Free Elastic Heart by Mary Catherine Gebhard

came together.
    His tongue was in my throat. I tried to close my mouth but he was too strong. He shoved it between my teeth, the force reminding me of a dental appointment. I tasted him. It was foreign and wrong.
    I gasped as the memory blasted through me. Shoving off Law, I stood alone, breathing heavily.
    “Nami, what is it?” Law asked, concerned. “What’s wrong?” What was wrong was that Morris was everywhere. I would never escape him. I pulled the door behind me open without a word and dashed out of the room. I heard Law calling after me, but I didn’t respond.
    I couldn’t bear to tell him that his kiss reminded me of the rape.
     
    I sat in the bar contemplating life. I didn’t go to bars any more, but after my night with Law and my newly formed plan to take Morris down, I needed a drink. The place was an utter dive. Nestled on the wrong end of State Street, no one cared who I was; they were all way past drunk.
    The lights were nearly nonexistent. A couple of hard-looking women played pool in the back. I nursed my drink at a sticky wooden table. If I was going to go through with my plan that night, I needed a dose of liquid courage.
    I eyed two girls in the corner. They stood out in the bar. Wearing fashionable headbands, shirts with sayings like “I woke up like this” and “Call Me Never”, and leggings, they truly seemed out of place. They didn’t appear to mind, though, as they were busy on their phones, probably posting a selfie or some shit.
    I didn’t do social media. After seeing hundreds of memes made about yourself, it gets old. Slut shaming is alive and well, and I was the slut shamed humorously on all the major social media websites.
    Honestly, that’s wasn’t the main reason I left social media. Yeah, it was traumatic and terrible seeing my name and face plastered carelessly for a joke, as if I wasn’t a person but just a thing to laugh at, to get likes and votes. It was…eye opening, to say the least.
    I could handle that, though. I understood it. People didn’t view me as a person. They weren’t making fun of me, they were making fun of the joke . I moved on. What I couldn’t handle any more was the small and supposedly uplifting shit people posted on their walls.
    One thing particularly stood out to me. It was a quote done up in a pretty font with a pastel background. You know the type. It read, “Your naked body should only belong to those who fall in love with your naked soul.” At first glance, it’s a beautiful and pithy saying that makes you feel warm and fuzzy inside. A bunch of people liked it and all they had to say was “beautiful” or “Love this.”
    The person who had posted it said she only hoped to teach her daughter that one thing.
    At first I shrugged at it then moved on.
    But it gnawed at me.
    And kept gnawing.
    Really, that’s all you want to teach your daughter? All you want to teach your daughter is that her body is sacred? That she absolutely cannot fail at finding someone to honor her body?
    It kept festering inside me. I knew I should just unfollow the chick. She was like everyone else, not realizing how even the simplest of words can shape a person or even an entire generation. I used to think like that. I used to like those photos. And then my naked body was taken by someone who had no intention of loving anything about my soul. He didn’t even love my body.
    And I was the one who felt bad. That was the messed up part of the whole scenario. I was the one made to feel bad. He did the wrongdoing but I felt bad because my body was ruined.
    So naturally I blew up on Facebook. I wrote a long, thought-out argument against slut shaming and how we view women in society and how it needs to change. Her response? “I just liked the words, chill out.”
    I deleted my account that day.
    Taking another swig of whiskey, I focused on the scars in the wood. Little scratches covered the table I sat at. Some were intentional, with etchings that said shit like “Linda