Breaking Silence

By Chloe St. Onge

“Well you were blacked out,” I said.

As if that were supposed to give me some comfort, or some form of justification.

 

“Well we were both drunk,” I said.

Trying to reason with the situation.

 

“Well he asked me on a date afterwards,” I said.

As if that makes up for the actions he took against me.

 

“Well I can’t remember it,” I said.

As if having sex while you are incoherent means that it’s consensual.

 

“Well he seemed happy about it,” I said.

Because someone seeming happy the morning afterwards means that it wasn’t rape.

 

“Well maybe he didn’t know,” I said.

Even though everyone came up to me the next week, telling me how drunk off my ass I was.

 

“Well maybe if I hadn’t drank so much,” I said.

As if my drunkness led to to the consequence of this situation.

 

“Well maybe if I didn’t flirt with him so much,” I said.

As if there is no such thing as innocent flirting.

 

“Does it count as rape?” I ask.

Because I feel like I’m responsible for what happened to me.

 

“Me too,” I said.