The
bus zoomed past the stop as I dashed up, panting.
“Oh
no, now I have to wait a whole hour for the next one.”
My
friends from drama class wished me luck as they headed home.
I
found a bench and plunked myself down. Frustrated. Nervous. Trying to be
invisible.
My
first chance to take a course in the big city, all by myself. At night. My
parents had decided I was old enough.
And
now here I was.
Fourteen
years old.
Alone.
Shivering.
Chilly. Anxious.
Avoiding
eye contact.
Then he approached.
His
brown hair was slicked back with some kind of grease, save for a small twist
that hung down over his forehead. His eyes were piercing yet dull as he gazed
at me. He wore an ill-fitting, crumpled suit. He might have been handsome in another time, at another
place.
“My
name is Gunther Kraus and I have been drinking.” A heavy German accent.
Slurred.
My
heart sank as he sat down beside me.
He reeked
of cologne, cigarettes and rye.
He
was too close.
I
looked the other way. I looked at the other people waiting at the stop.
Why
had I sat so far away from all of them? How stupid of me.
Why
had I missed the bus? I was so careless.
Mom
and Dad were gonna kill me.
This
was my fault.
So
for an hour, I sat frozen on that bench.
He wrapped his arm around my shoulder.
Took
control of me.
Told
me how beautiful I was.
How
he wanted to take me home.
Stroked
my cheek.
Touched
me.
And kissed me.
Slobbery. Disgusting. Horrifying.
My first kiss.
Frozen on that bench. Tears welling up. Silent.
Changed.
At long last, the bus arrived.
I
flew from that cold hard seat. From that slimy man.
And
on to the warm bus, where I frantically found a spot next to an older woman.
And
then I started to sob. I cried and shook all the way home. She offered me some
gum.
“This
might help you feel better,” she said.
She
meant well.
This is rape culture.
My
first kiss.
Never
reported.
 |
| Fourteen. |
©Conni Cartlidge, 2014
