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 save
d 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 mov
e 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 sur
e 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 fathe
r 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 stuff! 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.
Trying to focus through my adrenaline delirium I heard Patrick yell, 'twat waffle' and I was stunned silent. Becoming slightly coherent, I heard a final scream of 'Fucking Psycho' I think from Heather which had Patrick dive for the banister to yell, 'Fuck off! You cock juggling thunder cunt!' back at her.
And then he exhaled and smiled at me. He actually turned off all the verbal sparring in a fraction of a second, turned and smiled at me like nothing was wrong. He smiled like he had fun. He smiled like the events that just took place were nothing at all.
Stunned once again, I leaned against my doorway and smiled back.
Holy shit! I had no idea what just happened, or why it happened, or how it could happen. I had never been in a fight in my life. I had never hit anyone in my life. I didn't even know I was capable of fighting, but somehow I kind of felt good. Well actually, I felt like shit, and my body ached everywhere, and my head was pounding and my hands shook and hurt, and my face was killing me, but mentally I felt pretty good.
Patrick looked me over, straightened my shirt, took my hand and led me back into my apartment. He locked and alarmed my apartment like I needed, then he walked us back to my kitchen table, sat me down and said, “We need a drink.”
Looking at him like he was insane, I just smiled and nodded as he grabbed my vodka and poured us each a huge half glass of vodka with a drop of orange juice, handed me mine and walked into my bathroom. Joining me seconds later, he began wiping away the violence from my face with a cool, wet cloth as I sat silently watching him.
When he lifted the glass to my mouth I remember flinching as the Vodka burned my lip even as I gulped down half the glass.
Sitting beside me, Patrick breathed, “that was fun...” and I burst out laughing because unbelievably, it WAS fun. I don't know how, and I'm not supposed to like violence or fighting, but up until I started to lose the physical battle against my three friends, I did enjoy myself. Illogical or not, I couldn't deny it. Actually, I still can't deny it. Attacking those three bitches was fun for me. Lashing out at them was enjoyable that day. And though I haven't really fought someone since, I remember that physical battle with a kind of pride, because I almost held my own, and I almost beat them. I almost knocked Cassie on her ass for being a total fucking bitch, and it felt good.
Smiling, I remember that day so vividly. Patrick made me lift my shirt to my bra so he could look for any bruises, then he stayed the rest of the day with me. We ordered a pizza, had a few more drinks, and we watched a movie together.
Hours later, beside me on my couch, Patrick tugged my hair lightly and asked, “Do you want to talk about earlier?” To which I whispered, “Not really...” And that was it. He asked me and I answered, then he dropped it. He wasn't looking for gossip, and he wasn't fishing for the scoop. He was just a friend who asked in case I wanted to talk, and he dropped it immediately when I didn't. He was never a Cassie in my life.
Patrick was amazing, and he made me feel special to him. I had really only known him at that point for a month. But for that one month he had pushed his way into my life, invaded my solitude, and after that day I wanted him in my life as a friend, even if some days it seemed otherwise.