i wondered what He thought. i wondered if He had bled as i did, or if He had screamed when my body screamed. i wondered if He felt the sadness and humiliation i did. i wondered if He felt the desperation and horror i did.
i wondered if He felt the same about me now, as He once had.
Such a whirl-wind of questions, my heart broke once again. And though i had desperately wanted Him to come to me, i must admit there was a part of me, a very small part, which felt resentment toward Him.
Why had He not protected me? Why did He not know of the events and stop them before i was left to scream? Why had He not come sooner? Why had it been nearly 2 months since His last visit?
Such a whirl-wind of questions and resentment, my mind lost consciousness.
After nightmares of the brutal events, my body lay battered and torn on my sheets. Healed bruises ached and invisible scars bled. My heart raced as my tears and sweat collided on my face. And during this panic, my dear stranger watched.
Once i collected myself and focused my tear-filled vision, i saw in the corner my stranger's face looking somewhat sad, and yet still so filled with peace. Looking i was astounded.
Looking, i suddenly became enraged!
How could He looked sad yet peace-filled at the same time? Did He feel sad for my torn body but filled with peace for His own flawlessness? Why did He look at me so simply?
Finally, i screamed...
'What is it? Why are you looking at me that way? Where have you been? Why didn't you help me? Why didn't you SAVE me?!'
Tears poured down my face and my lungs gasped for air. But my stranger just watched me and said nothing in reply. A few minutes passed and slowly He walked back toward me.
As He sat on my bed, again i collapsed into His arms and wept. With my face buried deep in His chest, He rocked and soothed me into silence.
Minutes later my stranger kissed any trace of my tears away. Within His warm embrace, all my anger and sadness faded away, as i was slowly filled with the security He had always given to me. Slowly, a peaceful calm engulfed me. And in that moment i knew i was still alive, and the world remained audacious.
Resting in His arms, i knew in moments such as these, during His visits, i was safe. No brutality would threaten and no hands would savage. Knives could not graze my skin and my panic would eventually settle. My stranger was here and for the first time since the attack He would protect my body and my mind.
His visit was once again thrilling, yet it was completely different from all His other visits. i didn't crave His touch, and i couldn't be with Him sexually. And with no words, He understood not to touch me intimately.
Hours were spent as i wept away the memories until i fell soundlessly asleep- a sleep which i knew would lack the horrific realities i had lived through while His arms held me tight. It was a sleep of dreamless unconsciousness...
When i awoke this morning, i felt warmed and a little more stable. Sadness carried less weight and my humiliation slowly turned to anger. i felt lonely and i actually missed my stranger’s embrace, but i was happy to feel a little stronger. Breathing in the morning, i know my dear stranger will wait for my return into our world, just as i will await His next visit.
October 1999
19 years old
*****
I remember that time. I remember what I felt like. I couldn’t talk to anyone anymore- I trusted no one. To be fair, my friends did try for a while. They put in the time. They made the calls and they attempted a few visits, but I refused to see them. I refused to talk to them. I refused everyone because I trusted no one anymore.
He was my friend. And he was vicious.
He said unbelievable things as he hurt me. He made confessions of love. He confessed his insanity for me. He said every single thing every single woman ever wants to hear under different circumstances, in a different situation. He loved me. He adored me. He was in love with me. He wanted to have a life with me. He wanted us to be together. Forever.
He was my friend. And he was brutal.
I think that’s what I struggled with the most. The act was brutal, yes. Within any reality being forced is brutal, I know that. But it was the brutality in which he took me and the instruments he used, the scars he left, the injuries he caused unnecessarily, all while telling me he loved me.
And that was my struggle. He was my friend who I trusted and I have been encased in my confused shame ever since.
I could never understand what I did to provoke it. I was a good girl, and I treated everyone well. I was fun and young, yes. But other than hugs hello or goodbye, I never touched anyone or allowed anyone to touch me. I never dick teased or flaunted any sexuality at all. I hung out with friends. I drank and danced and laughed and had fun. But I was a good girl. I was always a good girl.
He was my friend. And he was deadly.
He was a friend I trusted, and he did the unthinkable. He confused our friendship with love. He confused my simple hugs with a want for more. He equated unrequited want with the need to force my love. He was confused, and I became lost.
And so I pulled away.
I didn’t discuss what happened with anyone after the first day I lived with it. I told the Police about the factual events. I told the doctors and the nurses about the factual physicality’s of the events. I told my family the basics. And then I never discussed it again.
I lied to the Police and said I didn’t know who he was. I told the Police he was waiting in my apartment. I told the Police he was an unknown intruder because I didn’t know how to discuss what really happened. I didn’t know what to say, and I was afraid of telling the Police the truth- I had opened the door to my FRIEND. I had allowed my friend into my apartment because he was my friend. But I didn’t want what he did to me.
