Ballad of the Festivals' Greatest Lovers

Content warning: sexual abuse

It has been ten years since the abuse. Ten long years since he – I never think about it. I don’t think about him or how his world must turn in the same way. I don’t ever wonder how many other women he- girls. How many other young girls have their lives shifted from disgusting men? It was only the once but that’s all that it takes. One hour, one more figure in the rape statistics, one shitty secret. A faint voice grows to the foreground.

“Jazz. Jasmine! You’ve gone again.”

Deyla’s soft inflections bring me back to reality and she blesses my cheek with a small peck of a kiss. I giggle, then reciprocate with our soft lips blending, weaving into each other. No human could be as perfect as she is. No one even comes close. Wonderfully, her hand interlocks unto my waist which I mirror back. Our curves complement one another, “sorry love. What do you want to do?” Our eyes freeze, staring into the worlds that inhabit within. “Anything with you, mi amor.” My heart melts every time she speaks. 

Between words, we hear the symphonies of The Electric Guitar Group on stage three, just a few minutes’ walk from our haven: a small patch in the raised field with flowers, reserved with us sitting alone for all of a metre or so. All breeds of couples sit here with teenagers, elders (the ones who dare go to a punk festival), newly-weds, some bored of their spouse, most who enjoy the escape. The majority are like us: gay and in blissful love. Occasionally, we get an unfavourable glance from those who appear to be middle-aged conservatives – a true highlight.

Wafts of weed whack us with temptation and regret for not bringing any. Sweet smells linger in the air, savoury spices aromatically dance from the curry stall on our left. Sudden hunger supplies my mind. To distract, I ruffle through the grass. Each green blade as sticky and coarse as the next with their small grooves grating across fingertips. Carefully, I squeeze and miniscule liquid flows to dirt beneath.

Dey and I agree to churros after the rhapsody from Stage Three finishes (the guitar melodies may never end so we also settled for the choir finishing their set on Stage Two), surprisingly they do finish within ten minutes. A glorious, harmonious, rich ending ensues that encapsulates the journey of the song. Thunderous clapping makes me realise the volume and magnitude of people here. The noises crash through my skull, ringing through my toes and I lose ability to process my lover’s words. I nod and pretend that I am comprehending when really, I feel blank and these sounds and textures bounce and the dizziness starts and the nausea builds.

She is there, in front of me. Breathing with me. Slowing down my heart. Churros will fix this mess.

A woodwind band starts a final mic check as we descend from the barely dune. Unexpectedly, a charge of colourful people run through people. Their clothes extravagant, mesmerising, painful to look at. Distracted, I stand still, trying to understand what they are doing, why they are disruptive, who they are. They blow whistles and chant. Could be important but I can’t shake the nausea so I try to breathe and I can’t see Deyla, my safety and it is so hard to focus and they are running into people. Drunk? They run into me and I am pushed to the ground by a crowd too big, too loud, too intoxicated, too rowdy.

Knocked down, my head steadily bleeds, not much more than a trickle. I observe my surroundings. Sweet smells are now bitter, friendly faces are now...

He is here. He is amongst the crowd and I see black spots in my eyes. A high-pitched ringing creeks and gets louder and I have lost my current me. I am back with him in that room and what he did and he told me I made it up and the noise is unbearable and tears babble downwards and I am scared and I’m trying to ground myself with things I can see and I see nothing and that upsets me more and I don’t know what to do and the ringing is all I can hear and I let go.

Deyla greets me in the strange lucid stage between faint and alert. She looks at how pathetic I am and leaves. I become unconscious.

The ringing is less now and there is something on my head. I feel for its grooves and recognise a plaster of some kind and jolt back slightly when I brush past the bruise. It will heal in a week, most likely. My eyes still aren’t quite restored; someone offers me some water. Cold and sharp sensations fill my mouth. The brisk liquid jabs at my gums so I spill some. The water helps me to gain full calm consciousness once more. Some sort of tent that I am in with a few people dotted around appears in my vision. A first aider helps me to sit up and I see, in his eyes, a likeness to my abuser. In the height of sensory overload, he must have looked the same. I must’ve forgotten that he is in prison, serving his time for a multitude of crime.

It disgusts me how much power he still has over me when he’s not even here.

I convince myself that I am over it but I can’t with this shitty secret. Deyla and I have been dating for nine months and I haven’t told her. She will know when I see her next, she deserves a proper explanation and I will provide her with that information.

“Where is she? My fri-” A default alias to protect us in other countries. There is no use hiding here. “Correction, sorry, my girlfriend.” I describe her in great detail, not even missing her new septum piercing and got cut off by a different first aider when I relayed her birthmark on her thigh. They seemed uncomfortable with the detail so I apologised. Deyla is at the back of the tent, nervously smoking so I join her. Pheromones waft from her sweat and damn, they smell good. We share a long, passionate kiss that say the unspoken. Her hand goes back on my hips where it belongs and I bring her in for another. This kiss is sadder as if it is our last, desperately trying to communicate love. Finally, we get our churros and have a proper discussion.

Now I have two important dates coming up. One is an overdue CBT session and the other is our wedding.