Behind The Lens And Vogue

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The twelve years I spent with my mom were one of the best moments I had with her, no matter how much miserable our lives had been. All she ever wanted was to give her daughter the best life she could offer. Had it not been the terrible event that happened in the subway, I know she would just keep doing better and better, trying to provide for me. She was a hard worker, and all she needed was to make sure I had enough. She worked at a café in the neighborhood, and she took all the available shifts. I barely saw her home, but we'd always spend the weekends together. Whenever she wasn't available at night, Cynthia's mother would accommodate me for the night, and prepare me for school the next day. If not, I'd choose to go to Gran's place.

I knew she loved me, but sometimes she acted so distant, like she was afraid that deep down my heart I resented her. And that was not true. She was in constant fear that maybe I compared our lives with those of others, but she was wrong. Now that I remember how she used to smile at me on Sundays when we'd go to get ice cream and walk around the park, I feel like she deserved to live more. She actually did, but like I said, life was unfair. It was no doubt that I was almost like her. I loved to work. I was always having my fingers working on something. But that didn't mean I was a workaholic. I missed my mom, needless to say. My life after her death was always reckless, filled with insane rush decisions and very careless. Gran was strong enough to accommodate my behavior. Cynthia on the other hand was like the scolding mom I knew she'd become soon. She always gave me lectures on how I turned out to be unruly, that I didn't match the Naliyah she knew.

I had just turned 18, when I decided to go out and party at this local bar. I took shots like they'd wash away the memories of my mother's death repeatedly showing in my mind. The music at the bar got so loud, and I felt the sudden urge to go and show out my dance moves. I wasn't drunk, just tipsy. Almost immediately, I was grinding on this man, who was tall and handsome, he was giving me his attention, and I had noticed he had been looking at me from the moment I went into the bar. I was taken away by the alcohol, trying to enjoy the Saturday. It wasn't long, he dragged me to his room. The bar had a lodge in as well. I started being conscious of what was happening, maybe he'd rape me, maybe he'd kill me. Who knows, the world was a strange place, but I was too busy kissing him like my life depended on it. He threw me on the bed, and he began undressing me. I was politely telling him to stop, but he wouldn't listen. I didn't even know his name, but I really wanted him to stop.

"You, I'm telling you to stop!! I'll scream if you won't stop," I said, with my weak voice. Ever been in a dream, or a nightmare, and you're trying to shout or yell, and it feels like you're struggling with your voice, you're not shouting enough? That was how it was. He lifted my skirt, and I began fighting him. His eyes had become dark, like a monster in front of me.

"Shut up, you fool," he spat. My body was weak. I was slowly feeling dizzy. Had he spiked my shot after we danced? He had insisted we take a round of shots, and I agreed. I remembered the sharp pain, how I cried silently, because I felt helpless, and my energy had unforgettably left me. This wasn't how I had imagined my first time would be... definitely not in a room that reeked of dirty laundry and alcohol. The last thing I remembered was the pain, and the pig-like grunts the man was making as he satisfied his needs.

I woke up the next morning, my head was having a rock party concert of it's own in it. I looked around me. I was alone. My purse was on the floor, and I was naked. I tried to stand up, but I couldn't. My head hurt, my hands hurt, my whole body hurt. I looked closer where I had been lying. Blood. What happened? Then the memories came rushing in. Shots, dancing, other shots, man, room, fighting, arguments, the pain.

I was raped.

I had been raped.

I began crying, regretting everything that I had been doing, especially the past three years. I pushed myself to the floor, and crawled towards my purse. Luckily, my phone was there. Thirty six missed calls from Cynthia, fifteen from Mateo, and forty from Gran. I called Cynthia immediately, and she picked up after the second ring.