Rape at Indians Mound (a Short Sketch)

Rape at Indians Mound

A Chapter story from the short story called: “Bittersweet, Were her Kisses!” Written 2006, reedited 6-2008(Based on a true Story—1966)

[The Rape: 11:00 PM] I heard a voice calling for help, and then the voice called my name,
“Dennis, help, help, he’s raping me…!”
And so I left the party with its bonfire blazing, and crackling, and flickers of light, fire light from the wood rising high into the atmosphere. We were over on Indian’s Mound, across from a street called, Mississippi, off Cayuga Street. A party was going on for the kids that were graduating in 1966, I had graduated a year prior, but I knew all the kids, the gang, and then some.

“Please stop, help, Dennis, Dennis!”

I now confirmed it was Sandy’s voice I heard. I had brought her to the party, she wanted to come, I told her it was not wise, that the guys would get drunk and who knows what then. But she insisted, assured me she’d be careful, and not provoke anyone, or flirt all that much. She was at one time my girlfriend, I dated her a while, and then we seemed to drift off, and remained good friends, and I had not seen her the past few months all that much, except for this evening, she had asked me prior to take to this specific party, and she became familiar with a face she had seen at another party I had taken her to, a while ago, this face, Greg was his name, was a relative to a few of my best friends at the party.
I walked about the bushes looking for where the voice was, came from, said, “Where are you Sandy?” feeling the voice had to be her’s, I had a bottle, glass bottle of beer in my hands, looking here and there for her. I was now perhaps thirty-feet behind the fire, in the bushes, and there was Greg straddled over Sandy, slapping her, and tarring her cloths off, like a madman, calling her every name under the sun, like me he was drunk, perhaps drunker,
“What you doing,” I asked Greg (it really was a rhetorical question at best, I mean he know, she knew and I knew what he was trying to do).
In a puzzled way, Greg’s reply was, “What do you think I’m doing!”
So he know, I knew what he was doing to Sandy, and didn’t care who knew, so I said it as plain as he said it, “I know what your doing, you’re trying to rape Sandy, so stop it ,and get off her.”
“Get out of f… out of her, f…off!”
He was at the point of inserting his penis into her, and I said again, “I mean it, don’t do it—stop now!”
He repeated his vulgarity, but with a more stern voice, a voice that said to me: you’re disrupting my magical climax, my moment.
I pulled at his shoulders, and he shrugged me off, saying his choice two words, “f... off!” And proceeded to slap her again, I said in a rapid voice, “I can’t let this happen!”
But he paid no attention to me, and to my dismay, I grabbed him by the hair, twisted his face with his neck halfway around his body, and hit him with the bottle, perhaps two or three times, I don’t know for sure, and he fell backwards, laboriously, he ached himself, somewhat, like an infant,
“What did you do that for!” he cried, it’s funny; he knew everything else but that.
—I had thrown caution to the wind—I agree, Greg lay there on the ground, bellowing, his nose smashed flat, both eyes closed to sheer slits, his face one red facade of pulped fleshy tissue and blood, but through the slits of his eyelids his eyes still blazed with old darkness, it was a ferocious attack, I know, my hand still on the beer bottle, I then dropped it. His jaw, face, and head were in pain. I had knocked men down with one blow, or one straight and solid kick before, but not like this, I buckled him to the ground. I felt myself slipping, I like he was tired and half drunk, my legs trembling, but nonetheless, I rallied to Sandy, who was white from fright, and bruised in her face from his backhand slaps, she received, with her nose bleeding and a raw jaw, other bruises were on her thighs and back.
I heard in the distance a voice say, “Hey, what’s going on?”
When Sandy was being rapped, no one said a word, now when Greg was crying, the gang was starting to worry, a funny dilemma I’ll never understand. Thus, People were starting to gather and come over my way, by the bushes; I was at the end of my vitality.
I needed to get out of there, I knew it, had I stayed any longer, it would be me on the ground trying to fight his relatives I’m sure. I grabbed Sandy by the hand got off that hill quickly, Sandy still in a panic state.

(As years would pass by, Greg would never see it as rape, or if he did, he would complain I used excessive force, and he was right, I perhaps did, and really didn’t have to, I could have beat him fist to fist, but he didn’t allow that, he just wanted what he wanted. He never looked at what he was doing wrong, only that I wronged him. As I would tell him in time, it was one drunk to another, with the perpetrator, crying about his wounds. He was not sorry for what he did, he was simply sorry he did not get away with it. That somebody had the nerve to stop him, and stop him period, without respect, or with the same regard he was giving Sandy—which was zero.)

The Hospital

Greg was taken to the hospital; a number of stitches were used to close his wounds, ones that would leave scares.
As for Sandy, she also was taken to the hospital, for trauma, and bruises, and rape, which she did not name the culprit. The following day, I got a phone call from Sandy’s mother telling me how grateful she was that I stood firm with the man trying to rape her daughter. And she asked who he was, and I simply said, “Ask your daughter, if she wants to tell you, it should come from her.”
On the other side of the coin, Greg’s parents sent me some messages, several of them, from Greg’s family and friends, that they would not forget what I had done to him. He remained in the hospital for a few weeks for recovery.
My response was to his mother, “If you’re so upset, why not call the police, and tell them what I did, and what your son was doing, when I did it, and we can leave it up to the judge to decide if I was using excessive force or not.
I would perhaps have gotten a Blue Ribbon for my bad deed, as he and she, put it. Sandy assured me, her mother would press charges should Greg’s parents try to press charges, if we went to court, thus, it would be a rape case, not a assault and batter case, and that would put Greg away for a very long time, in prison, so everything was hushed up.