Sunday evening, small provincial town. Two friends sit on a terrace and chat. Both have been raped.

The next day, Monday afternoon, Padua. Three girls drink coffee in a bar, they all come from different countries. All have been raped.

Of these four, two have been raped more than once in their lives. Of these four, they all know at least one other person who has been raped.

She was eight years old when a relative violated her. She does not remember much, maybe she was younger, maybe she was older. She does not want to talk about it, she only says that for several years she had repressed it.

Fifteen years old, birthday party. A boy she met that night rips off her tights and fingers her, she is so drunk she doesn’t even notice. When she sees that the stockings have a hole in the linguine, she contemplates the possibility that the boy did it. She dismisses the matter with a ‘it’s impossible that it happened, no one would do such a thing’. But it did happen, everyone is talking about it. People who were there, people who weren’t there but know her, people she doesn’t even know. Everyone knew about it before she did, everyone calls her slut. This is a rape. Her first sexual experience was a rape.

Eighteen years old, she is sleeping at her boyfriend’s house. In the morning it is not the lark that wakes her up, but him fingering her while she sleeps. This is a rape. She becomes aware of it seven years later, on Monday at the bar.

Similar story, same age: watching a film on the sofa with her ex-boyfriend, she falls asleep. She wakes up when he slips one hand into her panties, with the other he is already touching her breast.

Nineteen years old, she wakes up in her bed, and a work colleague is sleeping next to her. She does not remember going home with him, she had been drinking heavily the night before. At work she discovers that they had not just slept that night, they had had sex, and colleagues were gossiping about it. It was not sex, it was rape. She also realises this at the bar and no, she does not know if he had used a condom or not, probably not.

Also, at nineteen, that night she argues with her boyfriend, they have been together for four years. It is obvious even though she cannot admit it to herself: that he is cheating on her. They argue about it, but she decides to believe his lies again. They make up, and he keeps both girlfriend and lover. A triumph, that must be celebrated, time for sex. The fact that she was crying during it didn’t ruin the moment and certainly didn’t stop him. This is rape. Before Sunday night she had never called it as such.

Another party, her goodbye party, age twenty-five. At the end of the night, a friend of hers forces her to have oral sex. The first time he pushes her head down she stops him and tells him he is treating her like a whore, like an object. It matters little, he continues until he is satisfied. He surely knows how to make a party unforgettable. When he finishes, he tells her he enjoyed it. She cries and asks why he did it. He says that what he has done has nothing to do with her as a person – suck a relief! After he apologises and asks her to not tell anyone what happened, he takes his leave. He has a girlfriend. He knows she has been raped in the past. He raped her anyway.

Acquaintances, colleagues, friends, ex-boyfriends, relatives, boyfriends: men. These are our rapists. Of them, just one has been reported. Of them, no one has paid for what he has done.

This is not an anomaly, this is the rule. Before Monday and Sunday, many of these abuses were not called rapes. They were unpleasant, confusing and humiliating experiences that, even if they were not faced for what they are, changed their relationship with sex, with men and with themselves.

One of them has had eating disorders since then, she hates her body and does not want to have sex; it has been six years. Another is anorgasmic. She also hates her body, she has no control over it as if it were not hers, so she punishes it. The other two do not trust men, they keep them at a distance. One of them has never had a lasting relationship, if you ask her she tells you she hates men. The other has had one for the first time after sixteen years.

Of these four, all have problems relating to other people. Of these four, all have or have had mental problems. Of these four, none feel safe, not anymore, all are afraid and mad. They are afraid it will happen again, they are afraid it will happen to someone they love. They are mad because it is unfair. They are mad because this is the rule.

We have been raped in our homes, we have been raped in our boyfriends’ homes, we have been raped in crowded places. We have been raped by people we trusted, people we respected, people unsuspected. We have been used, humiliated, and betrayed, we have been reduced to objects. We are and have been blamed, shamed, and punished. We have told ourselves incessantly that it did not happen, that he did not do it on purpose, that he would not do it, that it is impossible. It is possible, he did it and he knew what he was doing, it happened. It happened to me, it happened to you, it happened to us, it happened to them.

Now, when I speak with a man, I wonder if he has ever raped or if he ever will. Now, when a friend invites a guy over, I don’t say “Go girl”, I say “Sharp your knives”. Now, in my eyes, you are all rapists until proven innocent.