I hate speaking in public. It’s like putting yourself out there onto a stage of judgement. Everyone just stares at you with their mouths gaping open. I know it’s only five other girls, but it still scares the ever living shit out of me. My stomach is in knots. I feel like Eminem’s character in 8 Mile, minus the mom’s spaghetti part. I was too nervous to even think about eating; I would just throw it up. What was the point in trying? I sat in my car sweating, my hands shaking.
I have never told anyone my story before. My therapist thinks it would help me process the trauma of what happened. But I don’t really know these girls. I mean, I know them in group, but not in real life, not outside of this room. This is a safe place for us, inside these walls. I am still not super excited about telling them. If I speak it out loud, then it becomes real, then I have to face it. That’s the scary part. I’m beginning to wonder if some things are better just left unsaid.
I am the first one here, again. It’s a compulsion of mine; I abhor being late. In fact, I am usually 15 minutes early for everything. Now I have to sit here and wait for everyone else to show up. I don’t know which is worse, the anxiety of being late or the anxiety of waiting. I can’t decide. Somehow, even with being the first to arrive, I still manage to always get the wobbly chair. It just sort of happens that way. I teeter side to side as everyone arrives, back and forth. The chair legs make a clacking noise that I am pretty sure everyone is beginning to get annoyed with.
After everyone arrives, the facilitator welcomes everyone. Her name is Janet. I like her a lot actually. We each take turns saying our names and how we are feeling today. Therapy is very big on acknowledging your emotions. We practice not judging our own, or each other’s, but God I am so nosy. It takes everything that I have not to ask people why they feel a certain way, but I don’t. It’s the rules, and I follow the rules, another impulse of mine.
“And Beth has volunteered to speak today,” I hear Janet say.
Shit. I didn’t exactly volunteer, because everyone is required to pick a day. It’s a part of participating in the program. It’s also one of the reasons they agreed to let me out of the psych ward. They deemed me no longer a danger to myself or others. I take a deep breath.
“Um, hey guys.” I clear my throat and take a sip of water. I begin to read. I had to write it all out. When I get nervous, my thoughts get jumbled, the chronology of everything gets all mixed up.
“Tony hired me as his caretaker. He told me he had been in an accident years ago, but he never told me anything more than that. He seemed bothered by it anytime anyone brought it up, so I never asked about it again. I figured he would open up to me eventually, in his time.
“My job was to keep him company mainly. He was always having me drive him around places, go to appointments or visit with friends. Sometimes he just wanted to go for a drive in the country. I knew many of his friends by name, and I knew of his doctors’ offices. This specific day, we went somewhere new. I wasn’t entirely sure why we were there. I sort of just assumed they were friends of his that I hadn’t met yet.
“I remember being in a sitting room of sorts with two doors, the one we came in from outside and another closed door. The room was dark, dimly lit, like a den. I remember everything was brown. Like the couch was brown, the carpet was brown, all the tables were wooden. Very brown. I was sitting on one edge of the couch, and he was sitting next to me in his wheelchair. We were just sitting there waiting. This time felt different though. This place was odd for some reason, but we were beginning to feel like older brother and little sister, you know, so I trusted him.
“Three guys, all about my age, walked in through the other door. I had definitely never met them before. We exchanged pleasantries, and we all sat down around the coffee table. One of the boys came around to sit on the couch next to me. I didn’t really think anything of it. We were in their house for Christ’s sake.
“He asked me if I wanted anything to drink. The other two guys were talking with Tony. They were laughing, and seemed to be catching up, so I gladly accepted the drink. He got up and walked over to a full bar set up on the other side of the room. A minute later he came back with a glass of red wine in one of those oversized glasses that you get at fancy restaurants. I felt super classy. I slipped off my shoes and tucked my feet under me, settling deeper into the seat. The way the guys were chatting it up, I figured we would be there for a while, so I made myself comfortable.”
“My name is Fred,” he said. “And that is Randy and Wilson,” pointing to the other guys.
“We waved.”
I could start to feel the tears welling up in my eyes. I knew I was going to cry. Crap.
“My name is Beth.” I returned as I reached for the glass. “Thank you.”
“Fred and I started chatting about stupid shit, the weather, you know. Normally I zone out on our outings. They can be so boring with the talk about the old days. During the appointments I could at least read the magazines in the waiting room. It was kind of nice to have someone to talk to this time. I actually thought he was kind of cute.”
