Quiet Mountain Essays
Copyright©, 2004
The Rape
by
Rebecca Roberts
Brutally pushing into the dry space, she feels the callously wrapped penis penetrate. No! Stop! She
wants him to stop. He has no right. He does not care if he has the right or not. Her vagina is being
rubbed raw by the layer of cellophane on the penis. He spits to make the pushing easier. She screams—
he pulls out and enters her anally. She screams again. He spits again, and obscenities drool from his
mouth. The baby is watching quietly from its crib.
She struggles against his muscular frame. She has no shot, but struggles anyway. She hates him. She
hates him with every fiber of her being. He is doing this because he cannot control her, he cannot
possess her. She knows his reason and it makes her hate him more.
He can only control her body temporarily. Her spirit is still free. As he continues to push his anger and
frustration in and out of her, her spirit flies. She and the baby are at the beach. Her baby looks at her
from the crib, joining her in spirit, unable to do anything else.
He’s hitting her now, pulling and stretching on her breasts. Pinching her stomach. He cannot stand
that she refuses to react. He hates her, too. He gets up and throws the balled, bloodied cellophane from
his penis on her. She is bruised and bleeding, but not anywhere that anyone can see.
The baby begins playing with a stuffed bear in the crib. She gets up after she hears the door slam shut.
He’s gone. She goes to the tiny apartment bathroom, tiled pink and green, and washes. She knows
that no one will believe her, and does not bother to even consider calling the police. She is too calm and
knows it. She removes the ripped panties and shirt, and changes into fresh clothing.
She removes the stained comforter from the bed and folds it atop her willow laundry basket. Time to do
the laundry. She lifts the baby into a carrier, grabs the willow basket and leaves the apartment, heading
down the metal and concrete carpeted stairs to the laundry room. She passes a neighbor and smiles.
She is sore and the baby carrier on her chest is rubbing on her wounds. She puts the comforter in one
washer, her clothes in another. She smiles at the baby hanging on her chest. The baby is wonderful,
and makes her feel safe.
She climbs the metal and concrete carpeted stairs back to her third floor apartment. She puts the baby
down on a blanket on the floor. Tupperware toys are on the blanket. She and the baby stack the
Tupperware and she sings a song about sunshine.
Tomorrow she has to go to work. She is looking forward to going to a place where people treat her
with respect. She and the baby pick up Pat the Bunny and begin reading. The baby loves to touch the
soft fabric in the book as she reads. The baby points to the bunny. She says “bunny.” And the baby
smiles, repeating with a sound, still pointing. She and the baby giggle.
Thirteen years have passed. She is a college professor. The baby is a young man, 5 feet, 7 inches tall
with a size 13 sneaker. Her husband is a nice man who loves her very much. She has never told him
about the rape, she has never told anybody.
She sits at her computer. A third attempt to write about the rape is being spun on the flat screen like
magic. It seems effortless and somehow unfair. She weeps at the emerging feelings exploding inside.
She thinks how much she hates her rapist. Then she thinks how wonderful her life is now. How far
away she is from that terrible memory. She is angry that her rapist did it in front of the baby. The
baby, now a young man, does not remember, but she does.
Her rapist is now a teacher for the state of Massachusetts, she saw it on a website. He is bald, and fat,
and looks completely different. There is a picture on the website of him with his arm around one of his
students, his sloping forehead glistening with greasy skin, and the buttons of shirt stretched to show
the undershirt beneath, near his bowling ball of a stomach. The student is smiling in the picture. He is
bearing his teeth, too.
She thinks he is not even worth writing about. But she is worth the effort of telling the story. She is
the hero. He could never control her. His best efforts proved impotent. And now he looks like an old
gelding out to pasture, waiting for the factory truck.
She checks the website again. She needs to see his haggard appearance, his tired eyes, his flat empty
look. But the website does not show his picture anymore. The website has a poem where his picture
used to be. The poem is by a student, written about his teacher who has died. She realizes her rapist is
dead. For a moment, she sits completely still, shocked. The poem describes a nice teacher, who helped
his students, but a brain aneurism exploded in his head, and he died in the classroom. The poem talks
about how the students rushed to save their beloved teacher, but it was too late.
She closes the website and leaves the computer. Her son is sitting in the living room, reading a book.
She sits next to him and offers to read aloud, with the accent and everything. He gives her the book.
She begins to read about the magical world of Elves and Hobbits by Tolkien, with a distinct British
accent. Her son smiles, repeats her words with the same accent. She and her son laugh.
Contributor's Notes...
Rebecca Roberts is a professor of writing and literature since 1998. She is currently affiliated with a
university in Australia.
