"My Last Memory" by Zoe Maldonado
I’ve always had problems with my memory. In school, I would always daydream about
better things to do, like playing Animal Crossing: New Horizons on my Nintendo Switch, talking
with my friends online, or what I could draw when I get home. When I would go home, I’d find
myself forgetting to do my homework. Even though my memory was lackluster, the one thing I
never forgot about was you.
I met you in my health class. Mr. C seated us next to each other, going by last names. You
caught my attention with your leather jacket with iron-on patches for niche metal bands that I
liked. You were also an asshole, and as a girl who came from a broken home, your asshole nature
made you a lot more enticing. I wanted something I thought I could never have, a bad boy who
was passionate and pretty. It did not help that you were pretty. I would stare at your hands. I
bought you your little snacks, tried to talk, and arranged hangouts with.
I would start to come to your house every day. Your mother treated me with kindness.
Once your mom drove me, but I couldn’t get inside my house because my family didn’t let me
in. I felt so embarrassed standing on my doorstep, no one answering the door. I looked back at
your mom’s car with you inside. Eventually, your mom convinced me to come back home with
the both of you. In the car ride back to your house, I remember my sweaty palms and the
jealousy I felt. You tried to comfort me with a smile, but all I could think about was your family.
Your mom would answer the door if you didn’t have your keys, so why didn’t mine? My brother
was home. Wouldn’t your brother answer the door? Your little brother liked talking about his
favorite games that he played with you or movies you had both watched you two arguing about
what musical artists were better. When my mom finally picked me up, she scolded me; she didn’t
like to pick me up from my friends' houses. That jealousy burned hotter.
You took your time asking me out, telling yourself that you were ready for a relationship
when you really weren’t. I texted you whenever you were on my mind, which was all the time.
We’d text during school, we’d call our friends when we got home, and we’d play Dungeons &
Dragons together. I tried to be happy with you. You would test me, seeing how much you could
get away with. I would talk about how our friends weren’t treating me right and I was confused
about how you never stuck up for me. I would explain how one of your friends lied to me about
being in a private militia and that they’ve killed tens of hundreds of people. You told me that
they were your friends, and you weren’t going to get involved, or you didn’t see how they were
taking advantage of me. Argument after argument, empty apology after empty apology, you
made me feel stupid. I never really felt supported by you. I would always spill my guts to you,
only to be ignored or issued another empty apology. I started to not talk about how I felt with
you, growing exhausted of the constant ignorance. The emotional fatigue only helped fester the
feeling of being unimportant, unwanted, and not needed. Suicidal ideation wasn’t a new concept
to me, but what didn’t help was your obvious disregard towards my feelings.
I’ve always been a victim to my own thoughts, but I never thought I would’ve been a
victim to yours. Do you feel guilty because you assaulted me or because you didn’t think I’d say
anything? I wonder if you thought I’d just forget it ever happened. Maybe I wasn’t the perfect
victim you thought I was. I couldn’t count on my hands how many times you sexually assaulted
me during the four months we dated. Only the bits and pieces stick with me today.
I do remember one spring, the cold breeze nipping at my skin. I wore a baggy shirt, a
blue jacket I had stolen from my mom, and my black skinny jeans, along with dirty combat
boots. The sky is blue with white dry-brushed clouds, the sun shining bright down onto the green
grass and the colorful flowers people had planted in their gardens. Instead of taking a walk,
going out to eat, or going to the mall, we spent that day inside your dark room. Your bed was like
a loft, having a nook underneath it to fit a fold-out couch. You always had this Iron Maiden
throw blanket you laid on top of your couch, matching your black bed sheets and red walls. You
Unfolded your couch, and I sat down while taking off my shoes. Your blinds were closed,
encasing us in darkness. You put on Star Wars because I had never watched it before. I really
didn’t want to watch Star Wars. You started to kiss me, taking both of our glasses off. I tried to
watch the movie. Why couldn’t we do anything else? I didn’t want to watch Star Wars, but you
did. I didn’t want to sway the boat.
Two minutes later, you were on top of me. Your dead weight and forced kisses
suffocated me, much like the kisses. Our clothes rubbing against each other felt like sandpaper
on my skin. I felt almost every bone in your body. Your heavy, hot breath braced my cold, goose
bumped skin. You held my hands over my head. You pinned down with one hand as the other
pawed at my breasts. You huffed and puffed between the lapping and kissing of my neck. I told
you to stop and you parted your lips from my skin to ask me why. You reached your hands
underneath my shirt without saying a word, your cold hands struggling to unclip my bra. Did
what I say not matter to you? Why did I say anything? Your hips stabbed into my soft fat body. I
got exhausted telling you what you didn’t want to hear. I felt so tired, like I could just pass out.
