Bare Mattress
by Maggie Herlocker
Dark grey clouds stand out against a pastel sunrise as you rush back into the sorority house early Saturday morning. Everyone is already moving around, the mandatory philanthropy event has them up before the sun. You quickly change, dodging questions and laughing with them. You stand in front of the mirror, trying to foundation away the bruises on your neck that your sisters think are hickeys.
Where were you last night?
Who was that at the bar?
He was super cute.
How was he?
Who he was: a boy you knew from freshman bio. Where you were: his apartment. How he was: terrifying.
The foundation barely works and you’re running late anyways, so you throw on a sweatshirt with a collar to hide your neck. Your skin feels raw in places and although you can really only remember flashes, the more you tell different versions of a story, the less you remember still.
You’re driving three of your sisters to the event, a charity walk to raise money for something, you forget what. Your passengers want to stop for Starbucks but there’s no drive-thru nearby and you’re already running late.
You wish you could be alone, but this is a commitment and you would get in trouble if you weren’t there. Life goes on.
###
The charity walk is underway. You have on your sorority smile and you act as if nothing is wrong. You aren’t sure if anything really is wrong; messy drunk sex is a common story you hear.
Lauren asks for details about your night. It’s just the two of you, surrounded by the early morning and hungover students. It begins to rain lightly.
Dancing, sweaty, bar. Skin on skin. Hands on hips. Lips on lips. Images from the previous night interrupt your mind, disconnected details fighting to the surface.
You tell Lauren about him cooking you dinner then going to the bar to dance and drink. You both laugh as you tell her about your freshman year crush and how his breath tasted like gin and rock n’ roll. You didn’t want to have sex with him, but then you were in the taxi and you couldn’t turn back.
Lauren asks about his apartment. You flash to the rip in his blinds you couldn’t stop staring at and the itchy mattress that didn’t have any sheets on it. It rubbed your skin raw as he held you down, held onto your throat, whispered things you can never repeat.
You tell Lauren only what she needs to know. He had no sheets, his blanket was an unzipped sleeping bag, he ran around the apartment asking his roommates for a condom.
You could’ve said no at any time, but you didn’t. You keep that pain and shame to yourself. You laugh with Lauren at what to her will just be another hookup story about a weird boy with no sheets on his bed. The marks on your skin will fade in time, the bare mattress nothing but a moment.
Dark grey clouds stand out against a pastel sunrise as you rush back into the sorority house early Saturday morning. Everyone is already moving around, the mandatory philanthropy event has them up before the sun. You quickly change, dodging questions and laughing with them. You stand in front of the mirror, trying to foundation away the bruises on your neck that your sisters think are hickeys.
Where were you last night?
Who was that at the bar?
He was super cute.
How was he?
Who he was: a boy you knew from freshman bio. Where you were: his apartment. How he was: terrifying.
The foundation barely works and you’re running late anyways, so you throw on a sweatshirt with a collar to hide your neck. Your skin feels raw in places and although you can really only remember flashes, the more you tell different versions of a story, the less you remember still.
You’re driving three of your sisters to the event, a charity walk to raise money for something, you forget what. Your passengers want to stop for Starbucks but there’s no drive-thru nearby and you’re already running late.
You wish you could be alone, but this is a commitment and you would get in trouble if you weren’t there. Life goes on.
###
The charity walk is underway. You have on your sorority smile and you act as if nothing is wrong. You aren’t sure if anything really is wrong; messy drunk sex is a common story you hear.
Lauren asks for details about your night. It’s just the two of you, surrounded by the early morning and hungover students. It begins to rain lightly.
Dancing, sweaty, bar. Skin on skin. Hands on hips. Lips on lips. Images from the previous night interrupt your mind, disconnected details fighting to the surface.
You tell Lauren about him cooking you dinner then going to the bar to dance and drink. You both laugh as you tell her about your freshman year crush and how his breath tasted like gin and rock n’ roll. You didn’t want to have sex with him, but then you were in the taxi and you couldn’t turn back.
Lauren asks about his apartment. You flash to the rip in his blinds you couldn’t stop staring at and the itchy mattress that didn’t have any sheets on it. It rubbed your skin raw as he held you down, held onto your throat, whispered things you can never repeat.
You tell Lauren only what she needs to know. He had no sheets, his blanket was an unzipped sleeping bag, he ran around the apartment asking his roommates for a condom.
You could’ve said no at any time, but you didn’t. You keep that pain and shame to yourself. You laugh with Lauren at what to her will just be another hookup story about a weird boy with no sheets on his bed. The marks on your skin will fade in time, the bare mattress nothing but a moment.