It’s been one week and three days since he raped me. I remember every second of it. I can still feel every second of it. I can recall the helpless feeling of leaving the party that I didn’t even want to go to in the first place, worried that everyone could see it on my face. Scared that they could tell what happened. I still remember calling my mom to come and get me but having to use my friends phone because I couldn’t find mine. I remember having to hold back so many tears and pretend like nothing was wrong when I was in the car. And how my mom kept asking me why I wanted to leave the party and me pretending to be just your average apathetic teenager. I remember getting home and not being able to talk because it finally hit me that I had to tell. My dad was asking why Ashley didn’t come back with me. I must have looked terrified because my mom was asking me what was wrong with me and what I was looking at. I wasn’t looking at anything, I was in shock. My mom kept saying things and I don’t know what she said. I wasn’t listening. Until she said it. She asked if I was raped. I heard that word and couldn’t help but cry. I remember my mom immediately drawing back her hand that was sitting on my shoulder. She didn’t want to touch me. She didn’t hug me, she moved away. I was dirty and pure at the same time. She didn’t want to contaminate the evidence. I remember the hospital and the rape kit and hating every second of it. I remember the police officer asking me his name and me not being able to say it so I wrote it down instead. I hate it. I hate this. I hate that I imagined my first time being penetrated in that way to be by my boyfriend in this beautiful, romantic way without pain, without tears, without that helpless feeling. I never imagined wanting to die. I never imagined having to question my virginity or its importance. It was important to me and now it’s something I don’t want to ever happen. I hate that my boyfriend knows but I’m not able to tell him myself. I hate that he keeps wanting to talk to me but I turn on do not disturb. I hate that he probably feels alone. I hate what I’m doing to him. I hate it all.