Paper Cranes: And the Multitude of Folds

3

I remember the first time I learned what sexual harassment was. Too young to understand but old enough to hear. My aunt was talking about her husband to my mom. Discussing some of the reasons why she had to leave him, why there was a need to leave an abusive, alcohol ridden, insecure relationship. I remember my cousin turning to seven-year-old me and saying, "Yeah, my dad isn't my dad anymore. He hurt my mom."

I remember thinking that that was what happened when love turned bad. When love turns bad you leave or kick the other person out. You push them out, put up the blocks that need to be there in order to make you go back to normal. Tearing up a ruined creation, the pieces of paper falling to the ground; never to be pieced together again.

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You have more to live for, you will tell yourself. You will be right, but it will take you a while to believe it. Hate is normal, you will say, but the hate will eat you alive.

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Brandon, he was the second fold in a story that I haven't really come to terms with yet. Even though this happened seven years ago, I haven't told it in the way it deserves. I have been smoothing this crease for a while, letting the paper crinkle a bit, wetting it slowly. This is me finishing it. Admitting to myself that this actually happened...To be honest, I had forgotten about this story. It wasn't until Zach said something to me recently that it all came rushing back.

Brandon was more than attractive. He had brown hair and an athletic build that was every girl on the varsity soccer team's dream. He was my dream. I had heard from some people that he was a total douche and that to get involved with him would only be bad news. I was young and wanted someone to like me, to get my mind off of Jack, even if that person was known to be a pig.

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When he asks you say no. When he reaches for the book, move away. Don't let him touch you. Know that a guy doesn't have the right to do that. You should know that, but you don't. You will.

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I didn't know then what I know now, that he would ask me to be in his group for a project in seventh grade, that our Chinese project wasn't what he wanted. He wanted something I did not want to give him.

I had grown up my entire life sheltered, my parents keeping most things from me. I found out about sex when I was thirteen. A year after this incident. I remember the heavy book in my hands, the people around me silent, the teacher exiting the room.

He was standing behind me, I felt his arm reach around my shoulders and, confused, I tensed. His arm reached over my shoulder, as if to turn the page, his fingers outspread, my words caught in my throat, I choked as his hand lunged for my chest.

I had always sat in the back of the classroom. I never sat in the back again.

I gargled, gasping for air, and jumped out of my chair, the book falling to the floor, sliding a few inches away from my desk. He looked confused, giving me a disgustedly inviting look. his eyebrows lifting, arms crossed over his chest, expecting me to go back to him, to let him finish what he had started.

I was more than slightly confused. I felt wrong. I knew it was wrong but I wanted to question myself. How do I know that this is wrong?

I am naive. Love is something that can't be mastered like a skill. You have to pet it, treat it well, feed it, give it attention and it will either bless or curse you. Love has never been good to me.

The fold was made. The string connects again, a crane folding into place, larger than some of the others. A crane closer to the light at the end of the tunnel.