epilogue

becoming i   EPILOGUE

I know why my last lover raped me. At least I pre­tend I know why.

You see, I left a man who was adopt­ed. The great­est pain he ever felt and knew in life was this mo­ment.

Even if he did not reg­is­ter this, the emo­tion­al brain still takes note. Be­ing aban­doned was not some­thing he was com­fort­able with.

When I left I em­braced a mo­ment of true bliss with an­oth­er artist. One that wasn’t ded­i­cat­ed to more than get­ting to wit­ness an­oth­er soul’s ex­is­tence.

I still re­mem­ber his hands grab­bing mine, pulling them straight into his chest upon his heart and my whis­pers of “will I re­gret this to­mor­row?”

He let me make the de­ci­sion of whether we would have sex. And I did not. I spent that night only bask­ing in the joy of lay­ing next to a man who didn’t force me. The day I left his tem­po­rary home was the day I went back to my re­al­i­ty.

The next day was Sep­tem­ber 4 and the phone call from my pre­vi­ous lover came in Sep­tem­ber 5. You al­ready know the sto­ry from there.

What I be­gan to un­der­stand is that this man in the clutch­es of los­ing the per­son he had, bar­ing wit­ness to her leav­ing, and in un­der­stand­ing of my deep­est pain liv­ing through his deep­est pain he made me re­live mine. He raped me.

For him it was a child­ish out­lash he couldn’t con­trol while un­der the in­flu­ence of al­co­hol. He knew he wouldn’t have to re­mem­ber the act. And nor did he even reg­is­ter what he was tru­ly do­ing. It was venge­ful. It was mis­guid­ed.

Even my own un­der­stand­ing guid­ed by my ther­a­pist to be­liev­ing he was ca­pa­ble of this act pro­vid­ed an­oth­er cir­cum­stance that brought this once again into my life. The pow­er of what we be­lieve of peo­ple has a larg­er res­o­nance than one can un­der­stand. Sim­ply be­liev­ing some­one can do such a thing al­ready puts them in the po­si­tion to do so.

Through all of this I saw his hu­man­i­ty. For me, I sym­pa­thize with my rapist. Con­tin­u­ing to lay in his bed. Striv­ing every­day to fight this bat­tle with al­co­hol for him. It was the al­co­hol I blamed. Not his char­ac­ter. Not his de­ci­sions. Un­til I broke.

 
 

—al­ley schef­f­ki

Flom­mist Al­ley Schef­f­ki is 22 years young, ‘I am the blue rose. Dies ist ein wun­sch für frei­heit.’ Copy­right © 2017 Al­ley Schef­f­ki.
 
 

· · · back to  becoming i  CHAPTER 7

 
start over     al­ley scheffki’s  be­com­ing i  CHAP­TER ONE

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