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RUINED<br />
When he was finally done, he climbed <strong>of</strong>f me. He sat on the<br />
edge <strong>of</strong> the bed and got dressed, the gun between us. <strong>The</strong>n he<br />
looked through Marty’s jewelry box in a desultory way and found<br />
some hard candy. He held a piece out to me, the plastic-wrapped<br />
globe in the center <strong>of</strong> his pink palm.<br />
For a moment I considered taking it. What would it matter?<br />
Sugar to salve the pain. It was Marty’s candy after all, not his. And<br />
then it hit me that everything in this room was Marty’s. I had been<br />
raped on her bed. It was a fact. Unchangeable. It had happened and<br />
could never be undone. None <strong>of</strong> this night could be undone.<br />
This was not how I wanted to be connected to Marty. This was<br />
not the bond we had cultivated. We were friends, a hard- fought<br />
friendship, already multilayered. What would our bond be now?<br />
Fellow victims? Perhaps I sensed, already, that this bond was too<br />
charged, that it would generate a rupture between us.<br />
<strong>The</strong> rapist unwrapped Marty’s candy and sucked on it. He told<br />
me to get dressed, watching my every move. I thought about the<br />
candy. I was thirsty. My mouth tasted bitter.<br />
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