Ashley’s Story

My name is Ashley. On May 7, 2020, I was raped. I was 26 years old. I was at a restaurant bar with my sister and three of my friends. One of the other employees came out to chill with us and drink. I wanted mozzarella sticks for me and my friends, so I followed him into the kitchen, hoping for a snack. What I got was much worse. He put me up on the counter and started pulling out hard cheese and bread, saying it was good. He kept pulling down my shirt and bra and then my pants while I was sitting. He took out a cannoli and said I could have it. It tasted like garbage. I hopped off the counter, still drunk, looking for the exit so I could go back to my friends. He came up behind me and grabbed me, putting his hand down my pants, telling me how wet I was while I tried to get his hand out of my pants. But he was too strong and I was too drunk, too weak. He bent me over a counter and began to rape me, orally, anally, vaginally. It was the most painful and worst experience of my life. I wanted it to end, but it went on forever. He dug his nails into my sides and pulled my hair. I still have faint scratch scars on my sides. I said no and stop, but he would not stop. He only stopped when my sister and friend walked into the kitchen. I felt so ashamed and embarrassed that I had been raped and that my younger sister and friend had to walk in on it. My friend gave me her glasses because I couldn’t find mine, and she helped me put my clothes back on. It’s been 7 months and it feels like it happened yesterday. I’m in therapy now for my depression, anxiety, and newly diagnosed PTSD due to my rape. My rapist was never charged and I never received justice. Detectives said that, because I was drunk, I was not a credible witness to my own rape. The detectives never even interviewed my sister or the friends I was there with. My sister was sober, she could have told detectives everything and got a rapist off the street. But, sadly, he still roams free, while I’m stuck in a never-ending hell hole.

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