Kylah Benes-Trapp/Ania Boniecka

My Boyfriend Sexually Assaulted Me With His Best Friend


Every time I close my eyes, I see that damn clock, the numbers changing so slowly that five minutes feels like a lifetime.

Kylah Benes-Trapp

I can still see it all: the maroon blanket, the white walls, the posters, the window.

The window is so close I could touch it, but it might as well be miles away.

I can smell the sweat, the beer, their excitement. I feel the breath on my face and neck, the hands around my wrists like handcuffs and their bodies on top of mine — pushing me down, holding me down.

I can't breathe from the weight, and all I want to do is sink into the mattress and disappear, but they won't let me.

I hear their grunts and moans. I feel them invading every inch of my body, taking turns, breaking me a little more with every thrust.

They are my boyfriend and his best friend: two people who should protect me, not hurt me, not refuse to listen to my words.

I want to float away, to anywhere other than this room, but I can't. I just stare at the red numbers on the clock and pray to die.

They've both violated me in every way possible.

They've both violated me in every way possible.

Maybe they'll finally leave and I can just float away. I hear them talking, they aren't ready for the fun to be over.

I want to be numb, not feel anything, but that's not possible. I feel every breath, every touch, every violation. How can a person feel this much pain and still live?

They've used beer bottles just because they can. I feel the sweat dripping onto my face and body.

They hold me down, but why? There's nowhere to go. Even if I screamed, nobody downstairs would hear me over the music, and they would just hurt me worse.

Twenty more minutes gone.

Why can't I go numb? They are encouraging each other to hurt me, to break, to destroy me. I can't look away from the numbers. I can't close my eyes, I just watch the numbers slowly change.

My boyfriend kisses me and thanks me for “the great time.”

I hear them getting dressed, but I don't look away from the clock. The door closes and it's quiet, but still I continue to stare at the numbers. I can feel the blood pooling underneath me.

I'm still here. I'm still alive.

Who knew an entire lifetime could fit into two-and-a-half hours of red numbers?

Kylah Benes-Trapp

I need to get up, get dressed, leave. Just the feel of my clothes on my skin is hell, but I have to get out of here.

How does nobody see me as I stumble down the stairs and out the door? Is this all just a nightmare? No, it hurts too much to not be real.

I just need to get home.

I scrub until the water is freezing, my skin is red and swollen and there is no more soap, but I still feel them. It feels like I'll never be clean again.

I sneak down the hall and crawl into my bed. I want to cry, but there are no tears. Now I'm numb, there is nothing.

Maybe if I sleep, it will go away.

I try to sleep, but it won't come. All I can do is stare at the ceiling and feel nothing.

Where do I go from here? How do I move on? If I just keep telling myself it was all a dream then I can pretend it never happened.

Sadly, I can't convince myself of that forever. Eventually it will be up to me and I must deal with it. I must confront it and admit the truth.

I was raped. I was violated in unspeakable ways, but that does not define me.

I am not my rape, and I am not useless.

I am a survivor, and I will not let what happened consume me.

I refuse to allow them to take anything else from me. I will have the life I deserve.