There was no struggle. It didn't even hurt, really. When he finished, he lay down beside me and fell asleep. I stayed there, wide awake. Stunned and dazed. Afraid and enraged. I prayed for my eyes to close, the sweet escape of slumber, and that after I’d wake to find that it had all been a nightmare.

My prayers fall on indifferent or impotent ears. Just as my “no” did. I stare at the white plain plaster ceiling and marvel at how I'd never noticed how high it is until now. My eyes occasionally slide to the back of his head. The curve of his skull, the fall of his long, graying hair achingly familiar and completely terrifying as I remember the way it had brushed over my face, coating me in a sickening cocktail of chlorine and smoke that I know I’ll never stop smelling.

I can hear the sounds of the party from downstairs and don't know how they can still be celebrating while I'm dying. I scream. But there’s no sound. There's nothing but the vibrating exhalation of his snores. Like the purr of a chainsaw, they carry the promise of a swift and violent destruction. And yet, only when it stops and I know he’s waking up, do I feel the first frisson of real fear rush through me. My eyes snap shut. My heart clangs so violently against my ribcage that I'm sure he can hear my fear. Will he try to wake me? Does he care whether or not I’m awake? Does he want more? A sheen of moisture pops up above my top lip at the thought, and I have to stop myself from pressing my legs together. How much more can I take? I stop breathing and wait. Maybe if I hold my breath long enough, I’ll pass out and won’t know what happens next.

Then I hear the rustle of his jeans as he steps into them. The whisper of his zipper engaging and the soft thud of his feet shoving into his shoes. I wait for the snick of the door's handle as he turns, but it never comes. The prickle of awareness, that built in radar for danger tells me he’s standing over me. The brave part of my spirit, that has never known what it means to back down, forces me to open my eyes.

I look up at him, the face of the man who has been like a father to me. He's smiling down at me as if doesn’t know we are now mortal adversaries. I don't return his smile. I stare unblinkingly at him. His smile falters but doesn’t disappear as he leans toward me. My mind howls for him to stop, but I can’t form the words. Sadness and a desperate confusion have left me paralyzed. He presses a kiss to my unresponsive mouth and says, "Go back to sleep, I'll see you later."

Again, my mind shouts. But, its protest is hostage by my frozen vocal chords. He retreats and turns toward the door. He stops suddenly and looks over his shoulder at me. His expression menacing – his teeth are gritted and his are narrowed to slits. He doesn’t even look like himself. But clearly, I never really knew him at all.

I need him to leave. Fear that he’s not leaving - that he’s going to do it again - sets my heart to thundering and I can’t breathe. He stares at me for a full minute before he speaks.

“They won’t believe you,” he says softly, his tone full of certainty. My terror collapses inward and reshapes itself into horror.

He’s right. They wouldn’t believe it. Not coming from me.

He watches me until he’s satisfied that the truth in his statement has sunk in before he turns to walk out.

I return my eyes to the ceiling. When he finally shuts my bedroom door, I close them.

I can’t believe this nightmare happened on a day that had been so beautiful and happy.

To celebrate the New Year and our friendship, and despite the freezing weather, we’d braved the hot tub, grilled outside on our deck. The champagne flowed liberally as we toasted a wonderful visit with a dear friend and our last night together.

Every conspiratorial smile and wink he shot my way while we'd eaten dinner now feel like warnings instead of friendly gestures. Every casual brush of his hands over mine as we'd watched Love Actually, an ominous portent of what he had planned.

Paul. The name I’ve associated with home, happiness and humor, will now be the propellant for a bilious kind of hurt.

This holiday was different from others we'd spent together. He stayed with us instead of in a hotel. My mother said that he was “family” and that meant staying in our guest room.

He came upstairs to help me pack after the movie. Everyone else decided to watch The Christmas Story. Spirits were high, and I was only the one with a flight to catch early in the morning.

When he kissed me, I let him. A sort of farewell, I thought. When his hand grabbed my breast, roughly, I yelped in pain and jumped out of his grasp. Confusion was my first emotion. Surely, he hadn’t meant to do that. One glimpse at his face told me he had. His expression was so blatantly lustful that it was almost a caricature. His eyes blazed, trained on my breasts, his face split by a lascivious smile. He licked his lips and hissed in anticipation as he advanced on me. I stepped back, speechless and afraid.

