The grass was wet. I could feel the cold seep into the cotton of my black dress but at least you wouldn't be able to tell my ass was damp when I finally stood up.

I needed to make sure that I inhaled as much as I could. I didn't want anyone else consuming what was meant for me. It was the best thing for everyone. I was already tainted anyway; sullied. I wasn't going to let him ruin someone else. I could at least choose that. 

Reading the words engraved on the granite stone in front of me, it annoyed me how many repeated consecutive letters there were in his stupid name:

AARON MATTHEW SAMMUELS

Two A’s, two T’s, two M’s. I found it oddly pretentious for such an ass to take up so many fucking letters. 

Ha, look at that! 

Two S’s too. 

“Well Aaron, what would be most appropriate: to add the title at the start or the end of your name?” 

I mean, if I added it to the start, it would make it an immediate thing. You would know from the beginning what to expect. If I put it at the end of his name, it would be like adding a surname, as though it had been passed down from one generation to the next; inherited, inevitable. Honestly, that seems fitting. 

The rest of his headstone was just as vague as the deception of his name. 

“Beloved Son. Rest in Peace.”

Oh, so sentimental—truly more than he deserved, all things considered. Frankly, I admire his mother’s bravery in putting up the stone in the first place. She has some gall, knowing the truth about her son. Of course, I’m sure she never expected I would someday read the engraving, let alone attend the funeral. I actually felt a little guilty walking in and seeing the realization settle in her eyes. Maybe I could have been a little more considerate and waited for the service to end before showing up, but truthfully, I deserved just as much of a chance to say ‘goodbye’ as they did. It was my life Aaron had stolen in dying. He was a coward through and through. The bastard didn’t even have the decency to stay alive for trial, and to me that said it all. 

But like all other things in life, it’s the thought that counts, right? I’m sure Aaron appreciates the sentiment of a grave and a funeral even if I don’t. Matter of fact, Aaron must have had many thoughts roaming around that tiny little mind of his before his untimely death.

He couldn’t live with the fact that he would have to sit on a stand and listen to everything he had done to me be recounted. He couldn’t look me in the eyes as he denied everything or tried to defend himself for the way he had slid his sweaty, grimy hands into me and carved me from the inside out. 

No, he could not bear it. What would his mother think? Oh, the guilt and the shame were simply too much for him!  He’d never be able to look her in the eyes again, the poor soul. 

So, he put on a nice suit and hung himself in the parlor in front of the crucifix instead. 

How sad. 

Devastating, really. 

A true tragedy to all those who would never know. 

Because now, no one would ever know.

His father, the chief of police, did everything to preserve his golden boy’s image the way he had buried his son—swiftly, and without a sliver of his remorse in sight. The media never heard a whisper. The evidence from the rape kit I had to endure after all those days locked in Aaron’s disgusting fucking basement? Gone. It  would never see the light of day. The police report I made? Probably burned and scattered across the soil that buried his son six feet under.  

So, that was that. It wasn’t my word against Aaron’s anymore—not that that would’ve gone any better. It was my word against the ‘grieving’ Chief of Police and his model wife, the picture of poise and class, even today as she watched the dirt fill her son’s grave.

It had been a small and private ceremony. I can’t really tell you who the hell was there because I didn’t really care. Their ‘beloved son’ could be beloved in death despite the fraud that he was. I wasn’t here to expose the farce that was their perfect-catholic-small- town-family image. I stood quietly off to the side waiting for the joke of a service to end so I could get on with my day. 

Throughout the service, I had looked around, admiring the morning glow of an unsuspecting beautiful spring day. The trees were blooming with the most calming shade of green. Most seemed to do their due diligence, quickly dropping of flowers, a few moments of silence, and then speeding off to outrun the lingering ghosts who might try and cling to life. Of course, the rebirth of spring wasn’t enough to placate their despair. The cool spring breeze might fill their lungs with the scent of the morning dew, but not breath. All I got though was the smell of mold in the freshly watered lawn and damp dirt. That was more of a personal constant for me though. A little perk from finally making it out of the basement.

There hadn’t been many other people roaming the cemetery outside of those who had attended Sir. Ass Aaron Matthew Samuel Jr.’s service. His parents must have spent a pretty penny on this block in the cemetery. It was beautiful; very well kept and mowed. There were flowers on almost every headstone around us. His mother had held a bouquet the whole service but she never dropped it off. After the pastor had finished his sermon she walked away, bouquet in hand. I wonder if she would have stayed after the service if I hadn’t shown up—if I hadn’t disturbed her peace and simply left her to grieve alone. However, Aaron was the one to disturb mine first, and since he decided to take the cowards way out, they, Madame Poise and Sir. Ass-Chief-of-Police-the-first, can be the ones to pay the price. 

