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If the wind howled any louder, the glass would shatter, I thought, but then, that would be something, wouldn't it? Shattered glass, splinters of light, a fragmented whole. I bet I could create all kinds of symbolism with that one. I traced the patterns of the rain against the window as passing lights illuminated my drawings. My breath caused clouds to form, then fade and reform once again on the pane. It was like catching snowflakes — the joy fleeting at best.
My father's hands clenched tightly to the steering wheel; his knuckles were white, which intrigued me because the rest of his face glowed hotly. Again, my illumination was courtesy of streetlamps. He flashed in and out of the light as I watched, in and out of focus. I became dizzy trying to follow his migrations.
"Are you hungry?" he asked. I smiled involuntarily, then winced, causing even more pain to shoot across my face. My father, the caregiver, trying to deal with a situation the only way he knew how — by feeding me. "No," I said, as a 16-wheeler thundered past. "I can't eat."
The trailer had caused a wave of rain to splash against the car, erasing my artistry and presenting virgin canvas; I was forced to start over.
"Your mother's pretty upset about the whole thing." He turned to look at me, clenching and unclenching his fingers. "She may ... hover."
"Sure," I said absently, staring into the blurry night.
"And we didn't tell your brothers. We just didn't think ... "
I nodded, understanding. No one thought about it, did they? They read about it, watch the news and shake their heads sympathetically, but they don't acknowledge its reality. They don't foresee it, expect it, plan for it. No one does. There's not exactly a gameplan for families, any more than there's one for the victim.
But I remained silent, my hands folded on my lap, uncomfortable with the entire discussion. I picked at imaginary lint on my sweatpants, smoothed mental wrinkles in the fleece, grateful at least that I wasn't wearing my uniform. I wanted a shower.
"You all right?" he asked, giving my hand a squeeze.
"Sure," I said, knowing that it was what he had wanted to hear.
Was it hot in here? I reached for the dials on the radio, flinching when the unmistakable sound of Bruce Springsteen filled the car. Dad reached over and slapped the radio off. I relaxed again, settling once again into the silence.
But the damage was done; the truce was shattered. I was no longer warm, no longer the artist, but suddenly, strikingly aware of who I was and why we were here, of the blood in my hair and the cuts on my face; I was forced into acknowledging the existence of the fear pulsing throughout my body, ultimately invading my soul. I was no longer a teenager on a drive with her father; I was no longer safe within the confines of my own life, my own skin. I was no longer a child. I was no longer safe. I was, and forever will be, a rape victim.
That night, my sense of safety was ripped from me — the sweet oblivion of ignorance forever replaced with brutal, unwanted knowledge.
I had taken my share of self-defense classes and thought (with the arrogance of youth) that I was prepared for anything. Nothing, however, could have prepared me for the attack.
I fought him, of course, and might've cried (I don't remember) but I didn't scream, not even when he threw me up against a concrete wall behind a reeking dumpster and strangled me — all with one hand. I couldn't breathe — I need to breathe — I remember thinking that. I remember thinking of all the things I had to live for and how, no, this couldn't be happening to me. I couldn't say a word. But my mind screamed. My mind's voice echoed, "No. Oh, God, please no." That's all I could think. And then I watched him rape me.
He left, finally, pulling on his baggy slacks like he was off to catch the game or something, but I did not cry. I did not move. I wondered why he hadn't kill me. I really didn't care, to tell you the truth. My throat hurt, I couldn't even swallow, and I was bleeding somewhere (everywhere?), but still I didn't cry. I could smell him on me, feel the chill of the night air, and the aches of my battered body. I remember the aching. And still, I didn't do anything. I didn't think or feel or see anything. I just sat there, on the curb behind the restaurant, rocking back and forth, knees to chest, chin to knees. For how long Time sat with me, I can't say. Nor can I remember the hospital, the police station, or my parents' arrival. I only remember the aching.
My father shook me awake shortly before we reached our destination. "We're almost home," he said. For one brief moment, I was consumed with the thought of escaping. My hand reached for the handle and I thought, "How easy it would be! How much simpler for everyone!" I don't know why I didn't pull that handle; I had no reason for remaining. I know only that for one moment, I almost gave in, I almost gave up. I felt old before my time, weary, filled with resignation. I had nothing left.
Not much later, I looked up to see our house, softly glowing in the night, my lighthouse in the storm. I'd never been so happy to come home. My face and hands were wet; I used my T-shirt to dry them. It had been almost eight hours since the attack. It felt like a thousand years ago, until I moved or spoke or swallowed.
My father helped me from the car, gingerly, tenderly. I wanted to scream, "I won't break!" But I gave him a smile instead. He was taking this whole thing awfully well. The door opened and my mother stood in the opening, waiting. It felt good to see her strength. My father's hand securely at my elbow, I took my first tentative steps toward home, toward security.
This moment was the beginning of a new life for me, one I didn't ask for, but was forced to accept. And whether I knew it or not, I had made a choice to be a survivor, to not be simply a victim. So now I had to start over. Now, somehow, I had to substitute the nightmare with dreams, the reality with hopes. Now I had to heal.