My head throbbed. I told you that I had a headache and that you were hurting me. I felt your dick
harden as it twitched on top of my thighs through your sweatpants, not hiding your lust as you
humped me. What if I just screamed? You kissed my neck and I let my head drop to the side. My
watering eyes closed. The sounds of clashing lightsabers started to melt together with the sounds
you were making on top of me.
I tried to ground myself by focusing on the physical sensations, but I only started to drift
farther from you. It felt scary to have a tether connected to nothing. I wafted slowly into the cold
void, my skin frosted over and thoughts passing by like clouds. I felt out of control, stuck in
space with a loose tether to my physical body. I started to scream, but no sound came out. I
didn’t even move an inch. Where I had fallen felt like I was stuck in the middle of a raging
thunderstorm, the rain and hail pelting my skin. I was frozen, screaming inside my own body.
The thunder ached as it went right through me, my heart beating faster and faster. I was
drowning. The lightning roared, my thoughts getting louder and louder. Eventually, I felt a snap,
like I had been unplugged. The eye of the storm surrounded me as I drifted deep in the water,
letting the water fill my lungs. The waters calmed as I peacefully sank to the bottom of the
depths, still cold but somewhat relieved. I was happy that the rain, hail, thunder, and lightning
were finally gone. It was quiet but the silence was deadly. I didn’t feel anything but the cold
water hugging me. Is this what dying feels like? Breathing felt unnecessary, because who would
need to breathe after they’ve already drowned?
I think you heard your mom coming up the stairs to your bedroom. The water clogged my
ears as you retreated to my side. I lay there, frozen and cold. She knocked and said something to
us through the door. She opened it after you had answered her, looking down at the both of us on
your fold out couch. What she said I can’t remember; it sounded like I was underwater, and she
was above the surface. My eyes were open, but they weren’t taking anything in. It was almost
like I was on autopilot, another version of myself controlling me. She let us know that she made
us lunch and that we should come down to eat. You told her we’d be down in a minute, and she
closed the door. I looked over at you after she left, and you giggled about the possibility of her
catching us like that. For a moment, I didn’t understand. Catching us like what? My head started
to throb harder, catching me off guard. I remember you asking me if I was okay. I shook my
head, saying I was probably dehydrated. I put my bra back on, that groggy feeling still haunting
me. I looked at my boots, debating if I should go home, but I thought the day could get better. I
still had faith in you after what you did.
I never felt the same after that day. I internalized my sexual trauma, making countless
excuses for you. I started to think that I was the problem: that I was asexual, because I was never
interested in having sex with you. It was only when our relationship ended when I realized you
spent the last four months sexually assaulting me. Do you know what that does to a girl? I
attempted suicide that summer before you had broken up with me. I felt so unheard, broken, and
trapped inside my own body. I didn’t know why these emotions I had were so intense and heavy,
why I told myself I was being unreasonable and sensitive, and I didn’t know any other way to
make those feelings and thoughts stop. I’ve always struggled with self harm and suicide, having
one attempt prior to this one. I have always struggled with self harm, commonly relapsing every
four to six months. That day, I used my scissors to barbarically cut through the plastic of my
razor to get to the sharp blades. Before, I tried to unscrew the blade of a pencil sharpener, but the
nail was glued in. The pencil sharpener was made from metal, so I couldn’t cut through it with
scissors. I always had a preference with what I would harm myself with, which were pencil
sharpener blades. They were blunter then the razors and safer to use, especially if I didn’t have
the intention of suicide in mind. But that day was different. It must’ve been fifteen minutes of me
staring at what I had done to my razor blades for me to start using them. Do you know what you
texted to me during my attempt? I don’t remember it exactly, but I remember the impact it had
left on me. You sent me one sentence during the whole hour of me building up the courage to
self harm and eventually try to commit suicide. My ex best friend, now your beloved girlfriend,
had reasoned me out of going any further than I already had. You texted me something like
“please don’t do this”, but what else was I supposed to do? It felt like the only option I had left.
Several months later after our breakup, I started to tell everyone about what you did to
me. I name dropped you and my ex-friends, detailing the scummy behavior of both parties.
