I thought I loved the way he looked at me.
I was wrong. It
was all wrong. The thing was I loved much more than that. I love the way his
teeth filled his smile and his words sounded like they blended together when he
talked. This isn’t a love story I promise. This is a story of him and me, of
the mistake that ended it all. My name is Brickley. Yes. Exactly like a brick
you find creating a wall. There’s no explanation or some magical story of why
my parents chose Brickley as my name. It’s just how it is. I am not good at
explaining myself in a way that makes me seem interesting or exotic because
quite frankly I am not. I am 5’3”, I
have long blonde curly hair that isn’t tamable, long scrawny arms that look
something like dog bones, and feet that don’t quite fit my body yet. I am 17, yes I am still young, and yes I am
still trying to make my body match my insides. Let’s get to the point of this
story. I bet you have questions, like who is “he”? What mistake? Well if you
would hold on a second I would be able to tell you. His name is Jake, Jake
Callory. Unlike me, I can explain him in a very interesting, exotic way. Jake
is 5”6 he has dark brown hair that always looks combed, even when he just woke
up. He has a smile that could melt the devils heart. He’s the kind of muscular
guy who could squish a frail thing like me with one arm. Jake is majestic. He
has a sense of power that shows without him even having to speak. Jake is also
17 years old but he has well filled his body by now and it matches his insides
perfectly. I am not comfortable with
saying how much I fell for Jake at first sight. I said before this isn’t a love
story. If you are looking for a love story maybe you should stop reading now
but I really hope you don’t. The thing is this can’t be a love story. It can’t
be a love story because Jake Callory is my murder. That’s right he killed me
when no one was watching, it wasn’t a mistake like I said earlier, wasn’t a
freak accident. Jake Callory, the supposedly love of my life shot me and left
me to die. If you want me to explain what a shot wound feels like I will say
this, stinging agonizing pain that doesn’t end quickly. The worst part of my
murder was looking into the eyes of my killer, the eyes of someone I loved,
someone I trusted. Jake Callory. I
remember the first night I met Jake at a party filled with high school students
in minimum amounts of clothing and red solo cups. I know I know I am in high
school I shouldn’t be drinking! We all know that everyone drinks, especially in
high school. He was leaning against a wall, he looked like he was holding up
the wall instead of the wall holding him up, and he was comfortable, relaxed
and laughing. I was staring at him from across the room, telling my best friend
how hot I thought he looked standing there, holding up the wall. I regret that
conversation. I regret telling Anne how hot Jake Callory looked because she
then told me to go talk to him and I did and I shouldn’t have. We talked all
night, me and Jake Callory. He held my hand, kissed my cheek, walked me to
Anne’s car for a ride home. Jake did the things that a nice boy would do. Jake
did the things that I liked, that I wanted out of a boy. We spent every second from that day on
together. Jake walked me to my classes, gave me a ride home from school, and
carried my books. I fell for him, he gained my trust and then he killed
me. It was our one year anniversary when
I started noticing Jake acting different. He no longer carried my books and he
yelled. He yelled at me when we were alone, when no one was watching. Jake
would claim that I was cheating on him with people from our school that I
hardly talked to, he would call me names. No one noticed. No one saw how Jake
could be when we were alone. He was always so nice when we were surrounded by
friends or family. That was what I loved about Jake, the nice moments. The
moments that I remembered why I had fell for him. Those nice moments with Jake
is what made the horrible moments even more confusing. I didn’t understand why
he would snap, why he would yell at me. It scared me and I was hardly ever one
to get scared. I felt trapped,
manipulated into staying with him because things would seem fine and then they
weren’t. I, Brickely someone who
couldn’t be told what to do, was now getting told constantly who I could see,
who I couldn’t by a man I fell in love with. Did I being in love with him make
it okay? Did it make Jake telling me I couldn’t see Anne anymore because she
was “a bad influence” okay? Jake Callory
was a convincing monster. Jake Callory planned my murder and got away with it.
