Nodding, she tightens the strings on her robe and places her hand on the door. I watch her leave the bathroom, and then I make my way to her parents’ room. I’m able to find shorts and a T-shirt to wear and then place my clothes in the dryer. When I’m finished, Barrette is curled up on the couch staring out the window. Their house is right on the Budd Inlet, much like my dad’s house, only their home faces Tacoma.
I sit next to her and like it’s habit, she moves closer, curling into my chest. And then she begins to cry again. I don’t know what to say, or if I’m even supposed to, so I hold her. That’s all.
Four days ago I was packing up my life in Ohio, unaware of what the next twenty-four hours would bring. Ten days ago, I was holding my mother as she took her last breath, and now here I am, holding the girl who’s forever owned my heart, and praying she makes it through this.
I don’t know if I’m enough, but I’m here and I’m not letting go. Not ever.
November - 17 Months Later
University of Washington
Seattle, Washington
Washington in the fall is my favorite time of year. It’s still sunny, pumpkin spice lattes return, and the leaves on campus burst to life in vibrant orange.
I’m never vibrant anymore. I’m a dull shade with dark thoughts.
Sitting to the far left of the classroom near the windows, I stare out at the leaves beginning to fall over the bright green grass with specks of brown, yellow, and red. I envy the colors in the leaves.
I look around the classroom. There’s only me and two other people. I don’t know them, and I definitely don’t make conversation.
It’s rare I’m at this 9:00 a.m. class. I personally don’t think classes should start until noon. I’m not even sure why I took one this early, but I needed this class and it was only offered at the ass crack of dawn. Okay, it’s not dawn, but it’s early for me. These days I prefer to sleep during the day, for many reasons.
This class, it’s Neuro 501: Intro to Neurology. The official course description from their website is “the survey of molecular, cellular, and developmental neuroscience, including gene regulation, the cytoskeleton, protein sorting in the secretory pathway, growth factors, and neurotransmitter receptors.”
You’re probably wondering what the hell all that means, and even I don’t know. All I know is I need it as one of the requirements for a bachelor’s degree in physiology.
A door opens, closes. I jump at the sound and settle back into my seat, the rush of heat from the ventilation hitting me. Sipping my latte in my hand, my eyes follow a girl who walks in with her hood up over her head. I recognize her. She’s a freshman cheerleader this year, and while I don’t know her, I’ve seen her at the games and with the players. She sits on the opposite side of the room, her dark hair attempting to shield the bruises on her face and the cut on her lip. I know those markings. I’ve had them myself.
I imagine the worst. I put myself in her place. Was she beaten like me? Was she raped like me? Does she remember the incident?
My hands shake while my heart thumps wildly in my chest, and that ever-present lump in my throat thickens, takes over, and I fight to push it down. If you were inside my head to see the nerves firing, the reactions I’m withholding, you’d think I have so much control over myself. Maybe you’d even be proud of me for how good I am at it, but it’d be a lie because reactions, words, promises, they can be deceiving.
I look away from her. I don’t know her story, and honestly, I don’t want to. I want to pretend I didn’t see it. I want to believe maybe she tripped and slammed her head into a door or took a dodge ball to the face. But this isn’t elementary school and the likelihood that her face just magically ended up like that isn’t a coincidence. Someone did that to her. Someone took something that wasn’t theirs.
Sound familiar?
I’ve told myself to forget the night. You don’t remember it so why dwell on it? It’s times like this when the reminders surface and I realize that just because I don’t remember the night, doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.
The professor walks in, his monotone announcement ringing through the room.
I divert my eyes to the window again.
This last year, I became interested in psychology and how the brain works. What interests me about the human brain is why we remember certain parts of our lives and why we purposely forget others. I can’t tell you much about that night, probably because I was drugged, but still, I wonder how much I would have remembered without the drugs? Would I have blocked it out as a traumatic event? All I remember is right before on the beach, the fire, Asa, and then nothing else. I woke up in the hospital with Asa beside me.
I know there’s more to the night. I see it in my dreams, but to actually remember every minute detail or faces, I don’t.
For that reason, I chose psychology.
After that night, it was weeks, even months when the heavy reality of what happened hit me. I’d wake up in the morning and think to myself, just smile. You don’t need to be sad about this. Forget it happened. Move on with your life. And when I couldn’t—when I couldn’t find a reason to smile and move on—I couldn’t understand why people tried to force me to. I wanted them to just let me be.
At times, I ask myself why can’t I appreciate what I have now and ignore that pain? I’ll tell you why. It feels wrong. If I accept it, it makes what happened okay, and it’s not okay. It’s fucked up and I can’t ignore it. No one asks or deserves to be raped. Yet here I am, a year and a half later, still blaming myself.
I’ve never said to myself, you’re a survivor. I can’t use that term because I didn’t survive. I simply lived through it, and now I’m in the after part.
I’m not sure I’ll eversurviveagain.
I NEVER WALKalone at night on campus. Instead, I ride a bike. Like somehow being on the bike will allow me to get away quickly if needed. I’m five foot two and barely a hundred pounds. The wind could knock me over if it wanted.