A little cruel of me, I know. It really is not my best moment, but maybe his wickedness had already taken root within me the first time he forced himself on me—under of the crucifix in that parlor. I remember the way he kept using the lord's name in vain, mixed in with his pants and grunts. While he may have been pleading for self control, all I could do was stare at that crucifix and plead for it to be over—cursing whoever or whatever it was that had let this happen at all.

They always say that God only allows for what you can handle. I don’t really know what I did to make Him think I could handle this. I’ve spent a lot of time staring at my ceiling questioning that very doubt every night since, picturing that bleeding man nailed to the cross—He a willing participant in his sacrifice, me, a mere casualty of the sins he promised to forgive and die for. 

Of course, that’s not really why I’m here, sitting on the freshly watered lawn, in front of Aaron’s headstone, soaking my dress and contaminating my carved-out insides. I’m here because I read last night that the decaying body expels gases. Gases that seep out from six feet below the ground and enter the atmosphere. The air that we breathe and consume. 

All without our knowledge or consent. 

Anyone walking by would never know that they were breathing in the vile filth of a rapist’s—my rapist’s—decomposing body. They would not realize that his corpse was committing one final hurrah by penetrating someone else without. Their. Consent. 

Luckily for them however,  I’ve already been contaminated! 

I volunteer to willingly sacrifice whatever is left of my life, and consume the vileness Aaron expels as he rots beneath me. No one else deserves to have a piece of him inside them. To have it take root, fester. Whether or not they “can handle that. '' It’s not fair to not have that choice in the matter. So, that’s why I’m here. 

Because finally, this is my choice. 

Mine. 

I will be your God in this scenario. The one sacrificed for the greater good. This will the the trial you all get to witness—one full of stories other people tell as they drag me all around town for everyone to see, without ever having been there themselves. All my faults will be laid out at my feet as I too bleed from the wounds of your judgment and absence of faith and belief. 

Because who would have ever believed me anyway right?! 

Who am I in this retelling if not the girl blamed for her ‘seduction’ and naivety? The girl stupid enough to smile. The girl ungodly enough to be sacrificed in front of the Lord himself, because he always forgives, right?!

The back of my eyes began to burn as the scalding tears well up. I look up, blinking rapidly, forcing them to temper their tide. To anyone else walking past, it must look as if I’m grieving a death of a loved one, and I am. I am grieving. 

I’m just not grieving him. 

I’m grieving the death of 17-year-old Alekzandra Sofia Valdez. Beloved Daughter. Amazing older sister. Promising Student. An aspiring Poet. And now,... a Survivor. 

May She Rest in Peace

&

Live on in our Hearts

Ha, imagine the horror! Oh what would people think of her? Would they google me in hopes of learning how I died? Be heartbroken that I, too, had killed myself after my attacker had evaded justice? Or would they be relieved if I died of my own accord instead? 

“Gosh, at least he didn’t kill her,” they’d think. Never fathoming that maybe I wish he had.

Perhaps they’d cross paths with some of my poetry and rave about how I could've been someone big someday, with my entire future ahead of me if only I’d had more time. They’ll comfort themselves by thinking about how, at the very least, I would never have to face the critiques of my work because that alone could have killed me.

I laughed to myself with only Aaron to keep me company—then I laughed a little harder at the thought that this time, I was the one on top of him without him being able to get me off. 

“I don't know, what do you think Aaron?” 

I was talking to a stupid headstone—God, kill me.

“Should I add ‘survivor’ to the beginning of my name or put it at the end?” The trees rustled in a soft breeze that attempted to silence me. 

“Which fills you with more wonder?”

I bit my lip, containing the wicked smile that threatened to take over. “What if I ask for my ashes to be dumped on top of your degraded remains so that I may invade you the way you invaded me? You did say you loved the feeling of being buried inside me, didn’t you—so why not?” I leaned back on my hands, extending my legs on the freshly laid dirt, crossing my ankles.

“Wouldn’t you love that? To be infused together for the rest of eternity wherever the hell you ended up?” The wind picks up.

“Of course, you’ll have to wait a while given that you—being the bastard that you are—left me here to suffer the consequences of your actions alone.” I fisted the blades of grass, wishing with all my might that they were actual blades. A steady stream of agony leaked out through my eyes, blurring the words engraved on the stone.