When I talked about my ex-friends being friends with an abuser, which was you. All of them
came to me over social media. No matter how many times I told them my story, they’d put words
in my mouth. I’ve been told countless times that I am a bitch, I am a liar, I am a whore, and I am
falsely accusing you of raping me when I never said you did rape me. I wondered if you were in
my body when you assaulted me, how fast would you beg for mercy? How many breaths would
you take to plead and beg for them to stop? You took away so many things from me I never
thought I’d be able to get back: my voice, my autonomy, my boundaries, my confidence, my
sexuality, and my memories. I was so angry at what people were saying behind my back when
they weren’t even there for when you violated me. Day after day, month after month, you
wreaked havoc on my body, mind, and soul. I was betrayed by my best friend who had gotten
into a relationship with you. She was the first person I talked to about you assaulting me. You
and our horrible friends dealt me so much grief that the dam broke. My voice had power when it
said your name. My voice had power when I told the police my story. My voice had so much
power it scared our friends, your girlfriend, and you. My voice grew tall like a tsunami, ready to
crash and wash out all your dirty laundry. I was ready to destroy your life, as you did mine.
You finally called me, telling me to cut the shit. You argued with me about how you
didn’t assault me, that I made your girlfriend anxious, and that I am crazy for acting out the way
that I was. Did you really think that was crazy? Because what I thought was crazy was you
taking advantage of me every day. I shook as a cold wave washed over me, my voice stuttering
slightly. As the call progressed and you questioned me, I started to get louder. You didn’t believe
me, or you just didn’t want to. I asked if you even knew what you did to me, and you said no
because none of it ever happened. I started to retell the story of you on top of me, getting on and
off of me, taking off my bra without permission, how I got tired of saying no, and how you had
molested me. I told you the drowning feeling I felt underneath your weight, how your hip’s sharp
edges jutted into my cold skin, and how I just wanted to scream. It was like I had taken the heat
from your flame, spitting it back at you with vitriol, with the intention to burn. I told you about
my last memory in vivid, grotesque detail; more than I ever could now, years after it happened.
Your once loud voice became soft, unresponsive, and ignorant. You mustered out weakly that
you were going to bed, and you were done talking to me. That thunderstorm I once felt brewing
inside me had finally spilled all the tears it needed to before the sky started to turn blue again.
The cloud remained gray for a few years, still bruised by the memory of you.
I started to find more and more gaps within my memory. Eventually the months, days,
and weeks blended into a fog. Even though I was away from you and healing, I still felt as if you
were on top of me. Your dead weight over the years started to lift off my chest. Even though the
clouds would rain a few times every year at the intrusive thought or bad dream about you, it was
better than the rainstorm that happened years ago underneath you. I wouldn’t remember what I
ate for dinner, making me eat more than I wanted to. My stomach would hurt and stretch to the
amount of food I was eating. I wouldn’t remember to do projects or homework, leaving me with
bad grades and begging for makeup work. I’d forget to do that too. I would start to lose the
majority of my memories from my childhood, when I was a girl messing in the wood chips on
the playground with my friends. The memory you didn’t take away with you was the worst one
you had ever given to me.
Today, as a freshman in college, I am happy. Happiness is an emotion I never thought I’d
feel again after you. As a freshman in college, I get to spend my school days alongside my
partner. This time, we have the same English class. I even get to sit next to him, much like we
once did when we were freshmen in high school. After you, I still loved my partners the same
way I did you: with compassion, empathy, and kindness, even when some of them didn’t deserve
it. My partner didn’t take advantage of that like you and the others did. He loves me for my
passions, my kindness, my humor, and me. I could listen to him talk about Persona 5 or his
computer science class as much as he could listen to me rant about Dungeons & Dragons. Not
once did I ever feel pressured to have sex, masturbate with, kiss, or even touch my boyfriend. It's
now something I find myself wanting.
When I told him about you, it hurt him. He couldn’t believe someone would do that to
me. Thinking about you and what you did makes me think “why did he hurt me” or “why did he
do that to me”, and I must remind myself that I don’t have to think about that anymore. I’m not
being hurt, and I never will be hurt again. People have asked me if I could have a redo in life if
I’d take it, and I have always said no to that. Even though what I experienced with you was
traumatizing and soul crushing, I am where I am right now. I’m with my partner who I love
unconditionally, who I can see every Monday and Wednesday in my English class. I have a
better relationship with my family and a better understanding of why my childhood was the way
it was. With all of the pain that comes with life, you get all of the bliss too. I don’t want you to
think that I’m thankful that you were in my life, and I think I’ve made it clear that what you did
to me hurt me. I just wish you had faced the consequences of your actions rather than weaseling
out.