I didn’t discuss my friend, and I didn’t tell the whole truth. I didn’t know how to tell. Everyone I knew knew him. Every single friend I had knew him well. And I was afraid. I thought others might blame me for letting him into my apartment as a FRIEND, not knowing what was about to occur to me. I was afraid people might think I wanted his love originally but that it got out of hand. I was afraid no one would believe me. I was afraid people would think each scream, and each hit, and each kiss, and each moment of force was what I wanted. But it wasn’t. So I told no one who he was.
I told NO ONE the truth of who hurt me because I was afraid, and I trusted no one anymore.
And it was okay because my family had a very successful outlook on life- Don’t talk about it and eventually it goes away until it never really happened in the first place. And I was glad for that outlook. That ‘don’t acknowledge it so it never really happened’ outlook saved me from discussing the un-discussable.
But to be fair, my parents did try to help. They offered counselling, and they offered to have me move back into their home. And when I refused to move back home they helped with the security issues in my apartment.
They are good people, just not the best parents, but they have never really been neglectful. They aren’t wealthy, but they are certainly comfortable. So I never went without, nor did we ever really struggle. We three were just comfortable, and this comfort was what I had known my whole life.
So I stayed comfortable. I told what happened because the Police already knew what happened based on my neighbor’s account and based on the physical evidence left all over my apartment. The Police knew, so I closed off my emotions and I told them accurately what had happened. I told them everything I could, except his name.
And then I stopped speaking. I didn’t speak of it, and I tried to make like it never happened.
I think my denial of events ironically helped me move past them eventually.
CHAPTER 7
Lighting my hundredth cigarette I’m a little stunned by my sudden image of my parents. I think I see them differently than I used to. I think they may not have been quite as good as I thought they were when I was younger. Or maybe because I’m a really good mom to Jamie I think they aren
’t as good as I thought they were. But maybe it’s only because I’m such a good mom that my parents seem less so. I don’t know. But I do feel a little differently toward them since the birth of Jamie, I think.
Sitting here thinking about my parents I feel a little uneasy. I feel like I should be mad at them, or tired of them, or indifferent toward them at the very least, which really I think I am. I think I am indifferent toward my parents, almost sadly so.
I’m not sure how I feel, but regardless if the feelings I have are positive or negative, I think I’m mostly indifferent. I don’t think I cared if they lived or died, but not in a bad way. They were just my parents, and though we were never particularly close, they did seem to care for Jamie enough to acknowledge his birthdays with huge presents and lots of fanfare when they weren’t traveling.
My mother was the second wife for my dad; a slightly older man who had had a wife and child before her. But my mother was smart. She had me immediately, to secure her place with my father. She was smart because she birthed his only daughter and then never had another. She was smart to quit when she was ahead. And it did work out. My parents were actually pretty great people. They were well-liked by many, and they had a very good life together. My mother picked the right man to ‘trap’, because she somehow knew that they would actually love each other past a forced marriage. And they did.
My father had his previous life before my mother, and then he had this life with her, and rarely did the two mix. From what I understand, my father’s first wife was a high school sweetheart he fell out of love with within only a few years of marriage, but he stayed for their son. He stayed until he met my mother. And though it seems like my mother was a home wrecker, apparently my father’s first wife was relieved when he finally left her as well. From what I understand she moved on quickly after my father and she too is very happy with her second husband.
And so it all worked out. When I was born I had a teenage half-brother I really didn’t know, but I had 2 parents who loved each other very much.
Overall, I would say I had a good childhood, though a childhood often lonely because of the independence they gave me so they could be independent of me.
And so I chose the ‘don’t acknowledge it so it never really happened’ outlook of my parents about everything in my life. I chose to ignore that which hurt me so that it would eventually stop hurting me.
And as I said my friends did try after the attack, but I couldn’t really understand them anymore. My friends were young. They still partied. They still got drunk at college parties and slept with strangers. They still acted like fools, and that was okay. I was happy they could just be normal. I was okay with wishing them well. I was okay with walking away, because I wasn’t a party fool, I didn’t feel normal, and I didn’t trust anyone anymore anyway.
I remember a month after the attack 3 of my girlfriends showing up at my apartment unexpectedly. They brought alcohol and lots of smokes. They planned to help me out of my funk. They planned to liquor me up, make me get on with life, and they planned to make me live again.
Or that's what I thought, at least from what they first told me.
In reality, within 45 minutes of them drinking heavily, skirting around the giant issues I had, they laughed, gossiped, and talked about shopping, parties, and the guys they wanted to bang, to my discomfort. They all talked and I listened silently. They all talked about all things every girl our age talked about and I sat silently with nothing to add.
And then it happened. My one friend Cassie just blurted out, “So what happened, Sadie?” And as I froze she continued. “Seriously. Like, what happened? I mean I know you were raped and cut up, but what did he actually do to you? I mean, if you don't want to tell me actual details, fine. But I just thought maybe you would want to tell your best friends what happened. So you feel better or something...” And then she waited. They all waited. Carey and Heather sat there with their smokes, and drinks, not talking, or moving, or really even breathing, I don't think. With wide eyes, all three of my high school best friends sat waiting for me to tell them what happened.
