Copyright 2024 – Rebecca Nietert
Age 19 – It was through Chris, the guy I was dating at the time, that I met Dave. We became friends, or so I thought. One evening, we all found ourselves at my sister’s party, having a good time. But little did I know that this night would be etched into my memory like a nightmare.
As the night wore on, it became apparent that we needed more beer. The apartments we all lived in were conveniently situated within the same complex, so I suggested Dave and I go on a quick beer run to his place. Little did I know what horrors awaited me in those few short moments.
Dave’s large frame, towering at 6 foot 5 inches and weighing 320 pounds, struck an imposing figure. But I trusted him, naive to the darkness that hid within. We climbed the steps to his apartment, and as he unlocked the door, a wicked smile danced across his face. A chilling premonition should have gripped me, a warning to escape, but I remained oblivious.
As I stepped inside, Dave followed me, but instead of joining me in the room, he turned the key in the lock. Panic began to bubble within me, and I asked him what he was doing. But silence hung heavy in the air, suffocating my words. Dave, with purposeful strides, approached me, his face contorted with a twisted sense of entitlement.
In a voice laced with menace, he declared that he knew my true intentions. He claimed I had orchestrated this visit to his apartment because I desired him. No matter how vehemently I protested, my pleas fell on deaf ears. His hands forcefully grabbed me, and the next 30 minutes dissolved into a blur of physical dominance and my desperate attempts at self-defense.
I fought back, but his sheer strength overpowered me at every turn. In my agonizing vulnerability, I pleaded for him to stop, to reconsider, but he tore through my resistance, violating my boundaries in ways I can barely bring myself to recount. Once it was over, I emerged from that apartment broken, battered, and consumed by shame.
With blood staining my body, I fled back to the solitude of my sanctuary. I washed away the physical evidence, but the emotional scars ran deeper than the crimson streams that flowed down the drain. Despair engulfed me as I crawled into bed, my pain hidden away from the world. The weight of my silence became my penance, locked within the prison of my own mind.
For years, I carried this secret burden, never finding the courage to share my story. But now, in the telling, I hope to break the shackles of silence. No one should endure such terror alone. If my words reach even one person, giving them the strength to speak out, then perhaps some healing can begin.
Reba Nietert 