Chapter Six
Lily
Beth is crying into my shoulder, and it's the last thing I need right now. It does, however, shed some light on why she behaved the way she did the other night. I mean, I've only lived with her a few weeks, but the immediate sense I got about the girl was that she was sweet, hardworking, and above all, sensible.
She's still the first two, but that last one has been thrown right out the window. She never came back after than night in the Den, although I didn't learn that until later the next day when I'd come home from work.
I found her, cuddled up on the sofa under a blanket, face as white as snow, the darkest of bags around her red eyes.
I'm not the touchy-feely type. Not the tactile, comforting girl who's going to huddle under the blanket with you and hug you better. So finding her in that state was a little awkward, and it took a while for me to coax what happened out of her.
First of all, she'd behaved the way she did because of her 'douche' boyfriend. Her words, not mine. Apparently he'd cheated on her and things weren't all as rosy as they appeared. So, she'd gone out to rave and get drunk and do some drugs. Not normal behavior for her, just a way to let off some steam.
Unfortunately, those drugs and all that drink put her in a vulnerable position. She lost her friends and ended up alone, and completely at the mercy of all those sharks down in the Den. That's a dangerous place to be, and so it turned out. Some sleazy guy had taken advantage, taken her back to his and, well, the rest is history.
That was several nights ago, and the tears are still flowing. So, finally I relented and decided to let her drench my shoulder. And that's the situation I find myself in right now.
The problem is, she's not even speaking any more. She's just crying. Crying and crying and crying some more. Quite how she's got such reserves of tears I don't know. And, perhaps foolishly, I continue to fetch her water to keep her from getting dehydrated. Just adding fuel to the fire, Lily. Good plan.
I decide that it's got to be more than her sleeping with another guy. I mean, we've all woken up in a stranger's bed, right? So surely it's about her boyfriend. I ask her and find out that he doesn't know what she's done. That he still thinks he's the one with all this grovelling to do. I've met the guy a few times. He's a nice, well brought up young man. I'd have called the idea of him cheating fanciful at best before she told me. I guess these college kids have more layers than I thought.
Eventually, Lily peels back the layer that makes me understand why she's still so upset. Why she still can't stop crying. It wasn't just her sleeping with another guy. Or her boyfriend sleeping with another girl. It's exactly what happened that night, the details of which she's yet to spill.
As she begins to describe the flashbacks she's been having, I only hear one word in my head, and it makes me tremble.
Rape.
She says she remembers coming around with this guy's steaming body on top of her. Her clothes had been torn from her body, lying on top of a seedy mattress in a squalid apartment room. She tells me she realized what he was doing, that she tried to struggle, to tell him to stop. He didn't. He continued, harder and faster, holding his hand to her mouth as he finished.
She passed out again, and when she woke up, his body slumped next to hers, she made her escape. At first she hadn't remembered what he'd done, but over the last few days it had all come back to her. The guy hadn't only taken advantage of her, drunk and defenseless. That would be bad enough. He'd raped her too, and that's unforgivable.
My response to her is the rational one – go to the cops. Tell them what happened. Get this scumbag locked up. But in my head I know she won't. In my head, that's kinda what I'm hoping. Because if the cops get him, I won't be able to.
The good news is, she remembers what he looks like. Tattoo up his neck, shaved head, dark eyes. The bad news is, she can't remember his name or where he lived. That part has clearly been suppressed and is currently hidden in her memory bank somewhere. Or maybe she just doesn't want to tell me. Either way, that's fine by me. I'll find him, and I'd rather she didn't know about it.
Rapists are the lowest form of scum. In fact, to label a rapist as scum is doing all of the other scum out there a disservice. The act of rape is as low as a human being can go. I know that from personal experience.
I was only 15 when it happened. I still wake in the night sometimes, thinking about it. The smell of his breath, stinking of alcohol. The sight of his beady, rapacious eyes. The feeling of his weight on top of me, of his strong hands holding my wrists in the dirt.
It was late summer, and I was living with a foster family in some decent neighborhood in a small town outside of Boston. My parents weren't long dead, and I was just starting to find my feet. Starting a new school, trying to make new friends, mingling with my new family; aside from my rental mom and dad, I also had a new brother and sister to get to know.
At times, it all got a bit much for me. I was an only child originally, and never the most social. Suddenly finding myself as part of this bigger family was odd, and they were so damn nice and attentive that it actually made me feel weird. My parents were never like that, much as I loved them. They were more about rules and boundaries. Strict, totalitarian, tough. Never a great deal of affection.
So, this new family were a little overbearing, and at times I needed to get out. Get away and be alone for a little while. If I wasn't at home, I was in school, where the people were just as nice. “Stop being so nice, it's driving me crazy,” I used to think. But everyone just kept on tiptoeing around me, mothering me like I needed taking care of.
After school and before dinner, I used to escape into a patch of woods near the house. I'd go there to read a book or even do some homework, just to be alone. Sometimes I'd just sit under a tree and think, or try to spot some of the local wildlife around me. I became adept at recognizing the local birds. I even thought about becoming an ornithologist.
Gradually, my life began to improve. I settled in and people settled down around me. It was like everyone had come together and said: “right, Lily's grieving period is over, let's stop pandering to her and give her some space.” It was what I wanted all along, and finally I could breathe. Like being in that club, surrounded by sweaty bodies, I'd felt claustrophobic and confined. As soon as they eased up, I could relax. I began to see a future shape itself in front of me. Perhaps, after all, I could be happy.
Then, one day, I returned to the woods that had been my sanctuary for many weeks and months. I didn't feel in danger there. I never did. So I sat, as I often would, and read.
I never saw the man approach. Only heard the lightest crackle of leaves behind me. Just a squirrel, perhaps, or a bird eating worms. Then I felt it. A crack at the back of my head. My vision quickly blurred and went foggy, as if I was suddenly seeing through a dark frosted window.
I was pinned to the floor, my clothes torn off. I remember little more than sensations now. His breath. The thrust of his hips against me. He wore a hood to obscure his face, but in the darkness I saw those eyes. Those insatiable, animal eyes. I'll never forget them.
It didn't last long, not the physical part anyway. The mental side will be with me forever though. That's something I've made my peace with now. But when I hear of someone being raped on CNN, or if I read a report on the Internet, I feel my blood boiling, my heart rate quickening, my breathing growing more abbreviated.
It's not fear. It's anger that drives me. Anger that I never saw the guy's face. That the investigation stalled for lack of evidence. That the guy got away with it and probably went on to rape others. Maybe I wasn't the first. Maybe he's still out there now, preying on defenseless girls. Taking their innocence. Ruining their lives.
So now, sitting with Beth, I feel that familiar boiling inside me. That churning inside my stomach. That shaking of my hands. That furious beating in my chest.
Should she go to the police? I know the stats. So few rapists are convicted without sufficient evidence. And the way she was ac
ting – drinking, smoking, taking drugs – will make most people think it was consensual. There are no marks on her body. No signs of a struggle. Just her word against his, nothing more.
She tells me she won't go. That she just wants to forget about it and move on. That she doesn't want her boyfriend to know, her family to know, her friends to know. I'm the only one she's told, and she makes me promise to keep it a secret.
I hug her tight, and whisper in her ear that it'll be OK. I don't tell her I know how she's feeling. I don't want to explore that side of myself again. But the wound is already starting to re-open, and I need to close it, fast.
There's only one way to do that. I need to find this guy. Find him and teach him a lesson he won't forget.