Happy Christmas Eve

The 'swipe right' event. Violet Blood Series - Part I

This Violet Blood Series is a recollection of my path back to my personal power. The autobiographical life events that led me to becoming The Purple Peach. I will do my best not to make these too lengthy. To tell the entire story, I’d have to write a book or a series of books…well maybe this is the beginning of that, who knows.

This is not for any other reason than to remind you of your personal power in your world as I describe certain events that put me on the path of taking mine back.

The discovery of my Violet Blood.

Trigger Warning: This series entry contains details relating to sexual assault and battery.

I have the uncanny ability to shut off my sex drive with pretty much anyone, at any time.

The knobs are so easy to grab with my cerebral autonomy, like dimming the light in a messy room so no one knows what actually happened there. It’s the mystery they hate.

All is of the mind.

This is the story of a 20-something girl, using that knob and receiving the punishment for it.

A cold heart will hail on the sacred days it held so dear

It was Christmas Eve-eve and I had been playing the online dating game.

It was something I had grown used to after my 6 year relationship had caved in: retched and beautifully awful. Heartbreak, it burned as it woke me up, like the pepper spray I ingested as a teenager. This specific encounter though, felt like that pepper spray was a gift; a fun little Friday night with the punk rock kids.

His name was Anthony. Yes, that is his real name.

I don’t feel the need to make something up to shield his identity. He’s a trash bag person and should be acknowledged as such. Fucking twat…ugh, I digress.

Anyway, I swiped right, mainly because I was bored.

After moving back home from the left coast, yet again, I didn’t have much to do or people to do it with. It was Christmas time, I was lonely and wanted to try to enjoy this ‘holiday cheer’ everyone talks and sings about.

He looked pretty docile; like a trivia question birthed a “dude”.

A true nobody face with the body to match. Slightly wavy, long-ish brown hair with a smile that shouted his insecurities. Dark eyes that matched his plain black tee. In hindsight it was all there, I wish I had this awareness at the time. Don’t we all.

We flirted a little on that stupid app and agreed to meet up at a local bar for one of those high-octane-only-during-the holidays-craft beers we both enjoyed. I showed up 12 minutes late—as is my reputation…I’m working on it—and waved at the bartender I knew decently well.

I sat at the bar looking around to find him, which is always so awkward on those pseudo dates. He was seated at the other end of the bar and smiled; we made eye contact. Immediately I had a sore throat.

My body knew.

Our bodies always know.

He pulled out the chair next to him and waved for me to join him. We sat and drank and talked the bullshit.

Where did you grow up?

What do you do?

Do you have any siblings?

All the blah blah pleasantries were exchanged. Drinks were good, he was nice enough. After about an hour we closed out and headed to the parking lot. I was ready to leave, keys in hand, when he said “Do you like the Christmas light shows?”

I looked at him sideways thinking “I thought this was over. Alright, whatever.”

Secretly, I loved corny things that reminded me that some people are happy and take pride in it, so I said yes. So badly did I want to be happy, instead I opted for the constant pepper spray. The sting reminded me I was proof of life in some regard.

I agreed to go with him, in his Mercedes (pov: the possessed ones always drove a Mercedes), to a nearby neighborhood that was doing one of those Christmas light shows programmed to the Nutcracker or some shit.

We pulled up and sat in the line of minivans, paid our $20 to a gum chewing teen (which was totally not worth it if we went through 4 times over, I’d rather have more 11% beers) and tuned our radio to the correct station. It was cool, I guess: lots of blues and whites.

Where’s the tacky color display you dumb happy Christmas fairies?

It lasted about 10 minutes. Annoyed, but wanting to keep the night going so I wouldn’t be smoking this weed by myself, I invited him over. I was clear about the fact that he was not to kiss me or touch me without my fucking permission. Crystal. He agreed with caution, startled and a little taken aback by my assertive nature.

We went back to the bar to pick my car and in the back of my mind, with key in ignition, a tiny voice whispered “just go home”. I didn’t listen, my battered and broken identity refused to listen. Pepper sprayed.

My aunt was out of town and I was housesitting along with watching her cats. One of them being diabetic. I still don’t understand how a cat can have a glucose issue but whatever. It was a nice place to sit, watch some tv, smoke some weed and part ways.

We went downstairs to the overly-decorated finished basement and turned on South Park. We laughed and talked about who in our lives is what character. After a few episodes we went out the side door to smoke a bowl together.

I immediately found myself batting away his advances like the ice queen I was. He tried to kiss me, I put my hand up. He apologized, frustrated.

I said calmly, “that’s ok, I’m just not the one to try with. I’m just trying to chill”.

I know I know…I was so rude.

He turned away, unresponsive.

His entire aura had shifted, almost angry but more so embarrassed; like a pouty child who just got reprimanded at the candy store in front of the gummy bears, I had just murdered Santa.

I said I was tired and I was going to bed. He said he was tired too, he had a long day of travel the next day.

We walked back in the house from the deck. I lead us through the dimly lit basement, ready to go to sleep and see what travesty tomorrow would bring. More pepper spray I’m sure.

Before I knew it, his hands were around my throat, then his arms. My sore throat.

I threw my elbow back to hit him in the solar plexus as he quickly scaled me like a spider monkey from behind, bringing me down, knocking me out temporarily. Shit got a little blurry after that.

I came to on the floor with my pants down—his hand covering my mouth, knees pinning me down.

He had me ripped open. Hungry and primal, he was starving and I was his smorgasbord.

So I did what I had always done in times like these.

I jumped.

Disassociation is what they call it, but in hindsight, I consciously wanted to be above this incredible show of demonic possession.

A part of me was taking notes; studying his specific brand of evil chaos.

This is what the entity does. It is how it gets in.

I could see my blood turning blue as I gazed down at myself with such compassion and understanding that there was a point to it, there had to be. I watched, trying my best to tell my body where and when to move to get out of his grasp but I couldn’t make the connection.

I was offline.

a movie script written for my demise.

He anticipated every move I was about to make and countered. I could see the top of his head, my tears pooling around my ears. All I could hear was the crescendo of my muffled screams and his maniacal laughter… like he had just won BIG at the ponies.

What was left of my heart had turned off.

He pounded me repeatedly in my torso: the way a boxer would if he had an open shot in the 12^th round—pure hatred—all before delivering a series of right-handed jabs to my face and jaw. He was calculated; desperate to break an angel.

I had been trained to defend myself after years of having to, (plus having been raised by a 3rd degree blackbelt father) so I couldn’t understand how this little-twiglet-piece-of-shit was overpowering me so easily. That fucking demon strength.

I scratched the fuck out of his back and did everything I could to rip into his flesh suit—biting and clawing—in and out of consciousness.

I can still taste the iron from his sticky palm.

The back of my head smacked the hardwood in that special spot and it was lights out.

The end credits started rolling behind my eyes, I could hear the score playing at perfect volume.

Next thing I know, the deck door had slammed closed and he was gone. Boot prints in the muddy grass. My blood on the floor, on my underwear.

I blinked the blur away and whispered to myself “fuck this, not again.”

It was not my first time but it would be my last.

After laying in my own self pity — long enough to count the twinkling lights that dressed the window—I got up, slowly. Disheveled and dismayed buy the rate in which all that occurred. Sore and freshly bruised, I was still standing. Fuming with my own self loathing.

What just happened?

Was it real?

Is this life?

I glanced at the stove clock screaming its blurry red digits.

12:01

Happy Christmas Eve.

continued in part II…