“I have to deal with the stains and the bruises you left behind even after they’ve healed! I have to live with my skin raw and exposed—pulsing every second of every minute of every goddamn day for the rest of my life!”

I could feel the ache in my hands as I repeatedly clawed at his name, smearing it with the dirt. I can’t remember the exact moment I began assaulting the granite in front of me. The wraith from the service in ruins, sprawled around the base of the stone and all around us. It’s almost as if petals were laid out, guiding his way into the afterlife. Except, there is no clear path. The petals are scattered and confused, guiding every which way, lost in purgatory. 

They lead my path, my purgatory. 

I’m the one lost and scattered in this garden of death. The grim reaper hasn’t come to collect me despite the fact that I have died. 

I know I have.

I have to be. 

I can no longer feel the beating of my heart. All that is left is the maddening pulsing in my flesh. A pulsing that isn’t a heartbeat. It’s not a sign of life. Not a sign of breath. I stopped breathing from the minute he touched his hands to my hips—and as much as I gasp and try to catch my breath, I can’t seem to find air he took from me. Oxygen evades me, and the longer I go without it the more I continue to die. 

I die and I rot and I decompose.

I’m doing it, right now. Very poetically if I may say so myself. 

“How about that Aaron? I haven’t written a single line since making it out of your mold infested basement, but here I sit, the embodiment of your ultimate sin, spitting versers in my head of the legacy you have left! Seeds in the garden you never got to see!

“The ‘Beloved Son’ mourned by his wretched father, and forgiven by his devoted mother! Rest in peace, for God—the God you called out to as you corrupted me in front of the Father, the Son, and the holy fucking spirit—has forgiven you of all your sins! His mercy has no bounds, or so I’ve been told. He will welcome you with open arms. He will cleanse you of all your wrongdoings!

“And me? What about little old me?! Who will inhale my gases? Who will sit at my grave and be contaminated by my vileness, my bruises, my misery?! Who will cleanse me of you?!”

I’m still punching and scratching at his name when I feel arms encircle me, pulling me from the ground. I continue to kick at the stone and reach for it but their grip is too strong. I can’t get them off. 

Why can’t I get them off?! 

Why am I this useless?! 

“Alek!” They shout, “Alek please, stop!”

“I hate you!” I yell at Aaron, ignoring whoever came to his aid, “You bastard, I hate you! You did this to me! You ruined everything! I should’ve killed you—I wish I had killed you!” Their grip tightened around me. Settling me on the ground, I am faced away from Aaron’s stone, my back against his savior's chest. The tears that flowed down my face scorched with all my pent up rage. 

My voice became a testament carried by the breeze, “I don’t forgive you. Rot in hell the way I rot in life. You should’ve killed me. Why didn’t you just kill me?” I stopped fighting and just let my weight fall. I wailed and wailed, spewing my revulsion for everyone in the garden to hear. 

For the dead to cling to, for the living to fear, and for God to swallow as I crumbled and decayed on the wet grass. 

At least my body would serve for something. My own legacy, in a garden of my choosing. Maybe the elements would pity me and inhale my decomposition, use it to grow and make something beautiful and full of life rather than let it spread and multiply.

The scratches on my arms from my useless retribution stung with the silencing breeze, and my throat was sore from all the screaming. There was nothing else left in me to give, and the arms that had initially restrained me, now held me together as the ruins of of my rage crumbled into agony. He cried along with me, tormented by his own agony, or maybe influenced by witnessing mine. 

“I’m sorry, Alek. I’m so sorry,” he whispered, almost broken. It reminded me of how when we were kids, he’d sing in my ear so only I could hear. I hated myself even more for letting him see me like this. He shouldn’t be near Aaron right now either. He didn’t deserve to have Aaron consume a piece of him, the way that I did. I’m his big sister, I should be the one comforting him, assuring him. He shouldn’t have to be the one holding me together right now. 

But I’m just so tired. I’m so tired of not crying, of not speaking, of not being able to breath without remembering how I couldn’t do anything to protect myself. 

“I wish I’d killed him too.” 

I held onto his arms that were still wrapped around me, hugging him back. He wasn't here to save Aaron from me. He was here to save me from myself. 

“I have you. I promise I have you. I can be your big brother right now. As long as you need me to. I’ll step up, I'll change my name!” I could feel his tears soak my shoulder where his head lay on me. I laughed a little at his proposal to change his name. 

