Intrusion

This story is by DEANNA SHAE BROSS and was part of our 2024 Spring Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.

The gentleness of the intrusion would haunt me forever—every future intimate gesture corrupted by the memory of deceptive tenderness laced with visceral unease. I won’t realize this for twenty years.

 

His terrible hands roamed everywhere, stealing intimate touches not meant for him. Fingers and fear seared my flesh and burned through tendons and muscles until they were rendered useless. Melded to the back seat of the extended cab, I lay prone, my body refusing to respond to my brain’s panicked signals. A prisoner betrayed as the vile acts continued unchecked. I should do something. Anything.

 

His hands stopped as he mounted on top of me, giving me a flicker of hope that he’d changed his mind. Did he decide against his malicious actions?

 

I could open my eyes, laugh, and say this was all a misunderstanding. He didn’t mean to have his hands all over me, knowing I was drunk, unable to protect myself. Passed out, like I pretended to be. Open my eyes. I could laugh. Cry.

 

The unmistakable threat of a zipper cut through all other sound and unleashed his horrific intentions. Was this my last chance to escape the two hundred pounds of muscle trapping me? I could promise not to report him. Promise.

 

I wanted to kick and scream and save myself. Maybe he’d stop. Realize his actions were detestable, unforgivable. We were friends. I needed a ride home. He wanted to park and look at the stars. Had I not been drinking, would I have sensed a warning? I naively thought being unconscious would deter his advances, considering I had been clear, just friends, I said. He would be a gentleman and do the right thing. I should beg him to stop. Yes. Beg.

 

If I moved, pretended I was waking from my fake drunken stupor, would he feign ignorance and let me go? Would he become violent and finish his misdeeds with the rage and fists of terror I envisioned in my mind? Would I survive an assault from a wrecking ball intent on destroying its target without being caught? I could fight. Yes. Fight.

 

Fear pinned me in its vise-like grip, while shame smothered any instinct to act. Cowardice became the shackles binding me to an inescapable nightmare. Motionless, I lay desperately wishing this trespass would cease. A misunderstanding, a miscommunication – I didn’t care what he called it as long as it stopped. Could I live with myself knowing I was too afraid to fight it? Helpless.

 

His villainous thighs tightened against my ribs, squeezing the thoughts of escape into splinters, shredding me inside out. My inaction brought more agony than his legs binding my body. Why didn’t he stop? Stop!

 

He loomed like a Trojan horse full of vicious intent. Soft lips and tender kisses caressed my exposed skin while careful hands defiled my body. He used precision and lightness of touch like eating a delicacy, savoring every bite. My skin rippled with disgust, wanting to peel itself from me and slither away from the monster consuming its essence. Instead, my flesh remained duty-bound to receive each agonizing touch. Every lick, every suck seared through dermis, epidermis, tissues, and cells. Fibers burned, a raging inferno inside. Internally, I screamed for a way out. Escape!

 

His weight bore into my hips, demanding and self-indulgent. I knew the scavenging wouldn’t end until it found its treasure. Slick with his fluids, he prepared his conquest. One, two, maybe three fingers flicked and stretched their way into my unwelcoming parts. Why couldn’t I voice my protest? Scream! My sealed eyes held back tears, scared to expose this secret travesty. Retreating into my mind was my only refuge. Internal damage I could hide. External, I would have to face. Unable to move. I did nothing.

 

I should laugh and cry.

 

Promise and beg.

 

Fight and escape.

 

Anything. Something. Do something.

 

Not nothing.

 

Disgusted with myself for letting this happen, I lay, a coward. Weak.

 

I could almost block out the intrusion—the slow rip of private spaces that should have belonged only to me, empty until given an invitation. My choice when I decided to allow it. Lost.

 

Hope obliterated in seconds.

 

Seconds became minutes, and minutes became torture—sickeningly, tender torment. Engorged flesh pumped slowly, chafing me raw, as his moans and grunts chronicled his debased passion. His thumbs burned fingerprints of his crime onto my collarbone. He pinned my shoulders against the leather seat. Sweat dripped from his forehead while his lips gently invaded, quietly claiming my flesh. Now, I wished for violent violation with fists and weapons.

 

His grip tightened as the obtrusion between my legs jerked and spurted erratically. Pulsing warmth seeped and flowed, filling me in a way I’d never felt before – a river rushing where it didn’t belong. Please no. God no. I sank to the deepest parts of my soul. Dark and irretrievable.

 

A living nightmare.

 

My traitorous body drank the warm fluid like it was its purpose. The biological mechanics of reproduction, indifferent to my lack of consent. I could feel the vile seed burrow inside me, carving a path to claim what was mine—intent to change every molecule of my former self and direct it into a new future.

 

I knew.

 

And in nine months, everyone would see the evidence unveiled.

 

I should have fought back. Taken the black eyes and broken ribs instead of lying immobile beneath this cautious, horrendous deed. I willed myself to pass out. Silently pleading for the penance I deserved, to be swift in its anguish. But he took his time, prolonging my punishment for not fighting back. His endeavor kept its cautious ascent toward pleasure, rolling in fluid motions as if dancing to the slow country music faintly playing in the background.

 

A song I will never forget.

 

Six months earlier, this song put a smile on my face. Friday night line dancing at a local bar. Cowboy hats and boots stomping out the beat on worn wooden floors. Loud laughs and eye rolls among friends—no fear it would be anything else.

 

Now, that song would disgust me for the rest of my life. Even after healing completely, its twangy chords would send me back to this moment, this invasion, every time I heard it.

 

Later, I would understand the reality of paralytic fear. But it would take twenty years to grant myself forgiveness for it.

 

My crossroads stretched before me — to extinguish the growing truth inside or breathe air into those innocent lungs.

 

Was this an existence to erase before it began?

Or a child to claim, sustain, and shape into something beautiful?

 

One night to decide.

 

To defend a life not defined by the circumstances of conception but by the love and stability I could provide.

Prove this life was more than his horrific actions. My body, my choice, to elect affirmation over victimhood. I couldn’t change the initial act of violence, but I could transform its long-term impact.

I would be strong enough to choose.

Strong enough to survive. I would take this intrusion and give her a name, a home. Step by baby step, we would grow together. We would laugh and cry through the pain of remembering. We would promise and beg for love to be enough. We would fight and escape the trauma we didn’t know would haunt us. She would know the fierce, profound love that rises from adversity.

I was strong enough to raise this baby to know her infinite worth.

Thirty years later, we wouldn’t think of it as an intrusion at all. We would know the road we chose birthed not just one life but a family. A lineage born. Generations unlocked that would not have been. Out of devastating violation, an unforgivable intrusion bloomed an exquisite gift and unshakable truth. She was my miracle.