![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
[Val asked me to post her own version of what happened a few days ago vis a vis the Bobby situation, so here it is, unedited. The mood selection at the end is also Val's.]
I hear him partly in my dreams, mocking us in our nest of blankets, curled up around one another. I'm not afraid of his words. I'm too warm, cuddled up with Patrick and Romie on Rebekah's floor at her goodbye party, too buzzed to care about some idiot sounding off. It's a moot point, and while he's annoying, it's not enough to get me, or anyone else, riled up. I fall back into my dreams, the presence of my friends enveloping me in the dark. Yes, far too comfortable to care about the village idiot.
Until he starts kicking me.
"Please stop that."
I sit up in my eyeless haze, having long taken out my contacts, to see a large figure in front of me barking drunken phrases. Although my phrase is kind, the voice is firm and barely held back from irritated. Too late, I realize that to him, I'm some cute bitch on an evening when he wants to mess with someone. To me, he's a dark blur in a darker room, which is beginning to unnerve me as I stare up at his hulking form. He's looking down at me with, I expect, incredulity, that some idiot 130 pound girl would speak that command. I can't quite tell, of course; I'm heavily near sighted.
"What's this, little bitch? You got a FUCKING problem?"
"I would appreciate it if you would let us go back to sleep, and stop that." I sound more the house's host than what I am, half-awake and too aware of our positions. Too prideful not to speak with dignity, I know he's going to find a problem in what I say regardless. I'm kneeling now, and he's looming. If I stand, it will become a confrontation. And although I'm tough, and a green belt to boot, I don't know if I can take him. And I'm suddenly a bit terrified by that realization, because this shouldn't be a problem. And it's going to be.
The remarks go on a bit longer, and I realize that the black-brown room is still or in slow motion, and everyone's watching us. Not helpful. Kim and Mary panic on the sofa. He glances at Mary with a look that says, what a fucking bitch; I look at her and try to communicate, don't look, go get help. The two girls sit like rocks, giggling hysterically, utterly terrified.
"Why don't you *fucking* lie down and go back to sleep, huh? I'll leave you alone, then, just fucking *lie* down and it's not an issue, okay?"
Sure. And then you'll be certain you *can* hurt me and I'll be in a defenseless position. Not likely. He says it, words rolling over one another, again and again, not waiting for words from me. I'm not even sure he knows what he's saying.
"I don't feel like going back to sleep any more, actually. But thank you."
His body language suddenly changes, this much I can tell. He leans in, all drunk smell and sweaty anger.
"What's your name? Who the fuck are you? Tell me your name!" He says it desperately, half afraid, half infuriated. It would be childish to refuse. I groan inwardly; I'm stuck in a comic-book caper and unfortunately my real name isn't Clark Kent. I'm curious, really. Why does he need to know? I realize, suddenly, that this is Bobby, of course. This is Rebekah's off again, on again boyfriend. He wants to know my position; maybe wants to know how much he can get away with.
I answer honestly, simply, syllables slipping past my lips with a gentility I'm not certain I knew I was capable of before.
"You, I know who you are. I've heard about you! I know what you are!" He mumbles it at first, but it grows louder until at the end he's almost in stage whisper. He backs off in disgust, then leans back over again, and I know that things are much, much worse. It's impossible to know how I understand immediately what he means; maybe it's the way he says it, or the fact that I've feared this all along. I wonder how the hell Rebekah thought it was safe to announce my life to such a bigoted asshole. You see, I realize he knows I'm bi in a town in deep Texas where prejudice is rewarded with sugared praise and biblical justification. He's heard all about Mary. Mary, the one friend of Rebekah's he thinks is on his side. Also, my old crush. Who's sitting right next to us.
I wonder how good my reflexes still are, wonder if I can even *see* enough to get out of this.
And then, with his rabid features closing in on mine to the point that I can almost discern them, I realize that he wants not just to hurt me, but to *punish* me. To fuck me hard and thoroughly and prove to me what a girl needs, so glad to have found a reason that allows him to hate me.
He wants to *rape* me. I would say it's impossible, even his thinking it; I'm surrounded by friends. But no one's moving, no one's even saying anything. People who I would give my life for are silent as the dead. It's me versus him.
Only then, of course, Romie's there.
She's come up gently behind him, almost invisible to me in my handicapped state, and wrapped her arms around his neck. She speaks to him in a friendly tone, a calming voice, telling him to think of her arms as a hug. They're perfectly positioned so as to send him into unconsciousness, or, if necessary, break his neck. Underweighs me by 10 pounds, and she'll kill him twice as easily if he forces her to. His bluff is called; he's afraid of fighting her. Escapes easily, because she wants him to leave with his pride intact. Lets him feel he's won, at least in part. It's over, then. Over. And I'm furious with myself for having put her in that position.
