nonfiction by ananya sahoo

Medusa

*CONTENT WARNING – sexual assault

The first time I had sex, my excitement and the boy lasted for precisely eight seconds. His face wore a smirk, albeit a satisfied one, as he buttoned his jeans. Breakfast? There’s a small café around the corner that sells the best sandwiches. I shook my head—I didn’t do breakfast. Or any “rendezvous” during the day. I hated the sun, an orthodox grandma trying to glare me back into the real world (no amount of squinting worked). He looked relieved when I refused. His hair looked different in the morning, I noticed. Everything looked different in the morning. 

The walk of shame back home was littered with shards of my shattered morals.

The last boy I slept with said I gave the world’s best blowjob. A smile pulled at the corners of my mouth as I wore my sin-laden shirt. I’ve had a lot of practice, I said. His eyes follow my hips all the way out the door. He called two days later, asking me out for dinner. Luckily, I couldn’t hear my phone over the sound of another boy’s headboard. 

*

I have a headache. The geeky physicist from the party downstairs looks highly focused, as if there was a quadratic equation in my vagina that only his penis could solve. (Penis does have the word pen in it). I counted 1,2,3 spiders weaving webs on the corner of his ceiling. The movies got it wrong. Sex wasn’t magic—sex was watching a movie play on a large screen in front of you, a mildly interesting movie. The popcorn is decent, the plot average. With each thrust, the movie shifted a little more into focus, a little more HD. The geeky physicist guy lets out a noise not unlike Peppa Pig as he finishes and breathlessly asks if I did. Alas, my friend, the equation couldn’t be solved. I smiled and nodded, looking at his steamy spectacles on the screen.

I have a headache. 

*

I pause the Hallmark movie as my best friend turns to me with a serious look. No, don’t say it, Jess. The wind is just right, the temperature in my childhood bedroom is just right, the fairy lights above the TV are just right. Do you love him, she asks, that boy you spent last night with? You can’t not love him. It’s okay, she continues without waiting for my answer; I love you despite all your flaws. I smiled. Last night’s flaw had just sent a booty text.

That night, snuggled into our blanket just like old times, she said she’s worried about me, that she doesn’t want people calling me a. . . Calling me a what, Jess? Love is such an absurd concept—just a pretext for shaming the people you care for. 

I’m fiercely protective of you because people are horrible and say horrible things, Ananya, she says. I should tell her, shouldn’t I, that she’s “people.” I wait for her to ask me why I do what I do, but the question got lost in all the concern. It’s okay, I understand.

My back hurts.

*

I cut my hair short, and my friend looked so disappointed that I wondered if I would be asked to unsubscribe from the benefits. What will I hold on to when you’re on your knees? A chuckle escaped my lips. I’ll be on top, silly. The view is better. 

Later, he kissed me furiously, up against the wall with the chipped wallpaper. He held my hands together above my head; he must have forgotten the golden rule. I gently pulled my hands and mouth away—a reminder was in order. 

Twenty minutes later, I was gasping for air in his dimly lit bathroom, heart beating to the speed of Eminem’s new rap song. Who decided to connect the stubborn brain and the stupid body? Is this why they call it a panic attack? The brain and body, at war with each other. Are you okay, my friend asks, suspicious concern creeping into his voice. I took a deep breath and nodded weakly. Remember the other golden rule? Always pee after sex. 

*

My first tryst with anti-depressants was momentous—thinly veiled contempt emanated from my doctor as she wrote out my prescription, eyes darting over the loud hickey on my neck. One after breakfast, another after lunch. I pulled my sleeves over my wrists; the short parallel lines could barely pass for tattoos. You need to make some serious lifestyle changes, she said, her stern gray eyes brimming with the unsaid. Who knew coping mechanisms were black and white? 

So, that night, I drank three glasses of whiskey instead of seven, ditched the unhealthy fries and got some exercise in my best friend’s roommate’s creaky bed. Come back and cuddle, he said, reaching for me across the bed. Need to run home to take my meds, I said, tying up my hair. Doctor’s advice, you see. 

*

Surviving a sweltering summer morning in an exceptionally humid city was a task. Thank god for my new, purple frock with the frills. My eyes had lit up with unbridled joy when Mom had handed it to me at my Harry Potter themed eighth birthday party. I smoothed out the creases slowly as I watched my favorite cartoon, oblivious to the humidity. Tom had just started chasing Jerry around the kitchen when I felt fingers slide underneath my frock.

The blue curtains seemed to sway in slow motion as I froze, like I had just looked into Medusa’s eyes, my hands pinned above, and knees pulled apart. But these eyes weren’t Medusa’s—I had stared into them an hour ago across the dining table, the entire family squeezed around an old brown six-seater. I could hear Jerry’s tiny feet as I counted one, two, three abandoned cobwebs on the ceiling; even the spiders had to look away. Was I Jerry? Should I run? I vaguely remembered what I had to say, but those two letters got lost somewhere along the way to my brain. Why were neurons such traitors?

Twenty minutes and a pat on my back later (“it’s our secret, my good girl, now smile”), I stood under the shower. Scrubbing away diligently at the bruises on my hands. Counting the tiny streams of crimson racing along with the water. Funny little organ, this brain, goes myopic at the first hint of danger (but this couldn’t be danger, could it?). Two lonely thoughts were swirling around in my brain:

Tom couldn’t catch Jerry.

The frills are ruined.

Dammit, the frills are ruined. 

*

Earth to Ananya, my mother says. I look at her standing in front of the birthday cake, looking radiant in a blue saree. The last year had been tough. Excruciating therapy sessions and bitter anti-depressants were not a cakewalk. But two steps forward, one step back still comes up to a total of one step forward. I had forgotten what silver linings looked like. I mustered my last ounce of energy and smiled. Happy birthday, my sweet child. She hugs me and places a blue, gift-wrapped box in my cold hands. I opened it quickly, laughing; her excitement threatened to spill over.

I stared down into the box. It was a purple dress. With the frills intact.

Ananya Sahoo is a 23-year-old change management analyst from India. When she's not busy being a corporate slave, she enjoys writing, slam poetry, reading and singing. She worked as a Director of Outreach for a national level student run NGO which aimed at educating the youth about all taboo issues like sexual abuse, mental health etc. She has always been passionate about writing and pens down her thoughts in her personal blog.