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“Go,” she whispered.
But go where? To my room? Out of the apartment? The party guy was still beating at the door, and I could hear more than one man in the hall with him. I was afraid, but I didn’t want to hide, and I didn’t know what to do. We didn’t have a phone to call for help.
The banging became more insistent.
“Go, Luis.” Her accent always came out more when she was high.
My mother sat up and spoke to me. She barely acknowledged my existence, but she was telling me to move. I put down my cup and ran into my room as the door busted open and four men poured in. I rushed to close my door and tucked myself in the corner of my bed, staring at my door and listening.
There was so much noise that I couldn’t figure out what was happening, but I heard what I thought was a slap as the party guy screamed at my mother for not answering the door. I didn’t hear her respond at all, but moments later something heavy crashed against my door, causing it to break open.
No one seemed to notice there was another person in the house, and they continued about their business, whatever it was they were here for. Craning my head, I could see two of the men hanging back and removing their jackets. They were laughing about something, but I could still hear what sounded like a struggle happening in the part of the living room I couldn’t see. I stayed put for a few minutes until I heard what sounded like a choking sound and something snapped inside me.
I grabbed the only weapon I could find, a small pocket knife I kept hidden under my bed, and ran into the living room. At first, I couldn’t see my mother at all, until one of the two men in the kitchen area shifted and I could see my mother bent over our small round table, face down. I wasn’t old enough to understand what was happening, but I knew they were hurting her.
Screaming, I ran at the man holding my mother down and hit him as hard as I could, stabbing him with my blunt pocket knife. I’m not sure I even drew blood, all it seemed to do was enrage him. He threw me against the wall, hitting my head hard enough to make me dizzy. He yelled something to the other men and one of them picked me up off the floor and threw me out into the hallway, slamming our door behind him.
After that, I remember the flashing lights of a police car. I spent that night in the hospital and was taken to my first group home the next morning.
Did she need an exam like this after those men were done with her? Did she even bother getting checked out?
The nurse helping us was a straightforward but kind woman with a calming voice. As she talked us through the process, I did my best to absorb and understand the information. Understandably, the traumatized girl holding my hand seemed to check out. In the end, we were able to get a little relief knowing there were no obvious signs of penetration.
Penetration. Every time she said that word it sounded violent. I hated myself and every man that ever tried to penetrate anything, willingly or otherwise. I’d cut off my dick if it meant no man could ever hurt a woman this way again.
Being present for the whole process broke me a little, but it also helped me feel more connected to her. I was honored that she was trusting me, though I’d done nothing to deserve it.
The need I have to keep her safe, to make her mine, is overwhelming.
Once the exam is over, Dr. Franks checks her bandages and clears her to stand. Nurse Irene secures her hospital gown and manages the wires and IV tubes, while Micah and I help support her as she stands and gets her balance. She’s a little shaky at first, but once she takes one step she is ready to take another, and then another, determined to walk clear across the room to the restroom.
The rest of the guys are in the hall talking to the doctor, who looks through the doorway and flashes an impressed smile, pointing and directing everyone’s attention to our girl before returning to their hushed conversation. Their heads are lowered together almost conspiratorially, and I wonder what could be so important. I raise an eyebrow at Micah, who follows my line of sight.
“It’s all good,” he whispers. “We’ll all get caught up at the first chance.”
I shrug, trying to act like it doesn’t bother me.
Our patient, meanwhile, is looking quite proud of herself, happy to be able to make any visible progress. She looks over her shoulder at Nurse Irene in victory. It doesn’t look like the activity took much out of her, but I get the impression she would hide it well to try and prove herself.
She doesn’t need to prove anything to me, though.
“You’re doing awesome, pretty girl,” I encourage her, and she beams.
The nurse goes into the bathroom with her, pulling the door mostly closed as the IV stand blocks the door. Micah and I turn our backs to give them more privacy. We hear the toilet flush, and the water runs. I guess she must have tried to bend down and splash water on her face, but Nurse Irene is not having it. We can hear her tsking through the door.
Once we make our way back to the bed and get her comfortable, the nurse shows her how to use a remote to control the head and foot of the bed. She can lay down or sit up as she pleases as long as she stops and alerts them if she has any dizziness or pain. She’s been given the go-ahead to be taken off some of the monitors, so now she’s only hooked to the IV. There’s a tray table next to her with a large plastic tumbler full of ice water.
While Nurse Irene bustles around the room, I ask for a washcloth. I wet it down with cool water and bring it to our girl, who lays back against the pillow. Originally, I intended to hand her the washcloth, but I end up gently patting the cool cloth over her exposed forehead and cheeks. When she closes her eyes, I dip the cloth lower to dab the cloth on her neck and collarbone. If I felt a connection to her before, I definitely feel it more now.
“Thank you,” she whispers, as the other guys come back into the room. Nurse Irene passes them on her way out, dimming the lights and instructing us to let her rest.
Bennet
Despite being beaten down and having every bit of control taken from her; her bodily autonomy, her memory, even her name - it’s clear to me the young woman in front of me has an immense amount of tenacity and fight inside her.
I’m still feeling bad about the discussion she overheard this morning, and I hope we all have the chance to clear the air at some point. I’m not sure how I can express to her that those sentiments are not in line with my own. Obligated is not a word I would use, but the pull I feel towards this woman is tangible, and I have an overwhelming need to take care of her. Even the potential of danger has set me on a near obsessive path to ensure her safety.
A therapist would likely tell me what I’m doing is yet another attempt to control the circumstances and people around me, and they would probably be right, but there’s more to it. It’s been less than 24 hours, with maybe a dozen words shared directly between us, but I’m all in.