We gather our things quickly--we can't stay, of course. Rees is telling me she's so proud of how unafraid I was, staring him down, Kim Faith doesn't believe anything happened, Rebekah's crying and apologizing, Mary's feeling guilty. I wonder why no one thanks Romie. Everyone else is simply shocked, I suppose. Rebekah delays us, and I try to calm her as I eye her address book and wonder if I need to steal it. I could always return it later. It has wandered about this party, a neon presence that has painted yellow arrows on our foreheads that lead to all our homes, Rebekah hawking it even as we're leaving. Was he drunk enough not to have noticed, I wonder?
We're in the car, at last, then gone. Mary and Patrick sit dumbly in the back, and Romie drives and somehow manages to be charming, even entertaining, as we drive the hour and a half it takes to get home. I don't really notice the time. I'm quite fine, really. But I do check the mirrors to make sure we're not being followed. I've always valued my paranoia. Adrenaline is useful.
When we're in the house, I check all the doors carefully, then go into yoga. I do positions I used to tease Amanda about, not understanding whatever joy she gained by standing toe to nose eyes closed; now I bend and hold with toes pointing to the sky, fall and twist my back like a leaf in the wind, hold until I can feel my muscles buckling. Positions that don't even exist find their way in, and Romie eventually comes in to sit near me, sentry and support in one. I finally sit, or collapse, and we talk. Mostly, I say, Did I do wrong?
I can't bear to get into bed—it frightens me. I think I somehow blame Patrick for it. But she won't sleep until I do, and I'm too weak to argue. I climb in, and she wraps her arms around me, and I crash into the unconscious. The next morning, I find he's left us for another bed. He probably just needed more room, or perhaps drank too much to feel comfortable with two girls wrapped tightly around him. But I still feel partly abandoned, or angry with myself for being angry at him, however momentarily. I wonder if this is permanent.
It's two days later, and I'm only astonished with the reactions of my other 'friends'. They've said, it was so silly, why did you get so upset over his bluster? They've talked about movies and weekend plans and their *hair*, for God's sake, forgetting how Rees was literally shaking and how Bobby threatened to break Romie's body. It's easier that way. I understand why they want to pretend it didn't happen--it would be such an inconvenience. But I still can't get Rebekah's voice out of my head that declared us both 'silly', or Kim Faith's nonsensical prattling. It's such a lack of respect for me; such a disbelief of—everything—that I can't even begin to understand.
I'm disgusted, and more than that, insulted. And saddened. In spite of Romie's protestations, I can't really believe that I have the friends I thought I had. Those that left in the caravan I have faith in. The rest—I don't entirely know if I trust them any more.
And I don't *ever* want to be that vulnerable again.
I hear him partly in my dreams, mocking us in our nest of blankets, curled up around one another. I'm not afraid of his words. I'm too warm, cuddled up with Patrick and Romie on Rebekah's floor at her goodbye party, too buzzed to care about some idiot sounding off. It's a moot point, and while he's annoying, it's not enough to get me, or anyone else, riled up. I fall back into my dreams, the presence of my friends enveloping me in the dark. Yes, far too comfortable to care about the village idiot.
Until he starts kicking me.
"Please stop that."
I sit up in my eyeless haze, having long taken out my contacts, to see a large figure in front of me barking drunken phrases. Although my phrase is kind, the voice is firm and barely held back from irritated. Too late, I realize that to him, I'm some cute bitch on an evening when he wants to mess with someone. To me, he's a dark blur in a darker room, which is beginning to unnerve me as I stare up at his hulking form. He's looking down at me with, I expect, incredulity, that some idiot 130 pound girl would speak that command. I can't quite tell, of course; I'm heavily near sighted.
"What's this, little bitch? You got a FUCKING problem?"
"I would appreciate it if you would let us go back to sleep, and stop that." I sound more the house's host than what I am, half-awake and too aware of our positions. Too prideful not to speak with dignity, I know he's going to find a problem in what I say regardless. I'm kneeling now, and he's looming. If I stand, it will become a confrontation. And although I'm tough, and a green belt to boot, I don't know if I can take him. And I'm suddenly a bit terrified by that realization, because this shouldn't be a problem. And it's going to be.
The remarks go on a bit longer, and I realize that the black-brown room is still or in slow motion, and everyone's watching us. Not helpful. Kim and Mary panic on the sofa. He glances at Mary with a look that says, what a fucking bitch; I look at her and try to communicate, don't look, go get help. The two girls sit like rocks, giggling hysterically, utterly terrified.
"Why don't you *fucking* lie down and go back to sleep, huh? I'll leave you alone, then, just fucking *lie* down and it's not an issue, okay?"
Sure. And then you'll be certain you *can* hurt me and I'll be in a defenseless position. Not likely. He says it, words rolling over one another, again and again, not waiting for words from me. I'm not even sure he knows what he's saying.
"I don't feel like going back to sleep any more, actually. But thank you."
His body language suddenly changes, this much I can tell. He leans in, all drunk smell and sweaty anger.
