I was raped. I was raped too many a time that I already lost count. Sometimes, when I strip naked and see myself in the mirror, I still see the marks they've left. The scratches of their fingernails sprawling from neck to chest, the purple bruises from several hard punches and the scarlet scars of blades on my thighs, everything, still fresh as if its only yesterday, as if they were never really gone.
To admit the rape is difficult; living after is the toughest. To admit is to recall everything, how I cried and beg them to stop though they never did. To recall is to smell once more the acrid stench of induced drugs, their beaded sweats falling from their brows and how you shiver in plain terror.
In my country, the women are always the victims; the men, oblivious; the gays, the willing. In my rape, the goons are never really goons. They wore respectable clothes, in whites like demigods; some in their mighty horses and glorious capes, others bringing the entire band with them. They spoke the sweetest of words and the promise of eternities. They master the sorcery of lying with honest eyes and lure you with the false pretense of their self-confusion, pseudo-philosophical excuses and addicting illusions.
After they tore your clothes out, after they savage your innocence and suck out everything that is good in your world, after they’re satisfied and cooled down their libido, after you’re fucked – you become nothing. You try to escape, but there’s no more turning back.
Wipe the tears and move on. Look into the future and not what the past brought you. You’re young, you’ll find yourself the rightful one in the rightful time. What’s important is you learn after; move on.
So sayeth the wise. Easy, the words maybe; tough were they not to live by? The thing these wise men forget is that each bucket fills differently. And sometimes, if not most, nightmares would come. You wake up, crying out of dread, afraid to once again close your eyes, afraid that the horror only just begun. And their advice – move on.
The rape would begin with a predatory look. Then they would creep on you, only to smash you with an iron rod in the head so you can scream no more. They would tie your hands and feet to limit your moves. And their play finally begins. Kick, punch, two by two, a water hose stuck in your nose, chains, boots on your face, a baseball bat pushing in your anus. Then they would piss all over you, reminding you that you were good for nothing. And then you will ask the grey heavens above, "why can't I die?"
Raping someone goes with the same principle as massacre. My mother was raped, since I am a son first. My sister was raped, since I am a brother. My friends were raped, since I am a friend too. Now tell me, how can we all move on at once?
The most heinous of crimes are the ones that are unspeakable, those that are not tackled in courts and justice halls. We learn by this rape that not every rape include engorged penises forced into someone’s orifice. Sometimes, the rape involves men raping other men; an iron clad fist digging through your chest, piercing all throughout your soul.
Everyday, you see the same men living like the innocents do. They walk the same road as the victims, talk the same words the preachers do, rise the same time the sparrows do. They are oblivious, swimming in the fine lake of peace in their muddy clothes; the blood of their victims gushing away, fading with the sparkling crystal of the blind water.
Someday, Désolé Boy will write you happy stories. Those with happily ever afters and those that got singing mermaids in them. But for now, this is his story.
The title is inspired by Patricia Evangelista's article for Uno Magazine "The rape of Raymond Manalo." For other reactions on this article that you wish to privately address, you may e-mail me at firstname.lastname@example.org. Suggestions are also welcome.