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I rock under the water, my arms crossed over my stomach until the water runs cold and my teeth begin to chatter. I vaguely remember the night. The darkness in my room and the feeling of his hands touching my body. It’s like a dream. I feel nervous, and my mind feels fuzzy. I vaguely remember him leaving my room, but I know I woke up under my blankets with my clothes piled on the floor by the bed. I know I had my clothes on when he left. I feel achy, sore in ways and places I’ve not felt in a long time. I feel dirty, gritty, and no amount of soaping seems to help. There are a series of bruises on my hips, and I barely remember feeling his hands tighten there. The muscles of my thighs ache. It’s not just external. I have been entered, and I remember nothing at all about it. I don’t know how much of what I feel is the residual of alcohol in my system or residual of him in my system. I reach up and turn off the water. He left, though. I remember: he left and I still had my clothes on. Think. Think. Think.
What have I done? It wasn’t supposed to be like that. I can’t believe I let that happen. I am so angry at myself. I should never have opened my door, no matter how nice he seemed, no matter how sweet he was. After pulling on my boots and jacket, I slip out into the lightly falling snow and make my way through the woods and finally arrive at the back gate to Dylan’s pasture. I pull my coat more tightly around me, my hair has frozen in crystals around my head. People like Dylan don’t get into situations like that. I can guarantee Kelci wouldn’t have gotten into a situation like that. Is that what makes us different, some moral boundary, some ability to avoid bad things?
I don’t know what I should do. I’m not stupid about things, and I know that having sex with Warren was stupid. Stupid. Did he use protection? I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t even remember. But he left my room . . . the small niggling part of me that remembers something pushes forward . . . he left my room and locked the door and then . . . what? He locked the door when he left my room, and I had all of my clothes on. Maybe nothing happened. Maybe I’m wrong. I try to convince myself that I’m wrong. I want so badly to be wrong. Unfortunately I know all too well what the day after feels like, and I am definitely having a day after.
My skin is crawling, and I dig my nails into the flesh at the base of my wrist, scratching until the skin is hot and moist, red and inflamed. God knows that I know nothing about Warren. I could be pregnant. I could have any number of diseases. What a mess that would that make my life. What about all of my dreams? What about college and my art studio someday? Who am I kidding? I’m not going to college. I’ve never been going to college. I will work at Billups as long as they will have me and then move on to one of the factories. That is the shape of what my life, my defective life, is going to be. Is this how my mom felt, when she was just a little younger than I am now, realizing that I was on the way? Is this what made her the way she is? Me? Coming too soon for her to have any dreams of her own? I destroyed her life.
My head throbs in the cold, and I sneak into the barn and up the ladder. It’s too early to knock on their door. I dig at the red patch on my wrist until it actually hurts, and then I dig some more. I’m not sure why I’ve come here anyway. God knows I don’t want to talk about what happened, definitely not with Dylan. The wind bats against the side of the barn, and I huddle on a bale of alfalfa, trying to think. Slowly my hair begins to thaw, and I pull it back to a braid to keep it from touching my face, cold and wet. My body begins to shiver, and I fold in on myself trying to keep my teeth from chattering
The door to the back of the barn opens, and footsteps echo through the building. A whistle breaks the air, and I know the horses will soon be here. I hold my breath, listening to the feed bin opening then closing. Corn and oats rustling into their buckets. I wait, my eyes closed, for the door to open and close again and for me to be alone in the barn.
Once I am sure he has gone, I creep back down the ladder and out into the drifting snow. I make my way back through the woods, following the path I had blazed earlier. When I come out into the clearing that is our backyard, I see the faint glimmer of lights flashing through the newly fallen snow on the branches of the evergreen. I remember suddenly . . . the warm feeling of my mother’s hand and of Warren’s shoulder as I leaned into him, singing Silent Night, surrounded by my mother and her friends. The warmth of that moment is separate from the rest. I blow air into my hands and make my way back to the trailer. I am not the person I thought I was.