Isabella Carlson

PCA 203 - Storycraft

Professor Bryan Furuness

7 April 2021

It Was Not Worth It

I remember the first time I stepped foot in his house. It was a beautiful house, with three

finished floors and a well-kept yard. When you walked in through the door attached to the

garage, you were led into a hallway. Walking down the hall, first was the laundry room, the

following was the bathroom, which both were on the left-hand side of the hall. When you

reached the end of the hallway, there was an office and the front door to your right. When you

looked straight forward, you saw a front room with stairs leading to the second floor.

I remember walking up the stairs, he was in front of me leading the way. When we

reached the top of the stairs, he turned slightly to the left where a closed-door stood. As he

opened the door, a teenage boy’s room lay, there was an unmade bed with clothes all over the

floor. It smelt of a mix of sweat, cologne, and musk. To this day it is such a distinct smell, the

most recent time I experienced the smell was when I walked into a Nordstrom. There were two

windows on the back wall that opened up to see the front yard. The light was shining through the

windows, which made the room more open.

I remember sitting on the edge of the bed. He was standing off to the side in front of me.

He was wearing a gray t-shirt with peach-colored shorts. He took a step towards me after he had

picked up his room a little bit. He was standing right in front of me, his eyes were gazing into

mine, then he began to lean closer. His lips touch mine, but these lips did not belong to me. They
belonged to someone else. He began to push against my body until I had no choice but to lean

back onto the bed. His body followed mine, he was on top of me, but I could feel that his weight

wasn't. He had his hands on either side of my head, which he was using to hold himself over top

of me. After about a minute of kissing, he moved my body so that we were both now laying

correctly on the bed. Our heads were on the pillows and our legs were intertangled together

towards the bottom half of the bed.

The next thing I remember was the pain. He was laying underneath me. We were both

naked, except he still had his shirt on. He was pushing down on my hips, I could feel him rising

inside of me. I was in pain, it was a sharp, body-numbing pain. I knew he wasn’t going to stop

until he got what he wanted.

I remember saying, “it hurts”. His reply was “it’s ok baby girl”.

I remember saying, “please stop”. His response was, “it’s okay I’m almost all the way

in”.

The one thing I do not remember saying was, “no.” It's the one word that did not leave

my mouth that day. For the longest time, I blamed myself. It was my fault because I didn't say

that one, simple, two-letter word. I think back to this moment, the incident. Why don’t I refer to

it as rape? Well, it took me a long time after to realize what had happened to me. It took me even

longer to refer to is “rape”.

As a female, rape and sexual abuse are things you do not worry about until it happens to

you. As a child, my parents never educated me on the term. When it happened to me, I didn’t

know how to explain what had just happened or even what to call the incident. I didn’t know

how to explain the pain, physical and mental, that I endured. When a man rapes a woman, they

use them just like they would a toy. I am going to focus on the word ‘using’, after you have been
raped, your body does not feel like it belongs to you anymore. That day, he took all of me. After

that day, I felt exposed around him even when I was fully clothed. I knew he had touched every

part of me and when I caught him staring at me, I knew he saw right through my clothes. He

owned my body, he had touched every inch.

I remember reading a quote on Pinterest that read, “Every 7 years, the cells in your entire

body will be destroyed and replaced with new cells. One day I will have a body you will have

never touched.” This statement is medically correct, but unfortunately, the brain does not work

in the same way. The brain will never let go of what happened. Traumatic events never leave the

memory because of the impact that memory leaves. Memories, especially traumatic ones, will

live forever in your head.

I remember him telling me he loved me and how he would never hurt me. Looking back

now, I feel bad for my old self. I feel sad because I thought he was being honest. In the end, it

was all a big fat joke to him. The worst part about him saying these things is I believed him, I

thought he cared about me. In the end, it was all a show. He was acting the whole time, he never

meant a single word. The saddest part is that I believed every, single, word.

I remember becoming very sad.

I remember hating myself so much.

I remember wanting it all to end.

I remember seeing my wrists bleed.

