The Denim Skirt by Evelyn Steveson

Denim is a type of fabric used to make clothing: pants, skirts, jackets, shirts. The type of weaving makes it strong, almost invincible. Although dyed blue, the core stands white; the dye can’t penetrate that deep. Denim is stylish and one of the most popular and lasting clothing materials used to this day. Even old, worn and used denim is worth something. Used. Such a nasty word.

You’re the worst person. Stupid whore, you’re ugly, gross, I wouldn’t do that, you’re confused, I was drunk, you wanted me, you reached for my pants, you moved toward me, don’t you know I had blacked out too? Just because you don’t remember it doesn’t mean you had passed out. You love me, you care about me, I didn’t rape you, you’re a stupid slut. I care about you, I love you, stop being a bitch. God, I love you so much, why would I do that? I didn’t rape you, no one will believe you. We’ve already slept together, you can’t prove it. I love you, I wouldn’t do that to you. Get away from me, such a liar.

I liked the way I looked that night — a denim skirt, tank top, and flip flops were settled on after many outfit changes in front of the mirror with my friends, laughing, having a fun time. I, to this day, get dizzy and nauseated looking at a denim skirt. A therapist once told me that it was a symptom of PTSD; it may come and go, hit me when I least expect it. Who knew — denim — a trigger. A trigger. You gave me a trigger. PTSD. You gave me PTSD.

I liked the way you looked that night too, maybe you should have covered up more. I wouldn’t do that, you’re confused, PTSD? Oh please, you never went to war, I went to war. Wear the skirt, I like skirts. I love you and care for you. You’re such an awful person, no one likes you anyways. Why don’t you talk to me? Text me back, just do it, everything will be okay, just respond to me, I can help you understand.

I had purchased my best friend and I each a fifth, Captain Morgan for me, Southern Comfort for her. I mention this because I still blame myself a little, I shouldn’t have guzzled a fifth of alcohol. If I hadn’t this would be a different tale and I know that. As we drove out to the party, deep down through back roads, we laughed and sang. We were happy. It was going to be a fun night. I was single, not looking, not needing, and if I needed something, I had someone for that. It was you, I’ll admit it bluntly, it was you. At least at the time, it was you. Over and over again you expressed we were nothing. Friends that sometimes hooked up, but nothing more. During the night, my car window was broken by a boy who had punched it in on accident, thinking it was his own. You cursed and screamed at him, as blood poured from his arm. My best friend and I quickly helped him to the bathroom, shutting the door behind up, cleaning his wounds and the glass. The kid was scared and upset, he had made a mistake, and mistakes I understood. I could hear you outside, cursing and screaming “That’s my woman, that’s my girl,” taking the moment as something it wasn’t and claiming something that wasn’t yours to claim. After making sure I understood we were just friends, you were claiming me as your own, like a piece of property. Jealousy ran worse than rampant that night, a danger I should have seen. I drank my bottle down, dancing, singing, and playing with friends. Never knowing there was a dark shadow, following and leering. I had claimed my own freedom from you, you pushed me to it, and I claimed it, soaking it in. You said I was free to do whatever I pleased, but that’s not what you meant. You meant you were free.

Come on, I was blackout drunk, I don’t even remember talking to you. You wanted it, you’re a whore, you drank too much, dancing around like you were something special. You should have worn a sweatshirt, you were showing off. You will never get rid of me, you loved me. Why would I ever do that to you, I hate you. Fuck you.

The party had wound down, and I was in no position to drive; we were all hanging out in the living room — safety in numbers. I wish I had known. You asked to talk to me. I could barely walk, but I went to the outdoor garage with you. You were my friend, remember? You were supposed to be safe. I remember arguing and you smashing your phone. I remember telling you that I hoped you got hit by a car. A drunken fight. The room was spinning; but I do remember there was a couch; it was yellow. A damn yellow couch, that’s what I remember, even after all these years. I’m not sure everything you thought when you saw me alone there, but I do know, you thought I was yours, yours to claim again. That’s where I woke up. I remember the confusion when I saw my underwear at my ankles and felt my denim skirt above my waist. I remember the feeling — the indescribable feeling — of seeing you lying there next to me. The fear. The rage. The shock I felt as I ran back into the house and grabbed my best friend as fast as I could and rushed her into my car. The fear I felt as you jumped into the back, cursing me out for trying to leave you. Do you know I still lock the door every time I get in a car? That I have a hard time concentrating if someone is sitting behind me? Just another symptom of my PTSD. I shook the whole way home.

You were such a bitch just trying to leave me there. We had already slept together before, you can’t prove a thing, who cares if some people think it’s true. If you remember the couch, you remember wanting it. Everyone knows what a slut you were that night, I told them all. Running around guy to guy, just trying to hand it out. I didn’t take anything you weren’t offering up. I don’t care what you remember, listen to what I’m telling you about that night, it’s the truth.

