"I had been visiting a friend that night and lost track of the time. When I realized it was past curfew, I decided to walk home. The path home was well-worn but poorly lit. About halfway there, I heard rustling coming from a nearby bush. Within seconds, he was on top of me, holding me down. I knew him. While groping me, he made it clear that he intended to have sex with me, whether I consented or not.

I screamed, “No!” over and over.

He muffled my cries by putting his hand over my mouth and nose until I couldn’t breathe. I fought him, but I was no match for a grown man. He hit me hard, repeatedly. The physical violence of the act of rape was excruciatingly painful. I felt like I was being stabbed and gutted from within. The pain was so terrible that I felt as though my spirit left my body and I was floating above myself—witnessing my own sexual assault. My soul cried out to God.

After he had finished, he uttered one final threat: “Tell them and I’ll do it again. They’ll never believe you anyway. I’ll say you wanted it.”

Then he got up and left without a second thought, as if he had just finished using the bathroom. I was fifteen years old."

Get the Story:
Ruth Hopkins: Circle of Violence: A Call for Healing (Indian Country Today 8/6)

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