I remember the pain. All of it. After self-harming, I would stand in the shower the day

after and the hot water would sting against the cuts. It would sting in such a way that it felt like

hot water was rushing against a sunburn. The pain felt suitable like I deserved to feel it. A

common reason people get tattoos is that they enjoy the pain. Self-harm is the same thing, people
do it because they enjoy the pain. Pain is such a beautiful thing, whether it feels good, or

necessary, or not. Pain is a feeling every single person will experience. Pain can be caused by

others or done to yourself. The worst part about the pain caused by others is that you let them

hurt you. You became vulnerable and let them in. Others can only hurt you if you give them the

power to hurt you. Pain is beautiful, but can also be very dangerous.

I remember becoming sad, actually, I became more than just sad. I was clinically

depressed. I was suicidal. The serotonin in my brain was disappearing quicker than a magician

can make a human disappear. Along with taking every part of my body, he had complete and

utter control over my brain. I bet you are wondering a few things, “How is this possible?” Two,

“Why did you allow him to do that?” And three, “What led to this?” I can not completely answer

these questions. One thing I do know is when someone hurts you and they are also so good at

manipulating your brain into thinking what they want, you feel not in control of your life. Excuse

my language, but the simple way to put it is: he mind fucked me. It can be proven that he caused

my depression, anxiety, and PTSD. He is the one to blame for my mental downfall.

I remember driving to his house. It was a day in late May, it was dark outside and a

thunderstorm was brewing. The temperature was around 50 degrees Fahrenheit and it was warm,

but with a little wind. The air smelt like a tornado was coming along with the thunderstorm. The

drive to his house took about thirteen minutes from my home. I had stopped at the local post

office on my way over. I dropped about 10 addressed envelopes into the blue mailbox slot on the

side of the building. When I arrived right outside his neighborhood, I turned the wheel so the car

turned left. I drove past the sign labeled, “Legend Trails”, the name of the private subdivision he

lived in. The houses were as big as I remember, they each had many trees covering the property.

The houses had no longer been lit because it was so late at night. I was nervous staring into the
dark, my heart was beating out of my chest. I already knew I was going to go through with my

plan. I also knew it needed to be executed properly because then I would finally be satisfied.

I remember pulling up next to the curb next to his house. I opened the car door, grabbing

the knife that I had placed in the center console before leaving my house. I stepped out of the

car, making sure to not slam the door shut behind me. I didn’t want to wake anyone, that would

be the worst-case scenario. I was holding the knife in my right hand. I began to walk up to his

driveway until I reached the house. I was standing in front of two white garage doors. I looked

down at my hands, one carrying the knife, my eyes moved down to look at my wrists. My right

hand lifted the knife and connected the blade with the existing marks that lined my arm. I was

shaking out of nervousness. I didn’t know why I was so anxious, maybe because I have been

waiting for this moment.

I remember pushing the knife inward to pierce the skin. The blood began pouring out of

the cut and ran down the arm. I looked up at the white door and lifted my wrist and placed it

against the cold metal. The red painted the door, it stood out like a grape in a bowl of blueberries.

I began to smear the blood onto the canvas, in an organized and beautiful way. The pain felt like

freedom, freedom from him. The wall began to form into what it was always meant to be. The

individual lines began to form into letters, then turned into a sentence. My wrist left the door

after adding a dot for the period.

I remember taking a step back to admire the work I had just completed. I looked at the

wall that spelled out, “You did this to me.” in red blood. I always admired art and enjoyed

painting. When I was looking at the wall, I became very proud because my last piece of art was

beautiful. I was proud of myself for the first time in a while. My life felt like it had a purpose,

this was my purpose. I pulled my phone out of my pocket with my hands still shaking. I took a
photo of the wall, then slid my phone back into my pocket. I took two more steps back until I

was in the middle of the driveway. In a quick, swift motion I lifted my right arm and plunged the

knife into my upper chest, where my broken heart lay. The pain was quick. The last thing I saw

was the red letters getting fuzzy. Then all of a sudden, my life was gone as quickly as it had

begun.