My Abuser Was My friend

Trigger Warning: Sexual Violence. Sexual Assault. Victim Blaming.

He called me to go to brunch. I was under the impression there would be a group of us but when I got to his house it was just him.

We had been friends for two years going on three. I trusted him. He showed me I could trust him.

Where is everyone else?
They’re not here yet.

I sat on the same couch I’ve sat on a few times a month for the last 24 months. In the same spot I’ve sat in at least 150 times. Nothing seemed unusual.

There was an opened, half eaten bag of Lime Hot Cheetos on the coffee table. The house needed to be swept. He was house poor; I knew that already. He had an amazing view from his house, but patio chairs and one beat up leather sofa. He wasn’t the type of guy I would date.

There was a stack of clear cups clearly used for the empty liquor bottles sitting next to them on the counter and a black bag filled with Corona on the coffee table. He turned on Rush Hour two and started quoting the beginning of the movie.

When are we leaving?
We gotta wait.

I wish I could say this is where I started to feel uneasy, but I trusted him. I knew something wasn’t right, but I didn’t question it. I just sat…