I was confused and a mess. My head was swirling with memories. You were one of my best friends, we loved each other in a messed-up way. We had known each other for years. Happy memories of our friendship slowly darkened into a lump in my throat and iron in my stomach. You wouldn’t do that to me. You told me that. Over and over, I heard it, I remembered it. I started to believe it, I loved you and you wouldn’t do that. Right?

I wouldn’t do that, that’s the truth. I don’t know why you were so mad, you let me do it, we were both really drunk. We love each other. We were best friends, we’ve known each other since high school, we will be all over the news, everyone will hear about what a slut you were that night, I didn’t rape you anyways, it’s pointless. You’re pointless.

Do you remember attacking me at the bowling alley? Do you remember I had to have two men carry me out to save me? You ran at me screaming violently that you didn’t rape me, with 38 lanes of people staring, hearing you shame me, beat me down to that white core of a denim skirt. I can still feel you reaching into my car, touching my face. You wanted it to seem loving, like you really did care, use my weakness against me. Luckily, I took it for what it was: a warning to shut my mouth. I take pride in the woman I am today: strong. Ashamed of what you did to me, but more ashamed of surrendering.

You wouldn’t even talk to me! You were acting like I did something wrong, I didn’t rape you, you wanted it. You love me and I love you. I think you just drank too much and don’t remember us making up. I had to yell at you, you weren’t listening to me, you never listen, just like that night, acting like I didn’t exist. You think you’re better than me, I’m showing everyone who’s better, I never even wanted you, you are nasty, you were all over me. I didn’t rape you, you basically raped me, I don’t even remember that night. I blacked out too.

It took me time to understand, but you did rape me. I didn’t say yes, I was too drunk to say no, I wasn’t even awake! It isn’t okay. You wanted to show that you had the power, that you had me. It’s not okay to feel like an overused denim skirt. White is a symbol of purity, but it’s also a symbol of surrender. I gave in, I ran, I hid. It was easy to ignore what you did, because you weren’t around. It was easier to think it was my fault. I shouldn’t have worn that skirt, I shouldn’t have drank that much, I shouldn’t have pushed you. I shouldn’t have passed out on a couch alone. You spoke, I listened. It embedded into my memories, my dreams, and was weaved into the strong fabric of that denim skirt, deeper into that white core.

See, you know it’s your fault. I didn’t rape you. You drank way too much, you were acting crazy, talking to every guy at the party, just running around like I was nothing. You were asking for it. You didn’t say no, you grabbed for me, just because you don’t remember doesn’t mean it’s rape, we have already slept together, no one will believe you. You really shouldn’t drink or wear clothes like that. Everyone should watch out for you, if you change your mind you’ll call rape.

You can wash denim, over and over again, and I did. The problem with washing it is it doesn’t make it new again, it’s forever used. I could have washed that skirt a thousand times, but the betrayal was woven in strong. It looks used. You used me, wore me down to my core. I told myself I was used, unworthy of anything good. I quit my job, drank the pain away, cried, sometimes took three showers a day. I still can’t scrub you off of me. Your betrayal lingers, so strong I can’t bring myself to buy a denim skirt. A type of fabric triggers — triggers — a response in my body of fear. Something my body experienced but I wasn’t mentally there for. I was only there to try and scrub myself down to the core, to erase the imprint it made.

You can’t erase me, you can’t wash me off. You love me. I wouldn’t do that, you’re confused, I was drunk, you wanted me, you reached for my pants. You love me, you care about me, I didn’t rape you, you’re a stupid slut. I care about you, I love you, stop being a bitch. I didn’t rape you, fuck you, no one will believe you. You’re dirty. We’ve already slept together you can’t prove it. I love you, I wouldn’t do that to you. You’re bad in bed anyways, why would I want to touch you?

I’ve always had a hard time with touch, and now you’ve added to it. The flinching when someone gets too close, the pounding heart when a nightmare of that night struggles into my mind, filled with sweat and tears, my whole body shaking, trying to heal. I shrug off hugs. A feeling that comes over me at night, a feeling of someone hovering over me, waiting. Rape isn’t just one night; rape doesn’t make a victim for a moment in time. Rape is something you live with every day. Rape is something that grabs you at night. It steals happy moments, like a cloud always hanging nearby. Rape is the inability to buy or wear a denim skirt again. Rape is your husband coming to bed, brushing your hand and you flinch. Rape is never being the same. I was raped, I will be a victim for the rest of my life. You penetrated deep into the innocent, undyed core of that denim skirt. But that doesn’t mean I have to play victim. I can help others, I can fight for justice, I can fight for that girl who wants to go to a party, wear a denim skirt, dance, and make it home, without becoming a statistic. Just because denim is used, worn, ripped, and torn, doesn’t make it worthless, it still has a purpose. I have a purpose.