Keep The Lights On

“Alex, you can’t sleep with the lights on. Adults don’t do that. Get a grip, turn the lights off and go to sleep,” I pep-talked myself at three-thirty in the morning, eyes glued to the ceiling. This was my nightly ritual. The skeletons in my closet were alive and well and loved to take me through a world of repeated terror every time the sun disappeared. I pulled myself to the side of the bed like a zombie and flipped the switch on my lamp causing an immediate flood of black to envelope my room. I rolled on my back, shut my eyes, and practiced rhythmical breathing, a handy method to fall asleep, courtesy of my therapist. It was effective.

“Good morning baby girl,” Dylan mumbled as he rolled over to my side of the bed. This was how the nightmare always started.

“Good morning handsome man,” I smiled at him as I rolled over to meet his gaze in the middle of our bed. He was the dreamy kind of boyfriend. Dylan was a military man with perfect hair and a body to match. He said all the right things until I would say the wrong thing. The dreamy part of the nightmare never lasted long.

“What do you want to do today?” I asked.

“Whatever you want babe,” he groaned, still half asleep.

“Have you ever been to a college party? They’re so much fun. We should go,” I begged.

“Whatever you want to do princess. It’s not really my thing, but I’ll do it for you,” he replied through his crooked, charming grin.

“And you have to dance with me!” I squealed as I curled up next to him. He simply rolled his eyes. I stared hard into those grey eyes, letting all of my affection shine through my own. I felt so much warmth as I reached up and combed through his thick black hair. His face was scruffy, too. The exact kind of face I loved to kiss.

Nightmares have no concept of time. They jump to the scary parts, even if it means leaving out eight hours of a perfectly good day. They are awful storytellers but seem to be the only ones available at the midnight hour.

Ten thirty in the evening finally rolled around. My chest fluttered with excitement as I got dressed for the party. In typical marine fashion, Dylan overdressed. His long slender frame was complimented by his coal grey blazer and pressed dark jeans. I stared at him getting dressed in the mirror with pride. That was my man, the one that made the other girls jealous. But later that night, their envy would be wasted.

We drove to the party in silence, his hand on my thigh. I felt like a queen. We agreed upon the designated driver assignment, which would of course be him. We stepped out of the car into the chilly Newark winter air. I was wearing more skin than clothes, so Dylan wrapped his arm tightly around me as we approached the party.

“Is it alright if he comes in? We’ll pay,” I bat my eyes at the fraternity brother standing guard in the driveway like my life depended on it. Although, I knew he wasn’t staring at my eyes. He hesitated as he surveyed my body.

“Nah. You guys are good. Have a great time,” he scoffed.

“Thanks,” I said in a high pitched, flirtatious voice. Dylan rolled his eyes. He knew my games, but he didn’t like them, rather he was disgusted by them.

“What the hell are you doing?” Dylan sneered.

“What do you mean, ‘what the hell are you doing?’. It was just a fucking conversation, calm down.”

“You’re acting like you’re asking to get railed by a bunch of frat dudes! Quit it. Now.”

“You’re dramatic,” I rolled my eyes, took his hand, and dragged him into the dancing bodies in the middle of a suburban parking lot.

In my sleep, I could feel my sinking chest after that abusive conversation. I could feel the anxious butterflies in my stomach. Nightmares don’t stay within the walls of the brain.

“Let’s go. I want to get you home,” Dylan proclaimed only forty-five minutes after arrival.

“Ugh. Fine. You’re so boring,” I groaned in my drunken state. We made our way back to the car. I wasn’t cold. My intoxicated skin shielded me with a false sense of warmth.

The car ride home was silent, too. My intoxication may have shielded me from the cold, but not the neurotic butterflies still fluttering around my stomach. The air had changed, and they smelled punishment.

Upon arrival at the house, I stumbled out the car. I felt his sizable hands grip around my hips, and he threw me over his shoulder. After ten steps inside the door and up the stairs, we were in the bedroom. I was at least sober enough to recognize my location. He tossed me on the bed, which felt more like someone was violently shaking my brain. I was seeing double as I lay motionless on my back. His warm lips pressed against my stomach as his coarse hands started to undo my jeans.

“Dylan, no. I feel like crap I don’t want to.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have gotten so drunk, silly,” he chuckled.

I wanted to wake up. People usually wake up from their nightmare during the scariest part, but somehow, every night, I was held hostage to watch and feel myself go through one of the lowest points in my life.

Dylan continued.

“No, seriously, I’m sore, I’m tired, and I want to just sleep. Can you get me some water please?” he deliberately ignored my request and continued with his own agenda in the most nonchalant manner. Before I could even assess how far he had gotten in undressing me, we were intimate. I felt a searing pain in every layer of skin, bone and joint, and blood vessels. In my mind, I was putting up a real fight, but in reality, my intoxication inhibited my strength and defensive tactics. My noodling arms failed to stop his jagged torso from pinning me to the bed. My legs were equally ineffective. It is in that moment of utter defenselessness that the violation starts to creep in. Violation makes you give up the fight. Its sickly, torturous fingers wrapped around my neck and helped him pin me down while he drained me of my self-worth. I was nothing but flesh and bone in service of greedy pleasure.

“How’d you like that, baby? Isn’t that what you wanted? Don’t you feel better?” he panted. I was silent. He leaned over to stroke my face, but I was paralyzed. “Goodnight, princess,” he smiled as he kissed my grey lips, oblivious to my emotional death.

I woke up in a screaming, sweaty mess. I fumbled the light switch with trembling hands, knocking the lamp to the ground but still managing to turn in back on. I cradled my head in my hands and sobbed.

“It’s not real. It’s not real. That will never happen to you again,” I said out loud to myself through the sniffles and coughs. But the truth is it keeps happening. Every night, my nightmare holds me hostage. From that moment on, the light stayed on.