“How does this look?"

I hastily moved the comforter away from my sleep covered eyes to see what my younger sister was wearing to school today.

Her eyes lit up as she looked at me, wondering and waiting for my reply.

But my heart races. And it races harder. And harder. My anxiety is racing. BOOM. BOOM. B-BOOM. The sound of my heart is deafening to me.

Standing before me was my little sister in the outfit I had on when I was raped in September 2016. My younger sister was planning on wearing it to school. Will the boys stare at her? Will they try to touch her in anyway? Will they think SHE is asking for it? Just the way they thought I was?

The smell of a lingering cigarette leaves my lips, and I immediately have the urge to throw up the nothing I've had in my stomach.

I don't smoke. But he did. And I remember it.

I remember him. Every time my mother lights a cigarette.

I remember him. And the taste of poison that lingers on my unconscious tongue.

I HAD been drinking.

And I HAD fallen asleep on the couch.

Of a trusted friend, at the time.

But I can tell you a list of what I DIDN'T DO:

I didn't ask for his fingers to enter into my body.

I didn't ask to be woken up in a panic to a stranger licking my neck with his fingers already inside of me.

I didn't ask to be stuck on that couch.

Scared.

Angry.

But unable to move.

I didn't ask for the tensing of every muscle in my body when someone tries to hold me, or touch me anymore.

And I sure as hell didn't ask for this.

The Anxiety, Depression, and PTSD that came with it.

She stands, waiting for my response.

But I'm clueless with what I'm supposed to say.

I look at her, and tell her that the skinny jeans, elegant blouse, and necklace she was wearing look so nice on her.

With not an inch of skin showing, I know she wasn't asking for it. Just as I wasn't.

She thinks she is so beautiful in this outfit and she wants to wear it. She is.

And I know damn straight that even if I was completely goddamn nude, I was NOT asking for it.

WE are NOT asking for it.