I stopped and took a sip of water. I tried to remain stoic as I stared at the paper, my tears dripping down and making the ink bleed. I dab my eyes with my cloth handkerchief.
“My ears perked up when I heard my name. They were talking about me, Tony and the other two boys. I stayed quiet and listened to them for a few minutes. What were they saying about me? Occasionally I would nod at Fred and pretend I was still listening. I slowly started to realize that they were talking about a business transaction, with me involved. My jaw dropped, and I looked at Tony with wide eyes.”
“Excuse me!” I blurted as I spit wine. “Wait a minute. Tony, what are you guys talking about?”
He shushed me and turned to the guys, “Don’t worry about her. She’ll be fine.”
“My first thought was ‘Did he just shush me?’ and my second thought was ‘What is happening?’ I looked at them, then Tony, then back to them. I looked at Fred. He shrugged his shoulders and smiled. I didn’t know what to say. It was like I was stunned into silence. Nothing made any sense. I remember looking down at my hands. My vision went blurry, and then I blacked out.”
I stop to blow my nose. I look around at the other girls, and they are all sitting on the edge of their folding chairs, staring at me, longing to hear more. I cringed. I despise being the center of attention. I glance over to Janet, my eyes pleading for some sort of support. She smiles at me and give me an encouraging head nod, goading me to continue on with my story.
I still don’t understand how this is supposed to help me, telling my story. All I want to do is run from this sterile room. I want to run all the way to my car, lock all the doors, and scream at the top of my lungs. But I don’t. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I take another sip of water, and I comply. My only protest is that I stare at the floor, for it’s far too hard to look them in the eyes.
“I remember waking up on top of a bed. I was in someone’s bedroom. I walked over to the door and cracked it ever so slightly. I peeked out into the hallway and didn’t see anyone. I stepped out and looked around, but I didn’t recognize anything. There was a door at the end of the hallway, so I headed that direction. One of the guys from earlier, Randy, came through the door.”
“Where are you going?” he asked me.
“I need to find Tony,” I replied. “Where is he?”
“I tried to push my way around him, but he was blocking the whole doorway. He wouldn’t let me through.”
“He’s on his way out,” Randy said as the edges of his mouth curled into a smirk.
“What do you mean?” I asked confused. “I have to go with him. I drove him here.”
He didn’t budge. He just stood there smiling at me. “We made an arrangement,” he said
“I backed away. I put my hands over my face trying to figure out what he was talking about. It’s not like Tony could drive himself in his condition. I was so confused.
He slowly began walking toward me with that stupid smirk still attached to his face. As he approached he reached out and stroked my cheek with the back of his fingers, wiping a tear. I jerked back instinctively.
“Don’t touch me,” I said as I took a few steps back.
“I can do whatever I want with you,” he responded almost giddily. “I paid for you.”
“What on Earth are you talking about?” I questioned. I place my fingers to the bridge of my nose, a massive headache starting to build. The conversation from earlier started to come back to me. “You can’t pay for me. I’m not for sale.”
“Well my Sleeping Beauty,” Randy said as he spread his fingertips through mine. “You belong to all of us now.”
“Who is ‘all of us?’” I tried to pull back, as a realization formed in my mind.
I was drugged. That’s what happened. It had to be. I didn’t even finish that glass of wine. I remember now.
“All the guys who live in the house.” He held my hand tighter.
“And how many guys live here exactly?” I asked, trying to buy myself some time to figure out what to do next.
“Exactly?” he asked. I nodded. “ Fifteen,” he replied as he loosened his grip.
“He never stopped smiling the entire time he spoke. I slipped my hand out of his, and ran the opposite direction. I found another door, and it led to the same sitting room I was in before. We came in this way. I was in luck. I ran toward the door, the main entrance to the house, and I reached for the doorknob. I jerked the door open, and the other two guys, Fred and Wilson, were standing on the other side.”
“Well that’s all the time we have for today,” Janet cut in.
Thank God. I can feel my hands shaking. The adrenaline rushes through me from telling my story, even if I didn’t tell them everything. I can feel the blood running through my veins as heat rises in my chest. Breathe. It’s okay. You are just crashing.
I take a minute as everyone else says their goodbyes and walks to the elevators. I pack my bag slowly, trying not to make direct eye contact with anyone. I don’t want to have to chit chat with these people, not now. I am too fragile. I feel as though I may break if I move too fast. If I speak, I will probably start crying.
