Just Listed

cw: sexual assault

The house where I was sexually assaulted just went up for sale.

I know this, because I walked by it twice. The first time, on my way to the subway, the front yard was empty. On the way back, I saw the laminated blue and white sign dangling from its post. The “TWO-FAMILY” text in all capital block letters screamed at me. I paused and watched it sway in the night breeze, back and forth, a few times before continuing on.

In terms of curb appeal, the structure itself doesn’t have much. The color is an off-white, but whether that was a deliberate choice or just a sign that the wood paneling started stark white and faded over time, I don’t know. There’s a front porch with a few steps to the door I’d trotted up many times. On the top floor, there’s a big picture window, where I could see the silhouettes of my three friends sitting on the couch from the sidewalk. I would text them when I arrived and hear footsteps stomping all the way down the two flights of stairs, trying to guess which guy would be unlocking the deadbolt and opening the door to greet me.

On the inside, there are a few features left that show evidence the home used to be loved, well-crafted, taken care of. There are ornate wooden details on the staircase hand railings and crown molding in every room. The original vintage brass light fixtures in the hallway and the stained glass window by the front door look as good as new. Unfortunately though, at some point the building had been sold to a landlord who rented it out to groups of people who didn’t have much stake in its preservation. Lightswitch covers became painted over, floorboards began to lose the top layer of varnish, cracks in the ceiling kept spreading, and mismatching modern appliances were installed. And in the upstairs bathroom, there’s a dent beside the towel bar from when I once tripped in the hallway and tried bracing myself with the open door, sending the knob right through the drywall.

I know that it’s not just the aesthetics that make a house a home. It’s the people, the memories, the laughter, that can really make a difference. And for me, it did. I spent almost every weekend in this poorly kept apartment because it belonged to the only friends I had in the entire city of Boston when I first moved after college. My best friend knew the three of them from her middle school days and had kept up an acquaintance through social media. She introduced us when she found out I was renting nearby and needed companionship. I lived alone, so anyone would have fit the bill, and these boys always seemed to remember to include me in their plans. 

Since they dwelled under the same roof and had more space than my studio could provide, I would always go to them, and slowly, fall in love with the place. I learned to overlook its signs of age and mistreatment: the dusty film on all of the kitchen cabinets, the foggy grime on the bathroom mirror, the slight unevenness in the floor from the hallway to the kitchen that provided a toe-stubbing hazard, and the small holes punched through the window screens that let flies enter the living room in the summer. I could ignore how the stove made everything smell like it was burning, the way you needed to hold the toilet knob extra long to make sure it flushed, and the two, torn leather couches in front of the television that were found for free on the side of the road. The boys’ idea of home decor had been gaming consoles and empty liquor bottles, and every time the other apartment cooked fish for dinner (which was often) its stench wafted upstairs, making the place aesthetically and aromatically unappealing, but not to me.It wasn’t perfect by any means, but it was the perfect setting to play a couple rounds of card games before going to the bars, or to order pizza while pretending to care about a hockey game, or to watch the movie version of “The Phantom of the Opera” with subtitles on to turn it into a sing-along version. I spent many nights sitting at their cheap wooden table set and letting them show me their Tinder matches from the week. They would often ask my advice on how to start their conversations with especially pretty girls before moving on to ask me if my ex-boyfriend had reached out again. It was in that house that I learned how to master fake laughing at their inappropriate boy jokes, to feign interest in meeting their rotation of visiting guests from their university days, and to gain the confidence to navigate a new city.

It was the perfect place to welcome me in, swallow me whole, and spit me out.

After a night out, I often saved money by riding with the boys back to their place from the bars and walking the ten minutes to my apartment by myself. All I had to do was go to the nearest train stop, walk along the well-lit track for a few blocks, turn left, and cut through streets of expensive apartment complexes and residential homes until I made it to the front door of my building. It was a safe area, mostly filled with students and young families, and I usually carried a taser, so I was never worried about my wellbeing no matter how much I had to drink.

One weekend, when two of the boys were home visiting family, I went to a bar with the remaining roommate. We met a few of his other friends there, deciding to split a giant fishbowl full of bright purple alcohol with four straws. I remember it tasting like cough syrup in the beginning and then I don’t remember tasting it at all.

At the end of the night, I did my usual routine and rode back to the house with my friend. He convinced me to come inside for a minute, get a glass of water. I was too drunk, we both knew it. He was going to call me another Uber instead of letting me walk home this time.

Instead, he grabbed me by the strap of my black leather crossbody purse and pulled me into one of the nearly identical shoebox bedrooms – his room, the one at the top of the stairs, in the left corner, by the hallway closet. Despite my objections, he forced me to have sex with him. I focused on the dingy yellow walls that were used to listening to Fortnite games and FaceTime calls to family members, but could now hear my drunken protests and then the uncomfortable silence as I eventually accepted what was happening. When he was done, he let me walk home by myself after all. It had even started raining. I took my usual course home, except this time, I couldn’t tell the difference between the raindrops and my tears.

___

I wish I could say that was the last time I ever set foot in that building. The one that went from being a happy, safe haven for me to being a house I could barely stand the thought of. It had been my only witness that night.

Instead, I was faced with the harsh reality that if I actually stood up to what happened, I would lose the only friends I had. I would be trading my trauma for loneliness, which at the time, wasn’t worth it. I thought if I kept acting like nothing was wrong, nothing would be wrong. I hoped I could undo what could never be undone.

Suddenly the paint chips in the interior of the house stood out a bit more, the filth made my skin crawl, each creak in the floor mocked me. The home lost its glamor. I even broke into a panic attack while hanging out in that familiar living room one Sunday afternoon. The boys blindly reacted to comfort me, but I blamed it on the stress of my job and went home. It wasn’t until a few months later, after finally enrolling in therapy, that I no longer asked what they were up to on the weekends, no longer responded to their text messages, no longer wandered over to that side of the neighborhood.

Eventually, I think the boys got the hint as they stopped inviting me over altogether. I often wondered if the other two ever caught on that something had happened when they were away, or if perhaps he had told them a wildly inaccurate narrative of that night and they took his side. But it didn’t matter, I never again needed to hear the clack of the deadbolt on their front door lock behind me.

It’s been two and a half years now, and I’m able to walk by the house without feeling like I’ve been punched in the windpipe. That’s how I ended up there, seeing the sign and being faced with the realization that it might no longer be inhabited by a monster.

All I can hope is that whoever buys the home restores its original glory. That they scrub every inch clean. That they give it a fresh start. Ideally, they nail that room shut with boards, but if it must be used, perhaps they turn it into a storage closet for holiday decorations, or an art studio for making only beautiful things, or a makeshift greenhouse for growing pot, or truly anything but a bedroom. 

Realistically, I don’t know that anyone will. It may get a new coat of paint, a quick touch up, and get rented as-is. Skeletons in the closets and all.

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