I was in my early twenties when he took what was left of my innocence and faith in the world. I had over a year earlier escaped a sexual abusive relationship, I had escaped my rapist, I was safe now, I was home….
It was the run up at Christmas and I was excited, spending the early evening with his children – the youngest falling asleep in my arms not long before he returned.
He was out drinking. He came back drunk. We had a drink. He came and sat uncomfortably close. Something was up. He looked at me in a strange way. He lent into kiss me.
I tried to reason. Expressed how I felt about him, how I saw him as an older brother, how I loved his fiancé dearly, how I loved my partner dearly, his children dearly. I held his hand begging him to see me as a young sister – begging him to keep our family together.
But he didn’t listen. He tried to kiss me again. And again. He caressed my inner thigh and put his lips to my breasts…. He said he wanted to fuck me.
I was scared. I was shaken. But I was lucky – I managed to escape upstairs to my all embracing partner.
The rest of the night is a blur of tears, of police lights, of desperation. They said it was sexual assault. They took my statement – a statement I later withdrew out of fear.
One moment. One trauma. A broken family. Broken hearts.