My Best Friend Was Raped

It was July of 2016. We were laying in a small canvas tent with our matching pillowcases we had tie-dyed and braided hair. She was snoring softly, I always made fun of her for that. The top of our tent was plastic so I was able to watch the stars. I always had trouble falling asleep, but I enjoyed listening to the mountain sounds. I turned towards her and watched her sleep for a moment. She went still, her snoring stopped. I thought maybe she was waking up. Instead, she let out the shrillest scream I have ever heard.

"Ashley, Ashley, wake up!"

I shook her body until I had her tear-filled, sleepy eyes looking rightinto mine.

"What's wrong?"

"Its nothing, just another bad dream, it's nothing." But her hands were shaking and tears were falling down her face.

I remember when the nightmares first started. She told me that she got them most nights and always told me that she never remembered what they were about, but tonight, I know that she's not telling me the truth.

"Ashley, please," I whispered.

She took a deep breath, and looked right at me, "Every night, I get raped over and over and over again."

I stopped breathing, I could've sworn the crickets stopped chirping, the trees stopped rustling, my whole world stopped.

"Ash, what do you mean, again?"

She proceeded to tell me about a cold January night almost seven months before. I remember this night. It was one of those times when all the kids in the neighborhood got together and played winter hide and seek.

Ashley and I went everywhere together. We had all of our classes together, we worked together, I was at her house more than I was at my own. We were closer than sisters. But that night, I left her alone—alone with a boy I didn't know well or like in general, but she did. So she went alone.

Does that mean this was all my fault? Does this mean I could've stopped it if I was there? Was I the one to blame?

She goes on to tell me about a house that was still being constructed, that it was cold and dark and there were nails all over the floor.

"That's where he wanted to hide," she said.

She tells me that he kissed her. She tells me that she liked it. She tells me she kissed him back. Then she tells me that he started shoving his hands down her pants.

"I said no, Tabby, I swear I did. I said no."

She explains to me what it was like being stripped down in a cold unfamiliar place with a boy inside of her while she lay there waiting for it all to be over.

"I can't tell you what it felt like after, or what it feels like even now. It feels like I don't own my body—like it isn't even mine anymore."

She said that it was all her fault, that because she kissed him back, she encouraged him. She was the one to blame. She started spewing out what-ifs:

What if I never kissed him back?

What if I pushed him away?

What if he didn't hear me say no?

What if I led him on?

A few weeks after telling me her story, she decided that she wanted to speak up, and I supported her 100%. The case went to court. I remember sitting there while they questioned her.

One of the questions took me off guard,

"What were you wearing?"

She looked confused like she was trying to figure out why that mattered.

"I think I was wearing black leggings and a hoodie," she answered.

Her rapist was considered not guilty.

"If she hadn't been wearing tight clothes, he would have been able to control himself."

My best friend is still affected every day from that one night. It's been almost two years.

She still blames herself. Sometimes I blame myself, too. But it wasn't her fault. It wasn't mine. It wasn't anyone's. It was only his. It doesn't matter what she was wearing. It doesn't matter if she kissed him back, or even if she never said no. She didn't want him there, and he squirmed inside of her anyway. He took her innocence and the rest of her life.

So to anyone that has been abused, assaulted, or attacked: speak up, speak out. Tell your story. Let's change the way these situations are handled. Find your voice, own your life, own your body. Together we can end up on top.