Quietly, she continued. "Another month passed and I made no comment at what he was hinting at. Finally he asked outright, when was he going to get the thing he wanted." Her voice was bitter, a side she'd never shown with Otto.
"I told him I wasn't ready and he was angry. There was a lot of yelling and cursing. I made him take me home and we didn't talk for a few days." Laila sighed, "I'm not... proud, but I was the one who broke the silence. I was young and despite the pressure, I thought we were good together. He apologized, told me how much he loved me, and I... I believed him. I wonder if I hadn't called him, if things would have turned out differently." The story was definitely heading where he thought.
"We'd barely made up and a week later he's inviting me over for dinner with his parents. Only they aren't there... they're out of town," She swallows hard, trying not to cry. "I don't think I need to tell you exactly what happened that night." The dam had spilled and the tears were flowing, freely. She couldn't even continue with her eyes open. Sniffing, though, she did persist. "I haven't.... been completely honest with you, Otto."
She set aside her mug of tea and held onto the napkin she'd brought along with it. It was damp. She put her arms forward, wrists turned up showing the ink that was there. "The important detail about that night is that he held me down, right here, by my wrists. I remember everything about that night. His hands were hot, sweaty..." She took the wet napkin and roughly wiped it across the ink. It smeared and she wiped at it again, smearing it some more and more and more until it was red, irritated, and the ink was faded. "When he'd finished," her voice was full of disgust, "he took one look at my wrists and his hands and he knew. He knew what I was. At first he was disgusted. With himself, with what he'd done, with what he'd discovered about me. Then he used it as a justification. 'You're nothing, Laila.' And he laughed, he actually laughed out loud and then spat on me. We broke up... but that didn't mean he didn't stop... using me. I was convenient, and I couldn't say anything because he would just tell everyone what I was, what I am."
Her whole body was shaking now. Afraid. Angry. Still hurting. "I could've gone and gotten the tattoos, but I would have had to admit that they were fake from the beginning. I'm not a monster because I made a choice. That night, that choice was taken from me. I'd never liked the idea of being forced to tell my life for all to see--should I have gotten ink that showed 'I was raped'? Should my most personal, intimate moments be displayed for all to see because that's what's expected? I never agreed but even after, I was determined to keep something to myself, I refused to have another choice made for me. So I blended in."
