my legs.

The condo he selects is the farthest thing I've ever seen from clean. The furniture in the living room is shabby and worn out. There are stacks of dishes atop kitchen counters and there's a horrible stench that's making me want to vomit profusely.

I try to stand my ground but he kicks my knee forward harshly and I slump back, weakened. Now in control he steers me towards the first bedroom. I'm thoroughly disgusted when I see that this bedroom is already being used, a man, who looks like he's in his fifties, on top of a young blonde. I see more than I need to and I try to drown their sound effects out with my thoughts as the man holding me closes the door.

We turn around and enter the next bedroom, which is unfortunately empty. He throws me onto the bed and slams his body on top of mine before I have the chance to react.

I try my best to hold my arms at my sides when I realize that he's struggling to get my shirt off.

"No, stop!" I continue to protest. This time he curls one of his broad hands into a fist and slams it into the side of my cheek. The rusty taste of blood rises to my tongue and I make an effort not to gag.

By this time I'm so focused on the pain racketing through my skull that I fail to notice the fact that he has succeeded in stripping me of my shirt. In the next moment he jams our mouths together and his tongue fights my own.

I push my hands against his chest (which I shockingly realize is bare; when the hell did that happen?) to attempt to get him off of me. Unfortunately, he finds it as an action of passion, which results in him kissing me harder and sloppier.

Next he works on unfastening my jeans and sliding them down. With this he has an easier time, because I've grown weak from him hitting me and my eyes are starting to cross.

This isn't good.

Before I know it we're both completely stripped of our clothes, with the exception of undergarments. Thoughts rage around in my head and it pisses me off that he completely has the advantage of strength over me. I'm praying that I make it out of this place alive.

I wait for the opportunity where his mouth isn't covering mine and suck in a gust of air, waiting to scream for my life. As soon as I let out just a hint of a sound he covers my mouth with his hand.

"Shut the hell up!" he orders. "Don't you dare talk."

I part my lips and clamp my teeth onto the skin of his palm. He yanks his hand out of my clutch and backhands me across my cheeks again. He then punches my stomach and I have to wait a minute to catch my breath.

When I do, I inhale and exhale quickly, faintly. I'm hardly conscious and I'm losing focus in my eyes. While I'm doing this he manages shed us both of our remaining articles of clothing.

No, no, no. This can't be happening. This isn't how I want my first time to be. But right now I don't think I have the choice of the matter.

I continue to struggle as he positions himself on top of me. But it's no use - the first gasp of pain issues from my lips as I feel him push into me slowly. After this he pulls in and out a few times, moans escaping from his own mouth as he moves. The pain is at first unbearable, but then bitter pleasure sinks in, and I find myself moving with him.

After a few minutes he extracts himself from me and there is suddenly a sticky white substance spread on the sheets beneath us. I lie on my back, deep breaths heaving in and out of me, and I start crying. They are silent tears at first, nothing worth his attention as he pulls his clothes back on. But then they escalate into pathetic loud sobs, racking through my entire being as I bury my face into my hands.

"Oh, shut up," he snaps. "What the hell is your problem?"

Is he kidding? The pervert just raped me, and he has the nerve to ask me what's wrong?

He shoves a fist in one of his pockets to retrieve a wallet. He pulls out two twenties and throws them at me carelessly.

"That should be enough," he growls, eyeing me sickeningly. When he turns away to do something I throw my clothes back on my body, ignoring the bills lying beside me. I can't believe he thinks that money can make up for what he just did to me.

When we are both dressed, awkward silence fills the room.

"So, uhm…are you going to take the money or what?" he asks. I just shake my head slowly, declining the offer.

After a moment he reaches for it and slides it back into his pocket.

Without thinking I run from the room in a hurry, wanting nothing but to crawl into bed and forget this ever happened, just erase it from my past…

Until, nine months later, I am staring up into the miniature face of my rapist.

A/N: Honestly, I have no idea why I wrote this. I was almost raped last year, so I can understand how scared actual rape victims must feel. I'm thinking about developing this into a story of some kind. R&R, and ideas are always appreciated. Thanks.