Not My Fault

He left a note on my desk. It read, “Oh my goodness, you are so beautiful. I can’t stop looking at you.” Two weeks later, he baked me a birthday cake. It was my favorite. Yellow cake with chocolate icing and two perfect candles on top. Lights turned out, and he told me to make a wish. I closed my eyes, and to myself, I spoke, “Lord let this be real.” And I blew out the candles.
Maybe if I had not been so flattered. Maybe if I had smiled a little less and been a little less vulnerable. Maybe I was an easy target. But I knew. There was a layer of something between my skin and his words that tried to get my attention. I let my want to believe him, force me to ignore that something.
I woke up on his hardwood floors. On my stomach. Face down. Arms tucked under my body. Pants off. I did not remember. I blamed myself. If I had not had that extra drink, maybe I would not have been here. I was attracted to him. He was such a good kisser. The week before, I had let things go further. The week before, I had let his hands find their ways underneath my layer of defense and let his mouth search my breasts. But I stopped him. That was my limit. Maybe I led him on. That was last week. He touched me and I liked it. Maybe I gave in.
It had been four years since I had given myself to anyone. He knew this. We discussed this. I didn’t want to be with another man unless I was in love with him. Maybe a few weeks, a few dates, and a birthday cake meant love to him. Maybe that extra drink meant to him that I was giving up my guard. I didn’t remember.
I woke up on his hardwood floors. On my stomach. Face down. Arms tucked under my body. Pants off. I did not remember. I blamed myself.
It wasn’t until a week later while lying in my bed, sick, that I remembered what happened. It wasn’t until a week later of being kind to him because I thought that I was just drunk and lost my inhibitions. It wasn’t until a week later after I had taken the morning after pill because he couldn’t have another kid, and he told me he would kill himself if I were pregnant. It wasn’t until a week later after I woke up on his hardwood floors. On my stomach. Face down. Arms tucked under my body. Pants off. Him in a panic about a condom breaking that I did not remember him putting on. Pants off that I did not remember taking off. Thoughts of the four loaded guns in his apartment. The one on his credenza. The three on top of his book shelf. That I cried as he guilted me into taking the morning after pill because I was worried about him taking his life.
He told me that I used him for sex and then dumped him. Did he believe this, or was this just the lie that he told himself to ease his evil soul of his sin.
On his last day before he left the job. In the last 5 minutes of work. He walked up to me. Hand extended and said to me, “Well, it’s been real.” All day, I had planned what I would say to him now that I did not have to feel afraid anymore. How I would be clear on what a self-entitled, selfish, disgusting asshole he was. Instead, I looked him in his eyes and just said, “bye,” then turned around to finish what I was working on. Back turned to him, I heard him say, “Oh you’re not going to shake my hand.” I turned only partially around and with a disgusted huff of laugh, simply said to him, “No.” He walked off with an angry, “Fine then!” It was not a lot, but to me, it gave me my power back. It was the no that I did not get the opportunity to say before he took what he wanted from me. It was not a lot, but in a way, it was my redemption.