He killed me because I wasn’t strong enough to fight. I wasn’t strong enough to
say no, to escape, to tell my family. It was a Friday night I and Jake were
hanging out at my house, my parents were out of town and we were watching a movie. Everything seemed fine, we were laughing and
cuddling. I was playing with his soft brown hair, on the edge of falling asleep
and being awake. He then told me to make out with him. I and Jake hardly ever
made out because I didn’t want things to end up going further than that; I know
what making out usually leads to. I told him no. Jake of course got angry, throwing a fit,
calling me names and telling me that I had to or else I didn’t love him. He
told me that he would tell the whole school that I cheated on him. I still told
him that I didn’t want to, he said if I didn’t he would kill me. Jake knew what
he could force me to do after making out and so he was angry that I wouldn’t
agree. He grabbed my face with one strong forceful hand, trying to force me to
kiss him. I started to panic, you know the type of panic when you’re in water
and you feel like you are drowning. I started pushing on his arm trying to make
him let go. I was begging Jake to let go of my face. He wouldn’t and he just
kept repeating that he would kill me over and over again. I was terrified of
the psychotic look in Jake's eyes. They were no longer blue and welcoming; they
were dark and filled with rage. He was no longer my Jake Callory, he was
someone else. Jake was someone I no longer recognized, a predator. I finally gave in, afraid of what would
happen if I didn’t. I and Jake Callory made out. He tasted like cigarettes and
had too much saliva floating around in his mouth. That was the moment I fell out of love with
Jake. I was forced to show affection towards him, affection that I didn’t want
to give. He started climbing on top of me, sitting on me with his muscular,
blue jeaned covered legs while his tongue still ventured inside of my now
saliva filled mouth. I had had enough. I
started fighting back with my long, scrawny dog bone like arms. I was kicking
and screaming fighting to break free but Jake Callory was stronger, bigger and
faster than I was. Using all his body weight he held me down. I couldn’t escape
I was stuck under his cigarette breathe and his blue jeaned covered legs. Jake
Callory raped me, pulling me lime green colored shorts around my pale ankles. He
then proceeded to ask me if I liked it while I was screaming and crying. I
cried for help. I cried for my feeling of stupidity. I cried for not being able
to escape the man I thought I loved.
After Jake climbed off of me pulling the jeans that were now around his
ankles up over his muscular legs, I decided to try to run, run for the door,
for the phone, run for my life. I barefoot, underwear wearing Brickley decided
I wasn’t done fighting and I leaped, ran, tripped and stumbled as far as I
could towards anything, the counter, the phone, the locked back door, until I
felt a tiny metal bullet enter the middle of my scrawny back, this tiny bullet
felt like a million tiny bullets all at once penetrating into my pale white skin.
I turned around to see Jake Callory holding a black metal hand gun, smiling
that smile that was teeth filled and gorgeous. I collapsed on the ground. That
wicked trusting smile of Jake Callory’s being the last thing I would ever see
again. I felt blood, tons of blood. I
was dizzy and kept picturing the neighbors, my mom, Anne, anyone walking in to
save me, pick me up off the cold aluminum floor at any moment. No one did. Had
no one heard the gun shot, my blood curling scream? Was Antarctica to far for my parents to have
heard that? Jake stood over me, watching my dark red blood cover the aluminum
covered kitchen floor. I Brickely, died that night on the kitchen floor in a
puddle of my own blood. The only person knowing what had happened being Jake
Callory. I watched my funeral from above; it was as if I was in a dream I watched
my parents cry, watched Anne give my eulogy, talking about old times I forgot
we had. I was shouting to them the name of my killer “It was Jake!! Jake
Callory! He did it! JAKKEEE!!” Yet Jake
was there, at my funeral, in the back row, in a back suit and tie, Crying. Why
was he there? Didn’t he know he had killed me? Had he forgotten? Didn’t
everyone know?! Jake was such a good pretender. I wasn’t the only one who fell
for his acting and I was mad. Mad that he was at my funeral. Mad that the
reports I stole out of my cases police file said that it was a burglary and
that Jake had left my house hours before. I will never get justice. They will always be searching for the wrong
man. My name is Brickely and I was murdered by a man I thought I loved, a man I
trusted. Now you know my story, if you
kept reading that is. This was not a love story. This was a story about a boy,
about a death, about the ending of my life. This is a story I hope you tell. A
story I hope keeps you from meeting the same fate as me. A story that I hope
makes every woman stronger, ever person strong enough to fight predators. Do not wait until it is too late. Recognize
the sign of abuse and escape do not make excuses or stay out of “love”. Fight.
Fight. Fight.
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