William’s Blood

Here I lay on the bathroom floor, nails bloody and knees bruised from fighting off a relentless predator. I scream, but nobody dares to hear the cries of a big black girl suffering and fighting for the reigns of her own body, particularly after midnight. The time is now 12:33 am. Minutes convert themselves to hours in my mind; time devours itself, and I find myself trapped in a loop. I’ve been here before, I think to myself. Making my final attempt to arise from the hypothetical ashes of sweat and shame, I come face to face with the sole of a thick leather boot. I shift my gaze to eyes that shine like pebbles in a pond, and I am immediately taken back to simpler times.

I met William during the fall of 2015 at the tender age of eighteen. He approached me under pale moonlight, dressed in dark slacks and a striped polo. Tall and tan with full, ruby-hued lips reminiscent of the underbelly of a calla lily, William was the type of man who could a girl deliciously uncomfortable with just a grin or the batting of his lashes; the kind of man that could snatch the breath right out of your lungs without ever saying a word. I was so caught up in William’s sexiness that I hadn’t realized that this Adonis of a man was talking to me: “Yo…? Did you hear me? You wanna hang out or not?” I should’ve said no.

I fell for William the way darkness falls: slowly and heavily. He seduced me with my favorite books, home-cooked meals, and desire; all things that made the coldness in my heart melt away. Even though he was a good twelve years older than I and we shared so much difference, I could only see the innocence in him. It was like he had these childlike entities living within him; full of energy, passion, and light. I let my skewed vision of William push me over the ledge enough to consider taking a real chance on him, and it was in the early dawn of winter that I made the (not so conscious) decision to give in to his persistence.

Warning and tragedy must go hand in hand because I woke up one morning in a cold, paralyzing sweat. An instinctual fear washed over me, and in that very moment, I knew that something wasn’t right. I checked my phone, and to my surprise, I had fourteen missed calls from William. I remember thinking, maybe he’s hurt...perhaps he needs help. Precisely, that panicky feeling made its way back to me, and I called him in desperation, hoping that he was alright. He answered after the third dial tone in a distinctly giddy voice and told me that he would pick me up later that night. “Wear something comfortable,” he teased. Everything seemed to be peachy keen, but my intuition screamed in rebuttal.

William picked me up earlier than usual that evening; there was still light out, and the sparrows that swarm about the tree in front of my apartment were still chirping away. I reached for the door handle of his black Dodge Ram, but he popped the door open from the inside before I even had the chance to grasp it.

“You know, I didn’t wanna worry you earlier,” he murmured as I fixated my rear into the front seat, “It’s just...I felt kinda lonely and...and I needed to see you.” I let out a brief cry of relief before grabbing his hand and placing it on my chest. He trailed his fingers towards the tips of my bosom, and I could feel my heart pounding within. He smirked as he made his way down to my nether regions, as I began to feel a queasiness in the pit of my gut. William was all too eager, as if he were waiting for the moment to make me his prey and it pissed me off.

“Was this your plan all along? Make me feel bad so that you can get some?!” I was fed up with fear, lust, and distrust by this point, and I needed answers. He remained silent.

“You know what? Fuck you!” I barked as I threw him off of me. I was equal parts disgust and despair; on the one hand, I wanted him to pull over and let me out while secretly yearning to feel him on the other. My conflicting emotions battled well into the night, and by the time we parked in William’s driveway, I had given up the good fight. I sat on his couch, defeated, staring blankly at the television screen. He slithered over to me with a glass of Prosecco, gulped it down, and lunged at me. I could hear myself screaming the word ‘stop’ at full capacity, but this nightmare was real, and I wasn’t waking up. His ravenous hands became knives; my thighs became barbed wire, and he didn’t seem to care. I clawed at his fleshy back and gnawed at his veiny arms, but neither phased him. He penetrated the aching little wound between my legs and God herself. Exhaustion silenced me and my body went numb.

Now all I can taste is the mixture of his blood and mine. All I can feel is the coldness of the tile beneath my bare ass. I can hear the deafening stillness in his voice as he tells me that he is sorry and begs for forgiveness, but any warmth I had left was stripped from me. I no longer see his innocence; I see an insatiable night creature who lures young women to his side before devouring them. I stand up, pull on my black dress, and I run out to the front lawn. I call my mother, and in a performance that would put Joan Crawford to shame, I tell her that I’m okay and I need a ride home. The time is now 1:40 am. I guess this is what I’ll do whenever a man breaks my heart and takes what isn’t his. I’ll wash it all away in the shower and pretend it never happened.