Never heard him lock the door, part 2.

For two nights I cried myself to sleep.

For two weeks I hid my neck in flesh-tone eyeshadow, collared shirts, and zip-up sweatshirts. My parents never noticed, but I felt just as dirty and ashamed as though they had. The scratches on my back burned in the shower each night and I felt as though a brick had taken up permanent residence in the very bottom of my stomach.

Two months later, we returned to his apartment.
He sent a lion-haired boy with tragic acne to let us into the apartment building. The elevator doors opened to the third floor, where Dirty Hippy's boyfriend lay on the grayish carpet; his hair, dark and stringy and splayed out on the floor around him, looked almost like blood from a distance. Dirty Hippy screamed. The 21-year-old Army asshole yanked him back into the apartment by the legs of his pants and scooped me into his arms, kissing me.
Two minutes later, everyone had gone from the apartment and we sat on his couch, he with his belt unbuckled and I with my hair askew. He took me into his bedroom but this time I was sober and aware and frightened; my clothes felt heavy and the brick in my stomach had finally dislodged itself and was making its way back to my mouth where it had presumably entered two months ago.

Two hours later, he finished himself off in the bathroom while I put on the skirt he bought me - $40, from Express. I smiled and made a show of it, pretended to be happy and flounced around like a 50s sitcom housewife.
I vomited the next morning and hid the skirt in the pile of clothes I wanted to send to my cousins in Arkansas.

For two years, I refused to answer calls from numbers I didn't recognize.