I was at a party, a small house party at my best friend's house. This friend's boyfriend invited some dudes who showed up, strangers who refused to leave when asked. I was standing alone when he caught my eye, as he talked with his friend, winking, pointing, making it obvious that I was the object of their discussion. He walked over. He handed me a drink that tasted strong, but I was already drunk enough to not care. The night blurred on with more drinks, smooth talking, a laugh, more shots, a touch. He led me to a bedroom, or so I'm told. I don't remember entering that room. I don't remember him locking the door. I don't remember my friends knocking, demanding that he open up. I don't remember telling him it was okay to do with my body what he pleased. I do remember waking up naked next to him whose name I did not know. The soreness and the blood in my underwear told me what my memory couldn't. My friends say it wasn't rape, but the absolute disgust I feel when I imagine what he did says it was. My sister told me it wasn't rape, but the ten pregnancy tests I took out of anxiety, the constant nausea that didn't leave for six months, and the feeling of absolute worthlessness that still threatens to make an appearance tell a different story. Society says it wasn't rape, but the fact that I had to ask my friend to change his fucking cologne because I felt on the verge of a panic attack every time I smelled it, because it was the one my rapist wore, says it was. I'm tired of pretending it didn't happen. I'm tired of accepting the blame. He raped me.