Same disclaimer: I guess it’s only fair to give a trigger warning. If you’re sensitive to stories involving sexual harassment, violence, or rape, don’t read this. I just need to get it out of my head. I went through a lot of fucked up stuff at the behest of the justice system and I don’t know someone needs to know how fucking sincerely messed up the way my case was dealt with really was.
"Alright, we’re going to go over this one more time,"
Never have I felt more trapped than I did in that dank cinder block room. Did you know they have you go over your story in the same room they interrogate criminals? One of the walls was stacked floor to ceiling with case files. Images of suspects, scenes, victims taped to the front of each box. Things like ‘McCallan case 2008 — ” we’re hastily scrawled across in sharpie. Some of the boxes had clearly not been touched in years. I remembered what one of the detectives said to me when we met at the ER. I was hesitant when they first collected my statement. “I’ve delt with cases with babies from age 1 to old people age 101, ain’t nothing you say is gonna shock me.”
I went over my story one more time. I had a bottle of wine earlier that night. I waited a few hours, and, newly 21, decided I’d take myself out to a bar around the corner from my childhood home. Yes, I do know how stupid is to go out alone. I was craving a gin and tonic. I had one, I made conversation with the people around me, I had another, then three, then…
This part happened like the flash of a camera pointed right at my retina. I sensed the ice cold air of a February night on my torso and rear. My arm was twisted, pinned, behind my back. I felt him enter me. Searing pain emanated from my anus as I felt him rip flesh to push inside me. I protested with words that I am sure sounded nothing like whimpers from an injured animal.
I’m on the ground now. Something hurts. I feel an hand on my shoulder try to help me up. “NO!! YOU RAPED ME!!!” I piped up as loud as I could. I started crawling down the filthy city street, trying to get on my feet.
Nothing. Blackness. Emptiness. Silence.
I woke up in my bed at 2pm the next day, fully dressed, bleeding from my ass and feeling just fucking broken.
"That doesn’t make any sense," stated Detective Jazmine, (as she asked me to call her,) deadpan as ever.
“Well it’s the truth, I don’t know what you want me to tell you,” I choked back tears, and vomit as well, “I can’t change the truth, I can’t change what I know, or what I remember. I don’t understand what you want from me!” I was sobbing now.
“Listen, goodness, alright, I didn’t mean to upset you,” She sounded more annoyed than sympathetic, “It’s just that usually when a victim experiences memory loss due to being drugged they are unable to recall any part of the incident.”
I was baffled, I never said I was drugged. I didn’t know how to respond or explain myself. “But this is what I do remember,” was all I could manage to mumble. I had been in there for 2 hours. This was probably the 10th time I’d recanted my memories. Interrogated, doubted, my story dissected and preened of any open-ended statements or assumptions. I wrote down my recollections on that stupid fucking yellow college-ruled notepad for a second time. I looked up at the detective. She was stoic, unmoving. They had the woman partner question me on the assumption that I would be more comfortable. She was dressed completely as a man. A men’s oxford shirt, chinos, and men’s alligator shoes. She sat with her legs spread wide. I felt sick. The cocktail of extremely strong anti-biotics, anti-virals, and other medications churned like fucking lavaflow in my stomach. It was 9pm now. But no, it wasn’t over.
Did you know they make you go back to the scene of the crime the same night you report your rape? We got into the black towncar to drive back downtown, I sunk down as small as I could in the back seat, shell-shocked. The detectives talked about a party they had just been to. They cracked jokes and laughed loudly about their friends. My head was split open with an axe, at least it felt that way. All of my energy oozing from the wound. We arrived. Around the corner from the house I grew up in. Across the street from the vet I took my pets to. We got out.
"Yeah see, there’s a camera there, and there," said the male detective as he pointed his grubby finger to areas I didn’t bother to look at. "I’mma work on getting some video," He turned and looked me right in the eye, "You’d be SURPRISED the kind of things we find on the video." Why did he sound so vindictive?
did u miz me?
c how wistful i am?