He yanked me close again, pressed me back into my bed. I said no, asked him to stop. It was like he didn't hear me because he climbed on top of me, wrenched my thighs open and settled his hips between mine. He used his full weight to hold me still, and I was too stunned to struggle. I didn’t move an inch as I felt him reach between us and fumble with his jeans.

It was only when he reached under my skirt, pushed my panties to the side that I whimpered and tried to move. He only pressed his torso more firmly into mine, pushing me into the mattress and grunted, "I'm not going to hurt you" as he penetrated me. The disbelief and pain were so overwhelming that no other sensation or thought registered. My mind went blank.

And I just lay there, eyes wide with shock, my mouth twisted in grimace as he thrust in and out of me, groaned in my ear, huffed his breath all over my face. My entire body went rigid, except for my hands that grasped the sheets - they flexed in time with his hips.

He didn't use a condom.

The realization should make me sit up. But I can't move. My body feels immobilized, yet my mind sprints.

Should I tell someone? What would I say? What do I call what just happened? Is it rape if you don't struggle? I let him into my room. My whole family was home. What would my mother think? She thinks I'm still a virgin. Or at least I think she does. I'm 24 and have a boyfriend, maybe she has a clue that I have sex. But, I couldn't tell her anything like this. Shock, doubt, disappointment. I can already see it written all over her face.

Milly, my older sister, who just had a baby, is so blissfully happy. I can't ruin her Christmas. And Addie, my baby sister, I can't tell her how stupid I've been. I feel a sharp stab of sadness as I imagine their reactions.

My eyes drift away from the ceiling and move around my bedroom. It all looks the same. Yet, I know that it will never be my sanctuary again. My walls are covered with posters of musicians I loved growing up, their smiles now look like leers. Their eyes, having witnessed my shame, seem to be delighting in my torment.

And then my eyes land on the pillow next to mine. On it is a strand of his hair. Greying and long, it lies there suddenly as dangerous and venomous as a snake. It breaks my paralysis as I jump out of my bed, scrambling to get away from the danger I sense. I stare at my bed, the same one I've slept in since I was a teenager. It used to be my favorite place. The queen-sized mattress an indulgence that my mother allowed even though it was too big for the small room.

The bed, this room, all become unbearably hot. An anguished wail climbs up my throat, but when I open my mouth, there is no sound. My hands move frantically over my body, tearing the clothes off, unable to bear the smell of him on them any longer.

I want to set everything I see on fire, and without any thought for my modesty, I hurry out of my room and into the bathroom across from it.

I turn on the shower and step in immediately, not waiting for the water to warm. The cold water that I normally find unbearable feels like a succor. I scrub myself raw. I wash my thighs, sticky with his cum. I scrub my lips because I can still taste him. As the water heats up, I stand up and let it rush down my body, hoping that the rivulets are taking the pain with them. After a few minutes, when the ache doesn't go away, I give up and turn the water off. I avoid the mirror. I don't want to see what's reflected there. What he saw that made him think I could be used that way. “No one will believe you.” I repeat what he said. And I know it’s true. Good time Lilly. Licky Lilly, the Queen of the Blow Job. Those were titles I’d worn proudly in high school. I wasn’t ashamed that I liked sex. But now, I know that I should be. It’s why he thought he could just take me.

I walk back to my bedroom, but as soon as I step inside, waves of revulsion course over me. I'm an early riser and have always relished the solitude that being the first person to wake up afforded me. This morning, though, I want to bang on their doors and wake them up.

To tell them that their laughter was the soundtrack that played while he fucked me.

To ask them how they didn’t feel the seismic shift that rocked the entire world when he stole my self-worth and innocence from me. These thoughts are irrational. They couldn’t have known. But, I can’t stop hearing their laughter.

I need to get out of this room.

I grab my suitcase, the one I was supposed to finish packing last night, and drag it into the hallway; I gather what I need from it and get dressed in the bathroom. When I'm done, I stand in the open doorway of my bedroom and stare at the door. Its white wooden appearance belying that it was in fact a gateway to hell. I'll never sleep there again. It is as ruined, tainted, and untouchable as I am, now.