This part of the memoir does not make for an easy read. But this is part of my story. And, in the words of Grace Jones, ‘this is my voice. My weapon of choice.’ (This is Life)
At first the boy wasn’t quite sure what was happening. All he knew was that he was falling. Then he found himself on his back on the ground amongst the leaves and the bits of bark and the dirt. At first he thought he had tripped. Then a moment of confusion. It wasn’t long before Mike was on top of him. The boy struggled. Told Mike he didn’t want it. Told him to stop. He felt hands roughly pulling at his shorts and his underpants. Managed to push him off. Then Mike was on top of him again. Pinning him to the floor. So he couldn’t move. Could hardly breathe. Then he was ramming it in. All nine inches of it. No lube. No condom. And it hurt. Like hell.
I kept saying no. But I didn’t shout. I was afraid. Afraid of what else he might do. Maybe if I’d struggled harder. Maybe if I’d shouted. Or screamed. I should have shouted. I should have struggled more. Instead, I curled up into a place deep inside where not even he could get me. His face was all angry and I remember thinking he’s fucking me like he hates me. Why does he hate me? What have I done to him for him to hate me with such venom? I’d never seen someone fuck like that. And I’d never heard someone say what he kept saying. In German. Whilst slamming into me. You’re like a thirteen year old girl. Over and over. Until his whole body jerked. Until his face contorted like a man possessed. Until he released his cum, load, essence, hate, whatever the fuck, inside of me. It wasn’t long before he pulled out. Stood up. Pulled up his underpants. His shorts. Then walked away. As if nothing had happened.
I lay there. Motionless. A dead weight. And I imagined members of the public finding me like that, the way I was, my arse all on show, shorts down by my ankles, lying face down in the dirt. How they would eventually gather and talk about me, as if I was not even there, in languages I could not understand. Let them come. Let them gasp and gawp like spectators at a circus until the moment that I reinhabit my body and roar and claw at their skin like a wild animal. Time passed. The vision faded. An army of ants came into focus, moving over the leaves and the dirt and the bits of bark as if it had a mind of its own. Then something up above caught my eye so as I had to shift my head; a beam of sunlight had pierced through the foliage. It seemed to point to a world beyond this one, a world beyond pain and suffering, a world where you are loved just as you were when you were a child. I felt my eyes well with tears as I imagined I was disappearing, dissolving into that light, leaving everything behind. Time passed. I passed out. When I eventually came to and stood up, I was in pain; I was bleeding. And I hated him. Hated what he’d done to me. But I was alive. I was still encased within the bounds of my physical body. I was not dead. And for this, I was grateful. My life had not ended here, hundreds of miles from home, in some god-forsaken wood not far from the Black Sea.