Summit Abyss

26 10 2011

I know I’ve talked about this on here. But I guess I’m trying to understand my disassociation more.  *trigger warning*

****

I first saw the mountain peak inside a men’s stall in a marble bathroom. There was to be a gala that night right outside the outer door.

 ***************************************************************************

Excuse me, excuse me ma’am?

I turned to my right on the corner of some Manhattan street on my way to the Natural History Museum and I saw before me stood a tall and broad shouldered shadow.

Yes, I answer.

Are you Italian? Asks the shadow with a heavy African French accent.

I’m sorry?

Your necklace is Italian, so I thought you might be.

Oh, no I’m not, but yes, the necklace, I got it in Venice.

Are you going this way? He gestures forward and finally the sun is not behind him so I can get a clearer look at his face. I nodded. And walked even with his pace. He mentioned his name, it started with an H, but sounded like a U, damn French.  A journalist based out of DC. He had an Umbrella in his hand, and he was excited to go and watch part of the world cup.

What are you doing?

Well, I was mostly just killing time, taking photos, walking around till later when I’m supposed to meet up with a graduate student who’s going to Columbia and offered to talk to me about the program. But that’s not for a couple of hours, why?

Would you like to come with me? I’m going to the Samsung store to watch the next match.

We were in front of the Natural History Museum, and I had planned on going in and wandering about. I stared at the ancient trees, the massive museum, and then back at the stranger. He seemed interesting, and he had offered for me to go with him to a public place.

My stomach growled and I was reminded of how broke I was. In hopes of perhaps a coffee, or cookie, I agreed to join him.  While walking the several blocks to our destination he spoke of how he frequently went back and forth between the city and the district. He was from Paris, and wanted me to go with him to the gala he must attend that night.

I looked down at my raggedy, stained converse, the only shoes I had with me in the city.

I don’t have anything to wear, I’m sorry. Plus, I’m here visiting a friend, so I wouldn’t be able to go even if I did have the proper attire.

Don’t you know that in New York you have to ready for anything?

************************************************************************

The match was over and my coffee cup was empty. No lunch though so my stomach still growled. I checked my phone for the time, and remarked how it had been nice to meet him and it was kind of him to buy me the coffee, but that I needed to be heading back toward Columbia, soon.

First, let me show you something.  He took my hand, and led me up an escalator, down a hallway, then there was a doorman, he showed a card, and we were let into some secret part of the building.

We walked down a spiral staircase with pink carpet and I started seeing Crystal chandeliers and my thought was, that this room was more expensive than my entire existence.

The View is very good. Said the stranger.

The closer I got to the window the more and more excited I was, but the height also made me nervous. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up as I looked out into the city. How beautiful it was! New York, in all her glory.

The man took my hand again, and said, I have one more thing to show you.

I really need to be going…

I promise it won’t take long.

We went around a wall he was leading me. My mind had gone blank, and though my breathing was even, I couldn’t feel my heart beat.

Why are we going into the bathroom? I asked.

He laughed.

*****

 There was nothing alarming about him. His features were striking I suppose, handsome, sure. I had met many a stranger, male, female, who had been friendly enough we held conversations, sometimes talked for hours. Nothing really in my past gave reason for the hair on the back of my neck to stand on end when I looked at this man. French Allgiers. He was French Allgeiers. Of course I’m just guessing. But his relations were definitely African.

 *****

None of the doors creaked. There was no one around. The walls were maroon and the stalls made up of a golden marble or alabaster.

Not even the stall doors creaked.

He took my backpack off, and the camera from around my neck. I looked up at him, What are we doing?

He kissed me.

I kissed him back.

But then as if I was a paperweight he swept me to the opposite wall. I gasped.  My breath increased. He kissed my neck.

I breathed in and I could feel the cold of mountain snow. My chest was even tightened from thin air. It was so beautiful, so high. The air was so thin, my vision was blurry, dizzy even here and there. I would start to spin.

