Member-only story
I Stopped Letting Him Call my Rape “Sex”
Not to hurt him, but in the hope that he hurts no one else
Like all little girls, I was spoon-fed the Knight-in-Shining-Armor trope. A gallant, dutiful person — usually a man — who comes to the princess’ rescue, demanding nothing, but hoping for gratitude in return. Like most little girls, I didn’t believe a knight would save me when I needed him most.
And one hot September afternoon in Italy, a gallant savior did come to my rescue. My knight was 6'2" and built like Mr. Incredible — if Mr. Incredible wore pink shorts and sand-colored shoes.
This is the story of the night my knight broke me.
After breaking three bones and ending up in a cast mere three months into living in Florence, I posted on a foreigner’s group seeking advice on the Italian medical system.
This was 2021, the year they changed the emergency services’ number from 118 to 112. It was the first time I’d broken a bone, ever.
My taxi driver — lovely lady — brought me back home in a cast with a pair of crutches under my arm and about 20 injections in my hand. My first big story on Medium was about surviving my crippling fear of asking for help at that time.
