< Translator’s note: The original formatting of the stories has been preserved. The translations aim to remain as close as possible to each author's original wording and expression.

​

THIS didn't happen to me.

​

I was 15 when I met "the boy of my dreams." He was straight out of the movies: a bit of a troublemaker surrounded by a pack of friends, grinning slyly as he looked at girls, knowing he was devilishly handsome. It felt like I exploded with happiness when he chose me. It was like a terrible fairytale: a grey little girl who's friends with books, and a bad guy oozing self-confidence from every pore.

​

During our first kiss, I planned everything: how in six months we'd ring in the New Year together, how in a year we'd watch the sunset somewhere on a beach, and when I turned 18, I could lose my virginity... But he was planning sex three years ahead of me. He wanted it straight away.

​

So every kiss that followed was accompanied by his hand going into my underwear. That wasn't quite the fairytale script. I asked him to stop. He didn't listen. I just kept asking. He just kept not listening. I waited, because I was "the one, the special one." And he would change any moment now, and we'd just kiss and hold hands.

​

One day, he did take my hand and take me for a walk. We walked outside the city, through one field, then another, then another. I was happy, and so was he. The only one not glowing with happiness was his friend, who walked a step behind them. "Why is he here?" I asked myself. "He doesn't matter," I answered. He trailed after them everywhere, except for a small ravine where our walk ended. There, "my beloved" sat down, and I sat beside him. We kissed and held hands. That I wanted. He undressed me and made me lie down. That I did NOT want.

​

I asked him to wait. He said there was no point in waiting. I struggled. He pressed me down to the ground. I cried. He put on a condom. I felt pain. And at some point, I stopped resisting. Because that wasn't me. I wasn't there. I was only watching.

​

In the ravine lies a girl. On top of her lies a boy. He is moving, she is motionless. To the side lie sneakers, blue jeans, and cotton pink underwear. They're hers. She's still got a little top on. It'll probably get stained on the green grass...

​

THIS ended quickly. They got dressed. They walked home in silence: a satisfied boy dragging a girl who was indifferent to everything by the hand, and his inexplicable friend shuffling along behind.

​

At home, I became myself again. I felt sorry for myself. I cried. I cried because my white top had gotten stained. I cried because THIS had happened. I cried because I would never be able to tell anyone about THIS.

​

And then a thick, clammy blanket of SHAME wrapped itself around me. It went with me to the shop, to the pharmacy, it read books, took minibuses, met friends, and had dinner with my parents.

​

Shame stopped me from struggling and crying when "my beloved" wanted sex again. I could only watch. A girl lying there, a boy on top of her. He is moving, she is motionless.

​

THIS happened two more times. And then my body fell ill, and I ended up in the hospital. Two weeks of separation, and he dumped me. He couldn't do THIS with me. And he didn't need anything else from me.

​

The foul blanket of shame wrapped itself around me more tightly. I wore that blanket everywhere for another 13 years — when I went to school and then university, when I started relationships, when I went to the gynaecologist, when I put off appointments, when I found a job and then looked for another one. I was ashamed. I was unspeakably sickened that THIS had happened to me.

​

Now I call "this" — RAPE. That is what happened to me. Sometimes that foul shame still wraps itself around me. Then I say to myself: "It was rape." A word that paints everything in different colours. Not shame, but grief, and anger, and even more anger. Because this fucking thing happened without my wanting it! Without my will! I did NOT WANT THIS!

​

The person who did this to me is now dead (I had no hand in it). The 15-year-old girl inside me says through tears, "You can't wish bad things on people," and my present self, with fury: "I hope somewhere in this universe there is a hell, and he is burning in it!"

​​

Anonymous author; story told in 2021 as part of the "16 Days of Activism Against Gender-Based Violence" campaign