'Fractured'

Hecate, May, 2006 by Julie Raffaele

He wears a towelling hat. Only sometimes visible.

I am walking. I have my shoes tied and looped over my shoulder. I walk tall when I am alone. I feel good about the smell of sea of wind of early morning.

From nowhere he is there. Fiftyish, slightly bent. He doesn't speak clearly. I hear words like walking, girl, legs, hair? Hair--he indicates his armpit. How old? I say, fourteen, and walk faster, confused. Hair? he indicates his pubic places. I flush white and frown and realise I have been violated. Blankness. His ugly ugly void words continue soundlessly. There is no sea no wind no morning. No legs, no body, no me. My head snaps forward and my soul runs fast ahead. My machine moves mechanically, efficiently. This is the first time I am fractured.