After everyone else is gone and I hear the elevator go down, I take my leave. Janet is still there, but I don’t care. She has seen me at my worst; she has seen me ugly cry. Why did I wear makeup today? That was dumb. Thank God those big framed sunglasses came back into style. Ding. The elevator doors open and I step out into the foyer. It’s dark out. Shit.
I get in my car and drive home, thinking that about now would be a good time for a drink. Good thing I planned ahead, because there is a bottle of tequila waiting for me at home.
It’s funny really. We tell each other in group our deepest secrets, insecurities, and stories. But we never talk about normal stuff, day-to-day life stuff. We do the awkward greeting, then we slip right into the nitty gritty of our problems. We don’t really know each other outside of this space. Am I supposed to say hello if we see each other on the street? I still don’t know the answer.
All I know is your trauma, so what are we supposed to talk about? We know each other in real life, but there is still a looming contract of confidentiality. All I know of you is what you have told me in group, and you’re not extremely active on social media. We like each other’s posts on Instagram, but are we really “friends?”
This is what I think about as I sip my tequila, always blanco, always on ice. I swirl the glass around so all of the ice gets covered, and I inhale the sweet scent of agave. I finish my drink, and then go to bed. At least that’s over. Next week will be someone else’s turn to speak.
The room is pitch-black. I can barely make out the sound of footsteps over the rain hitting the tin roof. He is coming. I know he is close. I can feel it. I am sweating, and trying not to cry. I don’t want him to hear me. I see the doorknob turn and hear the creak of the door. I can see light flowing into the room from the hallway. I am hiding behind a dresser that isn’t mine. All I can see from this angle are his boots. “I know you are in here. I brought you in here.” He flipped the light switch. The light is so blinding that I can’t help but to shut my eyes. When I open them my vision is hazy, but as it slowly clears I realize that he is standing above me, smiling.
I shoot up out of bed, startled out of a deep sleep. As my eyes bolt open I put my hand to my chest, and it feels as though it’s on fire. I gasp for air and my heart races. Fearfully I begin scanning the room, my hands shaking uncontrollably. As my vision begins to clear from my sleepy haze, I register the fact that I am in my room.
I pull the covers up to my face. He wasn’t in the wheel chair. It was Tony, but he was walking, and running. He was chasing me, and he wasn’t in his wheelchair. I remember now. He didn’t actually need the wheelchair. It was all a ruse. I remember! My breathing escalates, and I start hyperventilating. Shit. I’m having a fucking panic attack.
I reach for my cup of water, but it’s not there. I sit up, and lower my bare feet down to the cold hardwood floor. I really should invest in a carpet, or some slippers would be nice. My eyesight blurs, and the dizziness sets in. I grab the edge of the nightstand and sit back down on the bed.
“I can do this. I know what this is. Just breathe.” I repeat those words until my heartbeat goes back to normal. I get out of bed and feel my way to the bathroom door. I open the medicine cabinet to pull out a bottle of sleeping pills, one of many. I pop one into my mouth and drink water from the faucet. “I’m just tired. I will feel better in the morning.” I stumble back into bed and quickly fall back to sleep.
The next morning, I wake up and look out the window. The sun is shining brightly. I smile, feeling much better I think. I look through my closet and find a pair of jeans, a crewneck sweatshirt, and some Birkenstocks. I put those on and skip down the stairs to the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee. I have my routine therapeutic solo hour in about 30 minutes.
“We have never processed your sexual assault before,” Janet prompts.
“I wouldn’t have done it in group if I didn’t feel comfortable,” I return proudly. She knows I looked at the floor most of the time. No one needs to say that part out loud. We both know that’s what I do these days. I’m doing it now. That’s the important part, baby steps.
“Do we need to talk about it?” she asks me.
“No,” I reply. “I think I am okay with that part.”
What’s talking about it going to do anyway? I grieved the inner child wounding, and I did all the therapy. It’s more of a talking point now. Other people have more of a reaction than I do about it. That’s the annoying part, having to console other people’s reactions to my story. Not only did I have to live through it, but now I have to make you comfortable with the fact that I lived through that. Jesus Christ! Will it ever end?
“Do I have to finish my story with the girls?” I ask.
“That’s up to you,” she replies, typical therapist response. “What do you want to talk about today?”
“I would like to work on some trauma today.”
“Okay,” she says as she pulls the pulsar devices out of her drawer.
