Oneiric Sexual Assault
Talking to a friend yesterday I remembered a nightmare of mine from a few years. In the dream I was being raped, and I was experiencing the act simultaneously from the perspective of the victim (a young girl) and the perpetrator (who resembled Mr. Hyde from Van Helsing).
It felt very surreal because even though I was being brutalized, I could read the thoughts into the mind of the rapist, which are probably the most frightening aspect of the entire experience.
As a way to cope with it, and remove it once and for all from my head, I decided to sit and write down what happened (I highly encourage everyone coping with trauma to try this), and I am sharing this with the world outside of close friends for the first time.
For a few years afterwards I contemplated whether the dream alluded to some repressed childhood memory of being abused, but so far I have no exhibited any of the other symptoms of survivors of childhood trauma of this kind. I guess one can never exclude such a possibility, but I think the evidence supporting this hypothesis is very lacking.
“I threw myself on her. She had no chance. Confused she tried to repel me but I quickly pushed her arms aside, intertwined our hands with my fingers and began pressing upon her abdomen so that she could just “feel” what was about to happen. I felt her neckline with my nose almost as to tickle her but really to demonstrate that all physical opposition was futile. I moved my right cheek up and down, skin against skin. Man was her skin smooth. I bit her check just to taste how soft it was, then I began slowly running my fingers down her skirt. Her hand now freed turned into a first that earned her a punishment. Delicate as she was, I applied the pressure one would apply on a toothpick and there she was, little tears running down her face and a broken arm. Her face cringed as I ran up and down my fingers. I knew she hated it; and I wanted her to realize fully that there was no chance in hell she was going to enjoy it. I softly kissed her just below the neck and worked my way downward. She knew what was coming so her legs began to shake and her knees converged as to create some sort of barrier I would not be able to penetrate. She was wrong. I made sure not to rip any of her clothes as I widened her legs and showed myself in. Once I was locked in I stopped momentarily to examine the look on her face. Her eyes intensively scrutinized me in attempt to figure out the reason behind this occurrence, but she was out of luck. I smiled and brought our faces closer to one another. Then I began pushing myself inside her; I did it slowly to make sure her body would absorb the momentum perfectly each time. Each push I stared at her, rarely blinking, taunting her with my smile. Yea, I went slowly, because this was going to last as long as it took her to never forget, as each second dragged on for decades. At last she ceased to oppose me, and at that point I knew victory was mine. I grabbed her head with both hands and she yielded to what was about to happen. I hit her repeatedly in the face with the harshness of a metal rod until I relieved myself on her face, painting with the fluid a river, from her forehead all the way down to her chin. I rolled over beside her. I had to catch up on my breath. She laid there, silent and motionless. Not terrified or panicked, but hopeless. I had extinguished the spark of life in her eyes. I abandoned her corpse and moved on.”