“Whatever you want, just please, please don't let him take you down with him.” I tightened my grip as he did the same. We were only eight minutes apart but he’d always held onto being the little brother. He liked being the youngest—it meant he didn’t have to deal with the Older Sibling Complex.

I raised my head and looked forward. An older woman sat on a bench a few rows down, directly in front of me. Her graying brown hair was pulled back into a low bun. Her eyes seemed to sink in from how swollen they were. It must have been all the silent crying at the funeral. He had her eyes, but hers were gentler. Less piercing. The bouquet lay next to her on the bench, its petals fallen on the ground. They were white, like the ones from the wraith I’d destroyed. 

She didn’t cry. 

She didn’t speak. 

She sat there watching Arin hug me. Behind her, two figures slowly came into focus. My dad had his arms wrapped around my mom, who was covering her mouth and crying silently. The heartbroken mother followed my gaze and spotted my parents. She closed her eyes and let out a deep sigh with her hand on her chest, the other gripping the flowers next to her, causing more petals to fall. The breeze carried the petals forward a bit towards me and paved the way for her exhale to reach me. I inhaled deeply, finally feeling as the oxygen reach my lungs. 

I looked back at the grieving mother, and silently thanked her for allowing me to grieve myself at her son's grave. As my parents walked past her, my father looked over and thanked her—she must’ve called them. 

I break away from Arin and turn to look at my twin brother. I held his hand and looked into his eyes, taking a mental note to never wish for twin pain telepathy again. Truthfully, I hadn’t realized that, ever since coming home, I had avoided using his name, let alone that he had and was hurt by it.

“I don’t want you to change your name Arin,” I said with a sad smile. “At least yours doesn’t have repeated consecutive letters.” He laughed at this along with me, and squeezed my hand a little tighter before hugging me again. As our parents reached us, we stood and hugged all together once again, directly on top of the freshly laid dirt. They took a deep breath as we hugged, inhaling what I had initially set out to consume myself. I realized in that moment, we’d all been marked by him in different ways. But that didn't mean we had to continue letting him do it.

My mom touched my cheek, and brushed away a few loose strands of my disheveled hair. She pulled a single white petal stuck between the tangles and let it fall at her feet. I looked into her eyes as she cried. A heartbroken mother, grieving for her child. “Let’s go home,” I say, and she slowly shakes her head in agreement. She and dad walk in front, his arm still wrapped around her while Arin and I walk behind them. 

When we reach the bench, I stray from my family. Arin looks over at me but doesn't stop me or alert our parents, he simply waits for me on the pavement. As I walk up to her, she just stares at his grave, her hands now on her lap. I sit next to her, once again interrupting her grieving, I realize. Neither one of us says anything for a few breaths. We sit in the silence of the breeze.

Aaron was not a good person. He had done what no one ever has the right to do to another person. He has inflicted wounds that would never heal, and pain that would never dim. I meant what I said. I would never forgive him. I would never forget.

I am no God, and he was no saint. 

He was an ass, a predator, a rapist, and a coward bastard just as much as I am a girl, a daughter, a sister, a poet—a survivor. 

But he was also a son, and she had been his mother. 

“I’m sorry for your loss. I promise I won’t be back to disturb you again.” 

She was quiet for a few moments as her tears slowly and silently rolled down to water the wilting petals at her feet. As I was deciding to stand up and leave, she broke the silence. 

“I’m far more sorry for yours.” 

I closed my eyes, letting her words sink in. There was so much about all of this that was still not fair. There was still, so much that I could not handle— and yet here I was, facing it. 

“Forgive me. For raising someone who would hurt you this way.” 

There was so much that had been out of my control, so many people I was angry at and wanted to blame. Needed to blame. Aaron would never see the inside of a cell. He would never face the humiliation I felt, even now. My lesson in all this, if there is one at all, is that while there is so much I will never be able to change, what I can do, is choose to face another day. To blame those who are truly, at fault. And to try and ignore those who would believe it was mine. 

I stood up and smoothed the front of my dress, looking anywhere but at her eyes. “It’s not your fault,” I answered her honestly. 

I would never get to be who I was before all of this. Aaron, Aaron took that from me. But what I do get to do, is decide who I get to be now. 

That, is my choice. 

“He didn’t get it from you.” 

Nothing about any of this has been easy. Nothing about it moving forward ever would be again. But I wouldn’t take the cowards way out like he had. I’d rather wait for the day when my gases outweigh the vileness he left behind in me, and expel the resilience and strength I have chosen to grow.

I took one last look at his name engraved on that stone before walking away—holding my breath.