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 wet when I finally stood up—though that wouldn’t be at least for a while longer. 

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

I kept reading the words engraved on the granite stone in front of me:

AARON MATTHEW SAMMUELS

How annoying that there were repeated consecutive letters in his stupid name. 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. 

What would be most appropriate, to add the title at the start or end of his name? I mean, if I added it to the start of his name it became an immediate thing. You would know from the beginning what to expect. But if I added it to the end of his name it would be like adding a Surname. Like it had been passed down from one generation to the next and honestly, it seems fitting. 

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

“Beloved Son. Rest in Peace.”

How sentimental. Truly more than he deserved all things considered. And I have got to say I admire his mother’s bravery for putting up the stone in the first place. Of course, I’m sure they never expected I would show up to the funeral, let alone have read the engraving. I actually feel a little guilty walking in and seeing the realization settle in their eyes. Maybe I should’ve 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 after all he had stolen in dying. Because the bastard didn’t even have the decency to stay alive for trial. 

He couldn’t live with the fact that he would have to sit on that 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 in me and carved me from the inside out. 

No, no, no. What would his mother think? Oh the guilt and the shame was too much for him! The poor soul, he simply could not! He’d never be able to look her in the eyes again. So he put on a nice suit and hung himself in the parlor, in front of the crucifix instead. 

How sad. 

How devastating. 

A true tragedy to those who would never know. 

Because of course his father was the chief of police and would bury anything and everything to preserve his golden boy’s image. The media would never hear a whisper of the charges made against him and of the evidence from the rape kit I had to endure after all those days locked in his disgusting fucking basement would sit in the back of some evidence locker that would never again see the light of day. I can still smell the mold if I close my eyes and inhale. In fact, I can smell it right now in the freshly watered lawn and damp dirt. 

You know I'm sure his parents spent a pretty penny on this block in the cemetery. It was honestly beautiful; very well kept and mowed. There were flowers in almost every headstone around. 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 his parents would have stayed after the service if I hadn’t shown up—if I hadn’t disturbed their peace and left them to grieve alone. Maybe his wickedness had already taken root the first time he forced himself on me, in front of the crucifix in the parlor. 

I remember the way he kept using the lord's name in vain. All I could do was stare at that crucifix pleading for it to be over. Cursing whoever or whatever it was that had set me on this path. They always say that God only allows for what you could 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. 

But that’s not really why I’m here, sitting on the freshly watered lawn, in front of his headstone, soaking my dress and contaminating my carved out insides. I’m here because I read last night, in the middle of my research on death, that the decaying body expels gasses. Gasses that then seep out from six feet below the ground and enter the atmosphere. The air that we breathe and consume. All without someone's knowledge or consent. 

Anyone walking nearby wouldn’t know that they were breathing in the vial filth of a rapist’s—my rapist’s—decomposing body. That his corpse was committing one final hurrah and non-consensually penetrating someone else. 

So, seeing as I’ve already been contaminated by his vial-ness I don’t see why anyone else should. 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 just doesn’t seem fair to not have that choice in the matter. That’s why I’m here. 

This is my choice. 

Mine. 

Finally. 

The back of my eyes started to burn, and I could feel the scolding tears welling up. I started blinking rapidly as I looked up. I’m sure to anyone else walking by it looks as if I’m grieving the death of whomever, and I am. I am grieving. 

I’m just not grieving for 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? Would they google me in hopes of learning how I died? Be heartbroken that I also had killed myself after finding out my attacker had evaded justice? Would they be relieved if I died of something else entirely? “Gosh, at least he didn’t kill her” , never even fathoming that maybe I wish he had.

Maybe they’d instead 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. Or rather they’ll think I at least didn't have to live to read the critiques of my work because that alone would 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 for shock value?” The trees rustled in the soft breeze that attempted to silence me, “Which leaves you with more wonder?”

I bite on my lip, containing the wicked smile that threatens to take over. “Or 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 once you loved the feeling of being buried inside me, didn’t you—so why not?” I leaned back on my hands and extended 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?”

“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. It blurred 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 my life 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 claw at the stone, 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 granite and all around nearby. It’s almost as if pedals were laid out, guiding his way into the afterlife. Except, there’s no distinct or clear path exactly. The pedals 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 the garden of death. The grim reaper hasn’t come to collect me despite the fact that I’ve died. 

Because I’m dead. I know I am. 

I can no longer feel the beating of my heart. All I feel is that pulsating in my flesh. I stopped breathing from the minute he laid his hands on me, and as much as I gasp and try to catch my breath I can’t seem to find air. The oxygen evades me and the longer I go without it the more I continue to die. I die and die and decompose.

Who will inhale my gasses?

Who is strong enough to handle being contaminated by my vileness, my bruises, my misery. 

I’m still punching and scratching at his name when I feel someone's arms encircle me and pull me off 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’D KILLED YOU. WHY DIDN’T YOU KILL ME?!”

I’m on the ground again, but this time facing away from the stone, my back against his savior's chest. 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. Maybe the elements would take pity on 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. The arms that had restrained me before now held me together. He cried along with me, tormented by his own agony, or maybe influenced by mine. 

“I’m sorry Alek. I’m so sorry.” he spoke softly, almost broken, and I hated myself even more for letting him see me like this. 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. 

“I wish I’d killed him too sis.” 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 laid 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 because 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 pack into a low bun. Her eyes seemed sunk in from how swollen they were. It must have been all the silent crying at the funeral. He had her eyes, but hers are gentler. Less piercing. The bouquet of flowers laid next to her on the bench, pedals on the ground directly below it, were white like the ones from the wraith. 

She didn’t cry. She didn’t speak. She sat there watching Arin hug me and cry with 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 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. When my parents passed her, my father looked over to her 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. Ever since I came home, I’ve avoided using his name. I didn’t realize he had noticed it, let alone been hurt by it. 

“I don’t want you to change your name Arin,” I said with a small 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. We stood up when our parents reached us, and we all hugged 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, 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 placed her hand on my cheek, and brushed away a few loose strands of my disheveled hair. 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. Her 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 her son's grave, her hands now on her lap. I sit next to her, once again interrupting her grieving I realize. I wait a few breaths before turning to face her.

“I’m really sorry about your loss. I promise I won’t disturb you again.” 

She was silent for a few moments. As I was deciding to stand up and leave, she turns to me. “I’m more sorry for yours,” she says with the most timid smile, tears in her eyes. “Forgive me. For raising someone who would hurt you this way.” I stood up and smoothed the front of my dress, looking anywhere but her eyes, “It’s not your fault,” I answered her honestly, “He didn’t get it from you.” I offered her a small smile in return before taking one last look at his name, and walking away—holding my breath.