It was only across the street. And I only wanted cigarettes. It�s just I think God put me on call waiting and forgot to click back over.

In a couple minutes you are probably going to be asking yourself, why didn�t I cry for help? Why didn�t I just run away when I had the chance? Well, as soon as you have a 7 inch blade inches from your throat, then we�ll talk. Until then, just listen:

It was an average day at school. Professor Abraham, with her red berry lipstick smeared all over her lips, her teeth, her cheeks, told us too much about her social life and nothing having anything to do with Political Science. Today�s emotional meltdown was something about men and their tendencies to talk like lions and act like pigs.

Don�t ask me.

After my poor excuse for a lecture, Big Billy Thomas, redhead, long freckled face, brushy red eyebrows and always looking like he just fell asleep in the sun for hours, walked me to my next class. Well, excuse me, let me rephrase that, stalked me to my next class. Big Billy was telling me all about how I should come to his place and watch movies with him this weekend.

�My parents are out of town,� Billy said. �They won�t be back for a long time.�

�You moved out like 6 months ago, Billy.� I said, �You live in the same apartment complex I do.�

And big, grinning Billy said, �Exactly.�

Those damn redheads are always so goddamn horny.

After lunch, instead of listening to Professor Williams rant about anything and everything going wrong in the world, I ditched class and went and saw that new movie Signs. Two excruciating hours later, I walked out of the theatres a firm believer that anything, even Professor Williams�s tangents, was better than what I had just wasted nine bucks on.

I caught a bus home. I sat near the back in a soiled seat that smelled of marijuana and peanut butter. Next to me sat a dirty old man with a head so bald and shiny that I could actually see my reflection on his skull. A few curly black pubic hairs sprouted from the sides of his head that frayed out like loose fabric on a wool shirt. Now that I think about it, that old geezer�s head looked exactly like a scrotum sack.

He caught my eye, licked his dry, cracked lips, and asked, �Would you like to sit on daddy�s lap?� The man spat when he talked and I could see that his two front teeth were missing and the teeth that still remained dangling from his bleeding gums were stained the color of dry grass in the summertime. I felt little droplets of spittle running down my face. I held myself from vomiting all over the walkway of the bus and said, �No, I�m fine right here, thank you,� and gazed out the window at the slight drizzle floating down from the gloomy clouds that suffocated the sky.

I woke up from my nap cold and shivering. From the windows of my empty apartment I could see that it was now evening for the sky had turned the color of smoker�s lungs. I wandered around looking for something to do. The thing is, Friday nights never really do it for me. I always feel so clich� going out on Fridays. So as usual, I got bored. And usually, when I get bored, I smoke. This was a habit that I was trying to break, so instead of getting cigarettes from across the street, I opted to do what normal people do when their lives get dull and uninteresting; watch television. After about five minutes, I refrained from my immediate urge of throwing the remote control across the room and as violently as one can, I pushed the off button.

I found my journal in the pile of junk lying on my bedroom floor. I started to write:

Sometimes life gets so bad that you waste hours and hours of it sitting on a couch in front of a square box, watching people with more problems than your own. Happiness derives from the latest episode of Everyone Loves Raymond, your daily dose of drama comes from a woman named Ricki Lake, and your closest friends are the cast of, you guessed it, the TV show Friends. I wouldn�t quite call this suicide, but I can�t quite call it living either.

And then I gave up. I put on my shoes and headed toward the convenient store across the street to buy some smokes. If I were going to kill myself slowly, I might as well do it consciously.

The exterior lights in my apartment complex were out due to some kind of electrical failure, so when I walked outside I could barely see my hand in front of my face. After minutes of feeling my way around, I reached the street corner. The crosswalk button left a slimy residue on my fingers as if I just sneezed violently on my own hand. Walking into CJ Liquor, I was immediately punched in the face with the smell of sweat and alcohol that made the tiny hairs in my nose quiver.

I walked out of the store, tore the shiny cellophane off my Marlboro Lights. I took out a cigarette and started to walk back towards my apartment when I felt something smooth and cold pressed against my back. A voice from behind me said, �Keep walking, honey.� And so I did, only the smooth, cold thing I told you about was now inching around my neck. Turns out it was a knife. And the man behind me, turns out he was going to take my virginity. And it turns out, I didn�t have a choice.

The man led me behind my apartment complex and into a small cove surrounded with bushes. He turned me around and I got my first look at the man who I will never forget. He was tall and bulky and dressed in all black and had a black ski mask pulled over his face. All that was visible were two dark eyes, a big grinning mouth, and a tongue licking wet lips.

The mouth told me to lie down, keep still, and told me if I tried anything smart, the knife was going to twist and turn its way down my throat. The ground was damp and I laid there in a mixture of dirt and mud. He forced my legs open and I laid there helpless, spread eagle with my skirt shoved over my stomach.

He put his hand on my panties and started to rub me saying,

You like that?

Huh, bitch?

You like that.

The man pulled my shirt up over my breasts and my nipples hardened cold and stale. He ran his tongue up and down my stomach, spit on my chest, and rubbed his saliva all over my breasts. His other hand held the knife inches from my face, close enough that I could see myself sobbing and crying in its reflection. I could see myself whimpering, Please.

Stop.

Help.

Please.

The knife cut the left side of my panties and then the right. Using his teeth, the man exposed me. His head bowed down and started to lick inside me. The hand with the knife was stretched above his head, pointing the jagged blade straight down over my stomach. If I even flexed, the blade would be resting comfortably between intestines and stomach fluid.

The man licked and jabbed his thick fingers, pushing harder and harder in an attempt to split me open. His efforts were successful as I felt a finger wedge itself inside me. The rough edges of his fingernails dug into my insides as he wiggled and twisted around. I felt another one slip in.

Two.