We decided on EMDR for my trauma therapy, Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing. I hate the wand. You are supposed to follow the wand with your eyes, but for some reason I can’t cry when we use them. I prefer these little hand buzzers. She controls them, and I concentrate on the sensation while I tell her about a traumatic event in my past.
“I remembered something in my dream last night. He could walk. In fact, he only used the wheelchair when I was around. It was all a part of his fucked up game.”
“Have you told the police yet?” she asks.
“No,” I reply quietly. I can’t talk to them. Can we do it first? Then I promise I will tell them.”
We get into position. I sit cross-legged on her couch with a buzzer in each hand. She turns them on and prompts me to begin. I take a deep breath.
“I was running, and panting really hard like I had been running for a while. Tony was running after me. He tried to grab me, but we both ended up falling. He reached toward me and wrapped his giant hand around my ankle, gripping as hard as he could. He was pulling me toward him. I kicked as hard as I could until finally I caught him in the nose. I felt his fingers slip, and I ran out the French doors onto the back deck of the house.
“There were stairs that went down to the backyard. As I stumbled in the dark further away from the house, the ground just stopped. I came upon a cliff edge and looked around me. I could hear the boys screaming for me as they waved their flashlights around, partly actively searching and partly laughing with each other. I was so scared. I didn’t know where to go.”
The tears begin to well up in my eyes. Don’t fight it. Concentrate on that emotion. Eventually I sob like a baby. She turns off the buzzers and lets me just cry it all out until my tears have all run dry. It’s cathartic. I feel lighter, like a great weight has been lifted off my shoulders.
She always asks me that. Where do I feel it? What do I feel? She’s trying to get me back into my body, I know. I have separated the two parts of me, the emotional side and the logical side. I feel broken, but I am so tired of feeling this way. That’s why I’m here, to fix myself, to put the pieces back together.
I was exhausted after therapy, so I grabbed a cup of coffee as I drove to the police station. A promise is a promise, but I do not have to drink that nasty syrup from some mixture machine they try to offer me. Thanks, but no thanks.
I walk in and go straight to the detective’s office. They all know me by now. I have been here I can’t even count how many times. They still haven’t found him. I don’t understand how a person can just disappear off the face of the planet like that.
I tell him everything. I still cried, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as it could have been. Detectives aren’t exactly known for their compassion. I gulp down the rest of my coffee before I leave and toss the empty cup in the trash. It’s not like they don’t already have my prints on file. I drive home with the windows down.
I unlock the door, and take one step in the threshold. I pause, and look around the room. I notice a faint smell of blood. I can almost taste it in the air. I touch the inside of my bottom lip with my fingertips. It’s my blood. I was biting my lip again. I do that when I’m anxious, but the smell was suddenly overwhelming. Frantically I start shaking, and I dizzily take hold of the doorframe. I close my eyes and try to shake it off, make it go away. My mind goes blank and my vision turns black, and then I find myself staring down at myself.
My head is bleeding, and I am crawling toward the front door. I reach out for the doorknob. Tears are running down my face, mixing with blood I am not even sure is mine. I have to get out of here. I hear a noise come from the back of the house. He’s here. Adrenaline rushes through my body. Gripping the doorknob with all the strength I can muster, I finally drag myself off the floor and turn around.
I come to on the floor, halfway in the house and halfway on the front porch. I collect myself enough to get inside and lock the door. I walk to the bathroom and stick my head under the faucet. I need to feel the cold water on my skin. After I dry myself off I grab my journal, light a candle, and make a cup of tea. I need to write everything down before I forget it all. This is how my memory has started to come back. I frantically scribble in my notebook, not caring whether or not I am writing on the lines.
I had to go back in the house. There was no way out the back unless I felt like jumping off a cliff that I couldn’t even see how far down it goes. No wonder those guys treated it like a game of flashlight tag. They knew I wasn’t going anywhere.
I cry and snot all over the letter as I write it. I pound my fists on the desk as I wail. I do this until my eyes dry out, until I have no more tears to cry. I just sit there with my head on my desk, panting and coughing.
I wipe my eyes and nose with the sleeve of my sweater. I take the letter, and slowly draw the corner of the page over the flame. The edges of the paper turn brown and begin to crumple. I walk over to the giant brick fireplace, and throw the remaining enflamed piece of paper onto the leftover ashes.
I watch until the whole letter disappears into nothing, the flame dwindling. Half a smile forms on my lips, and gradually make its way into the corners of my eyes.
