Universal language misapprehended

A indexfinger lifted in the air is the universal language for “Fuck off”, everybody knows that. And it’s the main-rule for my generation to know and understand this. Still, not everybody respect that. It’s not a gesture I use often, but on of the few I’ve used it against is the man that raped me.
I was 16 years of age at that time, and it was the first party I went to. He was 19. He was coming on to me all night, but I rejected him again and again. In the end I gave him the finger and screamed “FUCK OF!” He obviously took it as a “fuck me.” He slammed me hard up against a wall so I hit my head. While I still was seeing stars from the collision with the hard brickwall, he picked me up and carried me into an empty bedroom. He placed me on the bed and pulled of my pantyhose and panties. I was too weak and dizzy to protest, and he was nailing me to the bed. He took what he came for and left me to return to the party.
I don’t know how long I laid there, totally paralysed with fear, halfnaked and with tears flowing down my face. I didn’t know what to do, no idea how I should handle the situation. I couldn’t report him to the police, because then my parents would find out where I’ve been that night. What happened seemed so bizarre and abnormal, and I couldn’t think straight. Right then and there it seemed more important that my parents kept believing that I had slept over at my bestfriends house that night, than getting the man who raped me behind bars to prevent it from happening again, to another innocent girl.
I didn’t get up before the bright morninglight hit my eyes and woke me from my trance. I put my clothes on, got my jacket and sneaked out of the house without waking anybody. I wandered aimlessly around in a park not far from my house until I thought it wold be safe to go home. I didn’t want to wake any form of suspiciousness by coming home to early in the morning. The only clear thought in my head was to keep what had happened a secret. And shame. When I got home I sat in the shower for several hours, crying. I still felt his hands on my skin.

The next month I didn’t get my period. I started fearing the worst and went out to buy a pregnancytest. It was positive. Again my world came apart over my head, and I was yet again without a clue of what I should do.
Luckily I miscarried a month later, before anyone noticed my growing stomach.

I’ve never told anyone what happened that night. Not even my bestfriend or my boyfriend. To this day the man who ruined my life goes free, unpunished. I still live with the fear, and the guilt, and I can never truly trust a man. I live, but some part of me died that night. If he only had had the guts to kill me when he was finished…