He was tearing me up and forcing me open. I could feel the blood dripping down the edge of my crotch and the tears drooling down my face.

Three.

I was clinching my teeth, clinching my eyes, clinching my fists. And he was clawing and scratching, spreading me wider and wider.

Four.

You like that, don�t you?

Come on.

Slut.

I love you.

I started crying hysterically and my whole body started to shake in convulsions. Up and down my body jerked, the knife pricking my stomach all the while, up and down. And I�m sobbing, Help.

Please.

God.

Stop.

The man sat up and the mouth told me to do the same. Both of us on our knees, the mouth told me to unbuckle his belt and pull down his pants. I could feel the blood streaming out of my stomach, oozing down my body, and dripping onto the dirt below. My hands were shaking as I struggled with the belt. The knife was dancing around my face, on my ears, over my breasts, my neck, my arms. I pulled his pants down over the huge bulge in his underwear. He told me to do it again, meaning his boxers. With both hands I tugged them down while he grabbed himself with his free hand. This isn�t so much teamwork as it is permanent psychological damage that leads to co-dependency and thoughts of suicide.

Stroking himself and grinning, he says, Look.

I�ve got a present for you.

He fisted my hair and yanked my head towards his cock. With the knife between my teeth, he told me to say ahh. He moved the knife and putting both hands behind my head, pulled my face on him.

Suck me.

Come on, baby.

Suck.

My head went to and fro, with the rhythm controlled by his hands, to and fro. The tears still flowing down my face onto his cock, I could taste the salt.

Come on baby, eat me.

To and fro.

Oh yeah, baby, just like that.

A string of salvia bridged from my mouth to his cock as he pushed me back on the ground. Still on his knees, the man wrapped his arms around my thighs and pulled me close to naked, sandpaper skin. The knife seemed to glow in the moonlight, staring down at me saying, Don�t make a move.

The man grabbed the base of his meat and attempted to guide himself inside me, pushing and pushing; only he was too large and I was too small. He wasn�t giving up that easily though. He spread me open with his free hand, at the same time inching in, little by little. The man started to pump me violently. And I was pounding my fists and slamming my head into the dirt; anything to distract me from the pain I was feeling below.

And he was pumping. And thrusting. And I was in class, watching TV, on the old man�s lap; anywhere but here.

He grabbed my shoulder with his one hand and the knife pointed directly toward my heart in the other. And he was moaning.

Oh, you like this, huh?

Huh, slut?

You�re all wet.

He must have been talking about the blood oozing down from my stomach or the blood oozing out of the cracks of my privates.

At this point, he could have been fucking me with the knife; the pain was that excruciating.

I started to slip in and out of consciousness so I�m not sure exactly how long it had been before I felt the shotgun blast of warm liquid raid my insides. I slipped unconscious again and the next time I woke the man in the black ski mask was gone.

I struggled to my feet.

I started to limp bow-legged towards my apartment, my clothes twisted around bloody, dirt infested skin. The tears blurring the road, the lights, the cars; everything looked ninety miles an hour.

Inside my apartment, my first impulse was to call my mother. I dialed the number forgetting altogether that her funeral was two years ago. I didn�t bother calling my dad. He would have just blamed me. Everything was my fault in his book.

I don�t know why, but I left. Maybe because I couldn�t stand being alone. I needed someone; anyone. I felt my way around the darkness to, at the time, the only person I could turn to for help. I reached Apartment 321 and pounded frantically on the door.

Big Billy Thomas answered, red hair soaked, dressed in nothing but a bath towel. By the way I looked; crying and bleeding and covered in mud, I assumed Billy knew I didn�t come over to watch movies. I walked in, not waiting for an invitation and Billy took me into his arms as I sobbed black mascara tears down his rough, naked flesh. And big Billy was patting my back and whispering, It�s O.K.

It�s over now.

Everything�s gonna be alright.

We stood there for a while, me and Billy. I started to calm down and the tears finally stopped flowing. Nestled in big Billy�s arms; this is the last place I would ever think I would feel comforted. But I did. Just knowing someone cared.

God.

I pulled my face back, but still I stood there hugging him. My eyes focused in on Billy�s bathroom.

Help.

The door was open and at the edge of the doorway was a pile of black clothes. I took a step back and looked at big Billy.

Please.

Behind him on the couch was a black ski mask. I looked to the right; laying on the table next the couch was a blood covered dagger.

Stop.

And big Billy just stood there. Grinning. That same exact grin.

I ran so fast out the door, I tripped over my own feet in the darkness of the apartment complex, fell face first, and bashed my teeth on the concrete. As I attempted to get back on my feet, I heard big Billy laughing at me in the distance.

I limped back to my apartment, tasting blood, feeling the jagged edges of my teeth smashed up through my gums.

As if I haven�t been through enough.

Growing up, I always imagined my first. He would be The One. That someone special. My Prince Charming. Yes, I know it sounds like a dream, but I was making it happen.

I was a 20 year old virgin for God�s sake.

This is in no way how I expected things to turn out, not by a long shot, but I guess that goes along with everything else in my life.

In my apartment, I turned the shower onto whatever warmth, stripped the clothes off me. I stood there by the mirror, examined the naked body that would never want to touch another person again. Except for the black streaks smeared down my cheeks and the dried blood stuck to my stomach and crotch, my body was a ghost, pale and white. I climbed in, lying fetal position on the bottom of the tub, hugging my knees, rocking myself back and forth. The warm water rained down on me and soaked through my skin. It was around this time, lying in a puddle of dirt and blood, that the tears finally stopped juicing out of my eyes and my heart started to beat normally again. And around this time, I lost all faith, all hope, all reasons to go on. And it was around this time that the God I once believed to be so real, so caring, so forgiving, hung up the phone and never called back.