Mute, rape scene

I could feel my heart beating in all my veins as I stood in front of the house at a quarter to three in the morning. The sky was at its darkest. The velvet shade of black-blue lay over the top of tiny, bright pebbles that were scattered across the sky. It seemed as though my mind had been stirred around and around until it swirled and melded into the night. My thoughts were vague and confused, trailing off before they had started like faces in a column of smoke. The ones I did keep were all of her. She never trusted me, not from the beginning. Even when I first saw her, a lovely child of six, with soft black curls and strange dark eyes, every piece of her held mistrust. I was angry. What had I done to earn it? What I wanted to see…her dark eyes large and sweet and earnest, the way she looked at her mother, or her brother. All I wanted was her trust, whispered the first me. Wanted….said the second. Now what do you want? A third argued; No, it said, you wanted more. I twisted away from the poison words, seeking inside me like living things to find what hurt the most. I had to stop them; I crouched and dug at my ears, trying in vain to stop what was already inside. She knew what you wanted…she always knew…I crouched and fought with the shadows in my head. When I straightened up several minutes later, ten bloody crescents added their number to the hundreds of identical scars that already marked my flesh. When I stood up, I was ready. There was no more thought in my mind, I had blanked it out with a strong white light. All I was, was the movement that carried me. It swung me up onto the pilings of the low roof from the trellis that climbed the side of the house. It pushed me smoothly into a crouch and crawled me up the roof to the ledge below her window. My fingers gripped the edge.
I woke up silently, the same way I lived my days. There was nothing in the room except the ghost of fear. He wrapped himself around me in his familiar place, cutting off my air once again. I couldn’t move. The room was silent and empty, sitting like a painting in front of my wondering eyes. The moonlight filtered down through the curtains and lit up the room with a murky blue light that shifted and changed as if the whole scene was underwater. The room seemed surreal, suddenly growing from the flat falsity of the painting to a full, overwhelming tide. Everything seemed both radically real and unreal. I felt glued to my bed, weighed down by sleep and fear.
My continuing motion felt strange, as if it was the only real part of me, and if I were ever to stop, I would cease to exist, blown apart on the winds of an angry universe. I pulled myself into the room and crouched on the sill, blocking the moonlight from her face. She stirred as my shadow fell across her, and suddenly the world turns. I see the scene from her bed. His darkness crowds the window with muscle. The moon sheens off of his skin and turn his edges silver…he swings down onto the floor quietly and crouches, a pile of dark muck on a clean floor, mud with glinting eyes. He scurries under her bed…As soon as my eyes broke from her face I was myself again, lying splayed face-up on the carpet, silently breathing, my chest rising and falling quickly, my face warm with the excitement of the break-in. I waited.
Slowly, a more rational piece of me surfaced from sleep. It was nothing. The small noises I had heard were nothing to be afraid of, just a mouse under the floorboards, an old house creaking in the wind. I sat up. The room said nothing, unresponsive to my act of defiance. Fear hung just above me, poised like a tsunami wave. I challenged it, moving the covers from my legs and swinging them towards the edge of the bed. Water broke over me, heavy with sweat and fast-moving lungs. I couldn’t get enough air. The fear spun me around in an inexorable current of hysteria as my feet traveled to the carpet and I stood up. In a hideous moment of disbelief and knowledge a rough, strong hand shot out from under the bed and took my ankle in an iron grip. The column of muscle attached pulled me off my feet and onto the floor.
I saw the foot, dainty as a doll’s, as it touched onto the carpet. I saw the bed rise with the lifting of her weight. I saw the moment where she could not get away. I pulled her legs out from under her in one motion. It was remarkable how silent her struggle was. We both knew she was voiceless, but even the way she moved was laced with quiet. She hit the floor with a muffled thump which seemed too small, even for such a slight body. I pulled her legs in toward me, my strength catching at the resistance of her hands clutching the bedframe. I felt her fingernails bend and break, scraping across the wooden board, leaving bloody scrapemarks I could almost see. She had gone to sleep in the dress, and exhaustion was painted on her tiny features as she struggled with me. Her mouth was a hard line, pressed together with effort. Her fear no longer showed, though it was brilliant the moment her face left the light. It shone with a light of its own, white and innocent, her large black eyes crowded with helplessness. But the light went out when she saw my face, once again, just like all the other times over the past eight years. It made me angry, how she shut down when she saw me, how the knowledge showed in her face. She knew the moment she woke what would happen. She knew I was there. I ripped at her dress cruelly, twisting the dark netting into her skin, which unrolled like a bolt of white silk where the blackness parted. The fear blazed again in her eyes and she fought me more strongly than I had thought possible. Desperation flew about her head like a cloud of flies, buzzing loudly. I could hear it. She was weakening. After all, she was a girl of twelve, and I was seventeen, nearly grown. And I was strong. Bonds of muscle moved with me, covering every weakness with a rippled tide. I was immersed once again in long hours of painful labor, the work that brought them there. Years of it. All for her.It had been so long since I had seen her last… my thoughts were an abstract picture above my head as my body pinned her down. I let them trail on. It hadn’t really been that long at all, spoke another piece of me, just a few weeks, but it felt like forever. My family said that I hadn’t been feeling well, and they kept us apart…It was difficult to take off my jeans while holding her down. They stuck and pulled at my thighs, and I thought briefly that I should have thought, should have worn something else. Frustration clouded my mind, closing in as quickly as a hurricane. She was still fighting. Why? Some part of me wondered, she knows she can’t do anything, why not accept my love? I pushed her down hard, anger getting the better of me again. Her mouth opened and closed quickly, like a marionette on strings, noiseless. For the first time I noticed the tears on her face. They were the only things that betrayed weeping- her face showed no softness. I didn’t know why- I felt soft for her. I tried to kiss her, but she bit me, hard, drawing blood from my lips. I laughed. “Rough is how I like it,” I remember telling one of my girlfriends, after she punched me, accidentally, during sex. I was remembering that night as I ground down upon the sobbing girl. I hadn’t heard her make a sound in two years, but she squeaked as I broke her, a tiny whistling of air as I pried her mouth open and stuck my tongue down her throat and blood stained the tip of my penis. It was wonderful, a singing chorus of pure ecstasy, and then it was over, and I felt finally, utterly satisfied.