It started February 13, 1998. I was a freshman in high school. He was a junior. You have to understand that I was still a baby. I had only been fifteen for three months.

This is the beginning. We met on October 31, 1998; introduced by a friend of a friend that I was not supposed to be seeing. My girlfriend was interested in the boy I was banned from and his friend was interested in me. Innocence and mistrust.

Three months into our relationship, February 13, 1998, he asked me if I would let him put himself inside me. I never wanted it. I never said yes, but I never said no. There was no struggle. Stupid girl!!! I could have hit him, screamed, yelled, fought, at least moved. But I did nothing. I was terrified and I did only what I was told. To this day I do not know why. It didn’t hurt it really didn’t feel like anything. He kissed me, said thanks, and left. He said he loved me. He said I made him feel good. He needed me. He would die without me. If I left him, he would kill himself and it would be my fault. His blood would be on my hands. I was a slut, I was his slut. He used me as many times a day as he wished. While babysitting, while at the movies, anytime he wanted me, he took me.

I hated the guilt. That guilt had overcome me time and time and time again. The guilt still overcomes me. There are only a few times I really remember him using me. I remember the first time. I remember the green condom he used; the nasty ring in his wallet from carrying it so long. I remember the green pieces of rubber covered in blood that I had to pull out after he left.

After the first time, I don’t remember feeling emotion. I remember being sodomized. I remember the baby was in the high chair, he used lotion – white bottle with light blue words. I don’t remember crying. I remember being in the little girls room. We were on her bed and I just laid there for hours – it seemed like days. I felt like I could not walk. I was so sore and swollen. He laughed. He said he was so good. He said it looked like I had been riding a horse for days. I remember crying. I hurt. I remember him losing his erection but still pushing. He pushed and pushed and pushed. I had bruises where his pelvis had slammed into mine. I would lie and tell him that I had climaxed so he would stop. He would ask me how many times I climaxed and at one point I remember telling him fifty times plus. He thought he was good. I never fought. I just laid there and thought of the beach. That time, in the little girl’s bed, I went to the beach. I closed my eyes and everything went black and I went to the ocean. That is it.

Two years of feeling nothing. Two years of make believe places and princess dreams. I don't know how many times I was raped. Now its five years later. Two years of therapy and a lifetime of guilt. I am almost ok. The hardest thing was seeing him again. He walked into the bank and with one look he brought everything up from the past – everything I had worked so hard to bury. A few weeks of that and I was back in therapy again. This time was different though. I was different. I am no longer the victim.

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