untouched | (adj.) | not affected, changed or damaged in anyway
I remember reading somewhere that it takes the body seven years to replace a set of skin cells completely. And so, hypothetically, there could be a point in one’s life where the skin they had was completely new.
I also remember thinking that seven years was too long.
I researched that burn victims get skin grafts and that there had been at least two successful whole-body skin grafts. I begged my mum, crying day after day, to please take me to the doctor so I could have new skin. Untouched skin. Because no amount of scrubbing, scratching, or rubbing could eliminate the fact that hands I didn’t invite had been all over me, sometimes, I still feel hands grabbing at me — when I’m swimming or lying in bed. Sometimes, I have to fight the urge to scratch my skin off (something I did quite frequently in high school); sometimes, I don’t manage.
I used to laugh about it.
Not the rape itself but the fact that I’ve been raped; I don’t know if that makes sense. I don’t know; it’s like–who does that? It felt like a plot from a Tyler Perry movie or something. The ridiculousness of being sexually assaulted multiple times, like, get your shit together, Nyaniso. It took me about four years to cry after the big one, “Big one”, because it was the first time I was “rape” raped. I guess I kind of blame myself for the three before that one. So it took a while to register them in my mind as rape, but I said no, and they didn’t listen, and I was under the age of 13, so…
It was the year after we moved to South Africa. Our housekeeper was murdered two months before, so my grandmother took us (my mum, sister and I) to our favourite resort for a getaway. It was the last day of our trip, 30 June 2012, and I had been on the waterslides with a few friends I had made.
He was a lifeguard. Probably 50ish. White guy with that red skin that white people get from the sun and age, and his hair was that greasy blond. He had been joking around with us most of the time, so I didn’t pay him any mind, but he had made me uncomfortable.
I should’ve said something, but I was 15 and didn’t want to sound dumb — so I didn’t. I remember the last time I went up the slide, this little girl stopped me and said, “please be careful with my daddy”.
I should’ve listened.
I should’ve left.
My mum had said we only had 10 min left.
I should’ve just gone.
But I didn’t.
I’ll spare the details. But I still don’t feel comfortable swimming in a pool with other people. When people do that thing of grabbing legs while swimming, my body shuts off. I stop breathing like I did that day because I was scared he would drown me.
People seem to think that rape is about sex. It isn’t. It’s about power. If it were about sex, most rape victims would never have sex again; but they do.
In fact, and this isn’t scientific or anything, just from my conversations with friends, it appears that most victims go through a phase of fucking pretty much anything that moves. Not for the sex, but for the ability to say, “I want it”.
Rape is 100% about the power over someone else’s body, to be able to take away their chance to say “yes” or “no”. And the phase is about scrambling to take that power back. Someone invaded my personal space, and I felt powerless. As a shitty way it is to claim back that power, it’s a scramble to say “yes” as often as possible. Because maybe, the 15 “yeses” that I gave this week will cancel out the “no” that was ignored (it doesn’t).
I wonder if he ever thinks about me.
If his life is broken into a “before” and “after” the way that mine is. I wonder if the smell of sunscreen makes him nauseous even though it used to be one of his favourite scents. I wonder if he has to go to therapy or has flashbacks so real that he has to sleep with the light on because sometimes he mistakes his partner for me.
I wonder if he ever hated me. The way I hated him. I hated him for taking me away from my body — my skin, my one true home and turning it into something dirty. Something that I wanted to rip off, scratch off, burn, harm anything to get back at it for betraying me. This body that I’m stuck with for the rest of my life. The thing is, seven years gets rid of the skin cells.
But it’s still me.
He didn’t rape my body. He raped me. No surgery can get rid of that.
I wonder if he ever thinks about that day and if I impacted his life. I wonder if he ever thinks it’s been seven years, and he finally has a new set of skin cells I never touched. If he ever goes to bed and wonders how I’m doing now. I’m great, by the way, really, truly great.
