Lola

Rape is an act of physical violence and domination.

The walls are lined with band posters and pictures tacked up with colorful mismatching pins. Paint is splattered on the base coat, a color of pure gold. The room is large, for the most part, but it cluttered with various notebooks, binders, journals, and novels. There’s barely room for a bed, but she managed to fit one in. It’s empty now.

Above the door is a cross, marked with an X in bright red nail polish. The sign on the passageway outside says “Ax murderers are teaching lessons, not killing. Don’t be stupid.” An average person who would stumble upon the room might turn and run away. But that doesn’t matter to her now.

She’s a complex individual. Labeled with the name Lola, she roamed the world as if she were about to die the second after. She never once looked back, nor did she ever regret what she did. She was never afraid. Not until the seconds before she died. It’s all over now.

/X/X/X/X/xXXXX

It was in January, on a crisp winter night, at the stroke of twelve, when she was awoken from her slumber by the sound of a gunshot next door. She wasn’t alarmed by the noise; the neighborhood was bad. But a strange urge had her pulling on her tattered jacket and pulling on her Chuck Taylors to see what was wrong.

She ran down the stairs, making a racket as the steps creaked loudly. Her parents were out of town. It was eerie, but she didn’t really mind. Quietly, she crept towards the window with a broken pane to peer at the house next door.

There was blood decorating the glass.

She wanted to pick up the phone and dial those three important numbers, but something was holding her back. This something pulled her towards the door, pushing her out into the dangerous and cruel world just as the gunman was running out of the other house.

He saw her.

She forced her legs to pick her up and carry her far away.

He followed.

She ran as fast as she could, but his build and speed outnumbered her. He tackled her and pinned her on the ground, pressing his pistol to her temple. “Don’t scream or I’ll shoot,” he said.

She nodded, not even one whimper escaping her lips. She wanted to scream; she wanted to cry and wail until somebody heard her. But the force was keeping her silent. As if it were wanting her to die.

The man was large, about six foot three inches and at least two hundred pounds. He seemed to be around the age of thirty to forty. He would tower over her if they were standing side by side. He was rugged, with a tanned complexion that resembled a Native American. He looked evil.

He looked over her, as if inspecting, before he grinned wildly. “You’re a pretty little piece of meat,” he said, leaning closer to her and snickering.

She didn’t move as he got closer and closer until she could feel his breath against her neck. The hand in which he didn’t hold his gun began to move around her body, stealing away her innocence as he groped and prodded. She wasn’t a virgin, but she certainly didn’t think this would ever happen.

He began to tug at her shirt, a little at first but then ripped it to shreds with his enormous hands exposing the flesh or her bare breasts. She didn’t budge. He kept the gun to her head as he moved from her neck to her chest, biting her roughly and drawing blood. She winced, but only slightly.

He kept his teeth in position but moved his hand south, pulling off the boxer shorts she’d been wearing while she slept. He slipped his calloused and dirty fingers into the confines of her cotton panties and started feeling her insides.

She wanted him to stop. She didn’t want him to steal her soul and make it his. But her mouth wouldn’t open, her lungs would breathe, her limbs wouldn’t move as she let him slip his filthy self into her body.

He was coarse, thrusting harder and harder, still holding the gun to her head. She winced again, in agony and in terror. He noticed and smirked, pushing rougher. “You like this?” he said, laughing.

She could feel herself going numb as her body started to shut down. He was reaching his peak, and with a moan let his manhood, what little he had, go inside of her.

“Somebody help me!!” she finally screamed, tears running down her cheeks. “Please! Somebody! Anybody! He’s going to kill me!” she cried.

“B***h I told you not to scream! Nobody’s going to help you now,” he shouted as he cocked his pistol and pulled the trigger, not having to think about what he was doing.

Her eyes were wide open as blood poured out of the wound in the side of her head. She lay on the ground, clothes torn off and soul stripped away. The man is nowhere to be found. The only thing he left the remains of the girl who had done nothing wrong.

/X/X/X/X/xXXXX

The next morning her parents arrived home. They searched the entire house for her, but couldn’t find a trace of her. They asked the neighbors if they had seen her, but they all said “no.” The police were notified and a search had begun.

At nine o’clock in the evening her father found her corpse in the field of the incident. He covered his mouth as his body started to shake with anger and grief. Taking off his suede jacket, he placed it over his only child; his little girl.

The scene wasn’t bloody, but it was degrading. The police couldn’t identify the perpetrator, even with the sperm sample they collected. It was a dramatic event for the entire community.

The family set up a funeral, to give Lola a proper death. Over four hundred people attended and every one left with shedding at least one tear.

Lola’s not scary anymore. Her room is still cluttered. Her cross is still above the door. And the sign is still there. But Lola isn’t.

She’s gone.

Better now.

They hope.