Tears, dreadful stinging tears coming out of my eyes and I’m in the stall begging the stranger, please, please, no! Stop! Don’t do this, No!

ARRETTE!

He looked at me, his shirt open. Did I open it?  I don’t remember.  My dress was at my waist and he had been pawing at my bra.

His pants open, too.

His large long fingers cup my face and wipe my tears.  The way he crouches down is not like a predator, but more like when the hero kisses the heroine in all the John Hughes films.

I just want to see them, that is all! I have to see them, he says. It’s okay, nothing to cry about. He picked me up and put me on the Handicap rail.  The tears stopped. My breath quickened.

He grabbed my hands pinned me against the wall, then reached into his pants and made his desires clear. He pushed himself inside me and when I looked up, I saw myself though no mirror was on the ceiling, tears running down my face and great pain rushing through my body,

I turn my head, feeling a cold blast and through a snow flurry I see a distant object. The mountain peak again.  I stood there mid air, snow blowing all around me. And I was calm, as long as I kept my eyes on the summit -I was calm. The purples, the blues, the chilling air…I breathed in slowly, a thousand icicles stung my lungs, but it was okay. I was okay, there was no fear.

Something inside my body betrays my will and I’m launched back into the marble stall.

My nerve endings respond like needles on fire, stabbing me. But then, the cruelest thing of all, my body betrayed me and a flash of pleasure came over me.  Not even a millisecond. But my back arched, my toes curled and maybe even a hint of a moan came forth from my lips. There was something that was still inside of me telling me that I had to be sure to prove that I was good.

The same instant my heart leapt into my throat and I was able to push, with my feet. I pushed him off.

No more, s’il tous plait!!

No more.

I choke back tears.

Yes, that is good for now. Says the shadow.  We shall finish later.

A deep pain is inside of me, worse than my first time. I grab some toilet paper and wipe. Blood, brightest of bright reds, blood.  I quickly dress, and say that I must leave.

He takes my hand again, and gives me directions on the fastest way back.

I can’t remember if I looked him in the eye, hugged him, or if we said good-bye the French way.

.

As I turned on my heels and started to walk away I heard him say…You were so, good.

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4 responses

30 10 2011
Allison

That was brave of you to write

29 10 2011
Geo

I hope – that you will find Multiple Ways – to “heal” – that which you can heal. No doubt your counselor will do all that s/he can to help you. I would guess – that others – with similar or faintly similar experiences – who you can relate to – whether online, or in person – may be able to help you feel more “normal” and “real”.

Any – other sources of support as well as ways – that you can – “exhale” – be they martial arts, aerobic exercise, art related work/play or whatever – as well as expressing yourself as you have done here – do what you can do – as I know you will do.

Hearing your words – helps me appreciate that despite – the “bad stuff” I may feel about growing up, I didn’t face abuse as a child or later on as an adult – and that I don’t have either – “monuments” – such as catcalls, leers etc. – which could remind me of things in my past nor the basic triggering of (multiple) rapes and other horrible experiences to face.

Good Luck!

30 10 2011
amiablenotagreeable

Also this happened after I was raped by my husband. (which I was in denial about and had suppressed very deep) And because of that made me more susceptible, or so says my counselor. Some days I still have trouble accepting what happened to me in both instances. And I try to convince myself that I wasn’t raped. That, because knife wasn’t pulled on me, or the words “I’ll kill you” were never uttered it some how isn’t rape. That because something like this has never been of fucking Law and Order SVU it some how isn’t rape.

And that’s just not the case.

28 10 2011
Geo

Your story to me is sad in a particular way. Any rape is a horrible, degrading experience particularly in what piece of the survivor it takes out of her/him – the deep-seated effect that likely won’t go away.

Your story saddens me further in that I would imagine that IF others in the general public were to read your words, there likely could be a big split between those who felt your assault (were affected by it) and those who would have blamed you – accusing you of being complicit in your own assault.

It is sad for me when we don’t, can’t or won’t hear the hurt and recognize the choices that the assailant has made in being an assailant.

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