Shame: A Short Story

Trigger Warnings

SA, Abusive Language

James was fourteen when he began attending ‘Survivors Forever’—a support group for teenagers who had been sexually abused. His parents had asked him to go when they found out that for nearly a year he was being sexually assaulted by a boy from school.

His grades had been declining, and his parents had noticed significant weight gain and overeating. They confronted him about what was going on. At first, they just wondered if it was a part of puberty, but they suspected depression. After sitting with him for nearly an hour trying to find out what was going on, he broke down crying and told them.

He didn’t want to get better for himself, he thought he’d never get better, but he didn’t want his parents to think he had given up. He knew that they were trying hard to help him and he didn’t want to let them down. So he went.

At his first meeting there was a counselor, Mark, who James assumed was probably in grad school because he didn’t appear to be too much older. Mark did nearly all of the talking, but kept pausing to let everyone know that they could interrupt him if they wanted to.

The other kids were all about the same age as James. As he looked around at them, he wondered if he looked as scared and lost as they did. He was sure that he probably did.

Being that it was James’ first time, he was asked to introduce himself. Mark was good about making sure that he didn’t really have to share anything personal, just an average icebreaker.

“My name is James. I’m fourteen, and my favorite movie is Star Wars.” His voice sounded hollow to himself as he answered the three questions that Mark had asked.

“Welcome James,” everyone said with an equal lack of enthusiasm.

The meeting ended with no one else speaking except for Mark.

Two months of meetings went on like this and no one ever spoke. James wasn’t sure why the others even showed up. He assumed that their parents were making them.

One day, James was going to his school locker at the end of the day and Becca, a girl from the group, approached him.

“Hi,” she said, and he looked around to make sure she was talking to him. “Are you going to the meeting today?”

He immediately, “shhh’d” her while looking around in a panic, but he saw no one.

“Calm down, I just want to know if I can get a ride with you.” She looked irritated at his embarrassment.

“I’m walking over. My parents aren’t out of work until after.” The panic was still in his eyes.

“Can I walk with you?”

James nodded.

As they walked, they were each silent until they were out of the area where they’d bump into other kids from school.

“So, how long’ve you been going to the meetings?” she asked.

“Um… Just a couple of weeks before you started.”

“Were you molested?”

No one had ever asked him that question before. His therapist, the principal, and his teachers had asked a lot of questions, and afterwards they had used the term molested to describe what had happened but he had never been asked flat out.

“No. …I mean, they call it molestation, but I don’t.”

His face was red with the rage growing in him that she had asked that.

“I’ve heard about you. I’ve heard that you’re a slut. So… Why are you going to these meetings? To fuck with us?”

He expected her to cry, he wanted her to. It was taking every ounce of him not to start crying. She didn’t cry though. Her face turned nearly purple in rage.

“Fuck you!” she screamed, and stopped walking. She held her hands by her side in fists, and was shaking.

He realized he’d hit a nerve, but it didn’t relieve his own rage, but changed it, pointed it inward. He felt ashamed, because he knew that he’d just hurt her. He could see it.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. He was sorry, but he was too ashamed to say it loud and clear. But she heard it anyway.

She resumed walking, and he walked beside her. They’d got to the end of the block before she started to speak again.

“I went to a party with a few seniors. I thought it would be cool. When I tried to leave, I couldn’t.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“Five of them carried me upstairs to a bedroom.” She wiped a tear from her eyes, and never looked at him. She was staring straight ahead. “Does that sound ‘slutty’ to you?”

He shook his head, and muttered, “no.”

She looked at him. “Does that make me a slut?” She was shaking, and her voice was really quiet.

“No. I’m so sorry.”

“I wasn’t asking about you to make you feel shitty, I was just hoping to connect with someone in this stupid fucking group.”

Every word cut through him, and he couldn’t hold back the tears. He stared at her and her face blurred behind tears. He didn’t know what to do or say, instead he stared and cried and stood still.

“A bully did it to me,” he finally admitted. “He was stronger and bigger, and I knew that he’d make my life a nightmare because I had no friends and he had all of them.”

She hugged him tight. He sighed, and finally allowed himself to blink away the tears. “He would corner me in the stairwells and touch me. While he was doing it he’d ask me, ‘you like that don’t you, faggot?’”