"What's your name? Who the fuck are you? Tell me your name!" He says it desperately, half afraid, half infuriated. It would be childish to refuse. I groan inwardly; I'm stuck in a comic-book caper and unfortunately my real name isn't Clark Kent. I'm curious, really. Why does he need to know? I realize, suddenly, that this is Bobby, of course. This is Rebekah's off again, on again boyfriend. He wants to know my position; maybe wants to know how much he can get away with.
I answer honestly, simply, syllables slipping past my lips with a gentility I'm not certain I knew I was capable of before.
"You, I know who you are. I've heard about you! I know what you are!" He mumbles it at first, but it grows louder until at the end he's almost in stage whisper. He backs off in disgust, then leans back over again, and I know that things are much, much worse. It's impossible to know how I understand immediately what he means; maybe it's the way he says it, or the fact that I've feared this all along. I wonder how the hell Rebekah thought it was safe to announce my life to such a bigoted asshole. You see, I realize he knows I'm bi in a town in deep Texas where prejudice is rewarded with sugared praise and biblical justification. He's heard all about Mary. Mary, the one friend of Rebekah's he thinks is on his side. Also, my old crush. Who's sitting right next to us.
I wonder how good my reflexes still are, wonder if I can even *see* enough to get out of this.
And then, with his rabid features closing in on mine to the point that I can almost discern them, I realize that he wants not just to hurt me, but to *punish* me. To fuck me hard and thoroughly and prove to me what a girl needs, so glad to have found a reason that allows him to hate me.
He wants to *rape* me. I would say it's impossible, even his thinking it; I'm surrounded by friends. But no one's moving, no one's even saying anything. People who I would give my life for are silent as the dead. It's me versus him.
Only then, of course, Romie's there.
She's come up gently behind him, almost invisible to me in my handicapped state, and wrapped her arms around his neck. She speaks to him in a friendly tone, a calming voice, telling him to think of her arms as a hug. They're perfectly positioned so as to send him into unconsciousness, or, if necessary, break his neck. Underweighs me by 10 pounds, and she'll kill him twice as easily if he forces her to. His bluff is called; he's afraid of fighting her. Escapes easily, because she wants him to leave with his pride intact. Lets him feel he's won, at least in part. It's over, then. Over. And I'm furious with myself for having put her in that position.
We gather our things quickly--we can't stay, of course. Rees is telling me she's so proud of how unafraid I was, staring him down, Kim Faith doesn't believe anything happened, Rebekah's crying and apologizing, Mary's feeling guilty. I wonder why no one thanks Romie. Everyone else is simply shocked, I suppose. Rebekah delays us, and I try to calm her as I eye her address book and wonder if I need to steal it. I could always return it later. It has wandered about this party, a neon presence that has painted yellow arrows on our foreheads that lead to all our homes, Rebekah hawking it even as we're leaving. Was he drunk enough not to have noticed, I wonder?
We're in the car, at last, then gone. Mary and Patrick sit dumbly in the back, and Romie drives and somehow manages to be charming, even entertaining, as we drive the hour and a half it takes to get home. I don't really notice the time. I'm quite fine, really. But I do check the mirrors to make sure we're not being followed. I've always valued my paranoia. Adrenaline is useful.
When we're in the house, I check all the doors carefully, then go into yoga. I do positions I used to tease Amanda about, not understanding whatever joy she gained by standing toe to nose eyes closed; now I bend and hold with toes pointing to the sky, fall and twist my back like a leaf in the wind, hold until I can feel my muscles buckling. Positions that don't even exist find their way in, and Romie eventually comes in to sit near me, sentry and support in one. I finally sit, or collapse, and we talk. Mostly, I say, Did I do wrong?
I can't bear to get into bed—it frightens me. I think I somehow blame Patrick for it. But she won't sleep until I do, and I'm too weak to argue. I climb in, and she wraps her arms around me, and I crash into the unconscious. The next morning, I find he's left us for another bed. He probably just needed more room, or perhaps drank too much to feel comfortable with two girls wrapped tightly around him. But I still feel partly abandoned, or angry with myself for being angry at him, however momentarily. I wonder if this is permanent.
It's two days later, and I'm only astonished with the reactions of my other 'friends'. They've said, it was so silly, why did you get so upset over his bluster? They've talked about movies and weekend plans and their *hair*, for God's sake, forgetting how Rees was literally shaking and how Bobby threatened to break Romie's body. It's easier that way. I understand why they want to pretend it didn't happen--it would be such an inconvenience. But I still can't get Rebekah's voice out of my head that declared us both 'silly', or Kim Faith's nonsensical prattling. It's such a lack of respect for me; such a disbelief of—everything—that I can't even begin to understand.
I'm disgusted, and more than that, insulted. And saddened. In spite of Romie's protestations, I can't really believe that I have the friends I thought I had. Those that left in the caravan I have faith in. The rest—I don't entirely know if I trust them any more.
And I don't *ever* want to be that vulnerable again.