But before I could react or freak out, or speak even, I looked back at Cassie and she was almost bouncing in her chair. She looked so excited about the potential of me telling her all about what happened. She looked so excited, and in that moment I realized I had never been more hurt by a friend in my life.
Staring at Cassie, I couldn't speak. I was shocked and tired of my life, and just hurt. Yet just as quickly as the hurt hit me, I became angry. Looking at her wide, expectant, gossip-laden eyes, I was disgusted with her. I hated her in that moment. I hated all three of them. I hated everyone anyway, but now I officially hated my old girlfriends as well.
Taking a deep breath, I asked the question calmly. I wanted to embarrass her. I wanted to embarrass them all. I was angry, hurt, but mostly, I was disgusted.
“What would you like to hear, Cassie? What details do you want?”
And looking, I could see she was a little uncomfortable. She thought for only a second before stammering, “Oh! I don't need any details, I just thought maybe you wanted to tell us, to help you. That's all.” But she blushed and gulped, so I knew she was caught. I could see her trying to get out of looking like an insensitive bitch to me.
Bracing myself, I actually found my voice and as I stood and leaned over my table I yelled with that voice. I couldn't even control my voice if I had wanted to, because I had no control in that moment.
“Well, Cassie. Thanks for the offer, for MY benefit. I appreciate your kindness, really I do. So here you go. He raped me, fought me, fucked me, cut me up with a knife, but he didn't stab me, because he didn't want to ‘hurt’ me. He was just a little out of control when he casually flicked at my body with the knife. He-”
And then Heather jumped in and tried to stop me by calling my name, but I continued anyway.
“So he nicked and cut me, but not on my face, well, except for the little one above my lip, but that was an accident. He didn't mean to cut up my face, because he thought I was pretty, but when he grabbed my mouth to kiss me on the kitchen floor, he mistakenly nicked me above my mouth with the knife, until he threw it on the floor beside us. Then he proceeded to make me kiss him, over and over again, even though I struggled and pushed, and tried to turn my head away from him over and over again, until he finally got mad and punched me hard in the face. Right here Cassie!” And turning my cheek toward her I grabbed at the side of my temple and cheek to show her, even as Carey jumped up from the table and started walking toward my front door to grab her purse.
“So I was a little out of it by then, but I remember still screaming and fighting as much as I could, but it was hard cause I'm kind of small and my arms were really weak and he was sitting on my legs so I couldn't kick him or anything, but-”
“OKAY! I'm sorry. I didn't mean-” Cassie screamed, but I cut her off again.
“No it's good! This is for MY benefit, right Cassie? Anyway, he bruised me all over and torn my clothes, and then he picked up the knife again and tried to cut off my pants and underwear- that's how I got this!” I screamed as I raised my shirt and showed her the dark red line down the side of my hip. “And then I remember him hitting me again really hard in the face and actually in the stomach which made me not breathe very well, and then he told me he loved me. That I really remember. He told me he was in love with me, Cassie. He actually said that. He said 'I love you, Sadie. I really do.' And then he hit me again when I couldn't speak and he told me he loved me again and then I remember-”
“Fuck! Okay Sadie, I'm sorry! Nevermind! If you're gonna be a fucking psycho, forget it. Fuck this!” Cassie yelled back at me as she grabbed her booze and smokes and started getting her purse ready to leave.
But I couldn't stop. “What's wrong, CASSIE? Too much information for you? You don't want to miss the best part. Honestly the best part comes next. There was a dick and a wooden spoon handle involved. There was more punching and lots of other stuf
f! Don't you want to hear it?” I screamed to her back as she was almost opening my front door.
“Fuck you! You're a fucking Psycho! Maybe you deserved what hap-”
And that was it, I screamed as loud as I could as I ran for her. Making contact I began hitting and punching Cassie even as Heather hit me and Carey tried to pull me away from Cassie. I was out of control for the first time in my life, well, at least physically. I was absolutely blinded by my rage wanting to kill Cassie. I wanted her dead in that moment. I really did.
But the tables quickly turned and I suddenly had to fight Cassie, Heather AND Carey in my hallway. I found myself fighting as best as I could. I tried to do everything I wasn't able to do to him. I kicked and punched and bit. I think I even head-butted Heather. I don't know what I did, but I was deranged and getting really tired, very fast.
And then, unbelievably, Patrick pushed my door open and he shoved Carey back and ripped me from Cassie's arms, even as he yelled and kicked at Heather to get the fuck out of my apartment. He went ape-shit crazy defending me. He looked as out of control as I felt.
Gasping for breath, I tried to fight my way back to them, but Carey and Heather were out the door fast, and Cassie was seconds behind, pausing only to snatch up her purse from the floor in the hallway, but Patrick didn't stop.
Patrick went completely He-Bitch on them, screaming and swearing, and spitting at them. Yelling in the doorway while the three girls kept screaming about me all the way down the stairs, even as Patrick yelled right back behind them.