by Cathy O’Sullivan, Rice College, Ennis
Senior Category – Joint Second

I watched her cautiously as she stared at herself in the worn mirror. Her once long, flowing hair now hung limply, her eyes were puffy from crying and I could detect great sadness and sorrow in them. She stood there, numb and I bit my bottom lip and shook my head slightly as warm tears softy edged down her face.

‘Come on,’ I whispered, ‘enough of all this pretence; stop lying to yourself, for once let’s tell the unvarnished truth..’ She turned to face me. I could see her tears gathering momentum as she slowly nodded.

I met her when we were both 14; it was the summer of ’99. We had got on well; we had so much in common and enjoyed the same things. Her parents were away one weekend and being teenagers we took advantage of the situation. We got word of a party in town so a group of us got dressed up and headed out.

We were only 14 but I had stolen my 19-year-old sister’s identification card. We arrived at the club around 9.30 pm. It was epic! It was thronged with people. I felt so free and felt such as sense of achievement when I realised the majority of people there were in their early twenties.

Even as my older sister, I was young. We immediately headed straight to the bar and ordered double vodkas. We were soon surrounded by men buying us drinks. One man in particular, Tom, stood out. He was 25 and into property. He was attractive, yet sweet and sincere.

It wasn’t long until I could feel the effects of the alcohol taking over. I got worried and stopped drinking. I tried to stop her too but she was too busy chatting to Tom. “She’s fine,” he smiled, “I’ll take care of her.” Assured she was in capable hands, I left.

I spotted her again two hours later in one of the huge wall mirrors; she was dancing crazily. I laughed – a nervous laugh. Inside, alarm bells were going off. She wasn’t too drunk but I didn’t want to act up because someone might realise we were so young. I wish I had.

I didn’t find her again until 2.30am. Down a back alley. Her skirt up, Tom on top of her holding her down. She was wasted; she couldn’t even scream but tears poured down her flushed cheeks. I looked at Tom’s face, his sweet, charming mask now discarded, and a malevolent smug grim in its place. I couldn’t do anything; I was frozen.

When he had finished he pulled up he Armani trousers and snarled, “If you tell anyone, I’ll kill you,” as he trotted off. I was numb; I turned and threw up. I tried to talk to her but she was so wasted it was no use. I called a taxi and we went home.
I didn’t sleep that night. There was a permanent knot in my stomach and a constant lump in my throat as if I had just dry-swallowed a tablet. I kept thinking about the hours that had passed. I shuddered.

We hadn’t spoken about it; she seemed fine next morning and laughed about how wasted she had been. “I can’t remember a thing,” she said. I quickly realised that she didn’t know what had happened – that she had been brutally raped 12 hours earlier. I was the only one who knew and it scared me when after all, we weren’t supposed to be out so we would get in serious trouble. The simple option was to forget about the night completely. After that summer we both went back to school and I didn’t see her again until we were both 16.

The first time I saw her again, I was shocked. She was so thin. Her face was drawn but her smile was still bright. I studied her; she was different. She was still her happy self on the outside but I wasn’t convinced. I confronted her and she admitted to having anorexia and being occasionally depressed. I was taken aback. She was always so bright, cheerful and funny.

It seemed absurd that she could be so disturbed – I wondered if she might have been a little melodramatic, looking for attention. She had always been quite the drama queen. “Please don’t say anything,” she begged, “It’s just a phase, I don’t even know why I’m sad. I’m just being silly.”

I thought she might need help but I’d promised to keep quiet and, as she said, it was probably just a phase. After that, I didn’t meet her again until her 17th birthday.

I stared at myself in the worn mirror. My once long, flowing hair hung limply, my eyes were puffy from crying. ‘Cheer up,’ I thought, ‘you’re 17 today.’ But I couldn’t. I was in pain and finally, I knew why.

After three years, I had finally revisited that night – the night I had been lulled into a false sense of security and then savagely raped. Tears streamed down my face. I could remember now. I looked into the mirror at what I had become.

Two different people looked back at me; the happy teenager who laughed, went out with friends and smiled; and the young girl who was tricked and raped and so ashamed for it. The young girl who only knew how to deal with it one way - by blocking it out completely, by burying it so far in that it could never, ever resurface.
Today, the young girl wasn’t going away. She wouldn’t leave until I made her leave. She had made me do obscene things to myself and I realised it now. I looked down at my arms, my white top stained red. I looked at my hand; a bloody scissors hung from my index finger. I dropped it as tears slowly moved down my cold cheeks.
I looked into the mirror. ‘You’re right,’ I whispered, ‘ it’s time to stop lying, it is time to live again – it is time to stop pretending.’