And I
remember looking back down and finally seeing myself. With a sudden awareness of myself, I was stunned. Looking at myself still sitting on the lawyer’s front step I was bleeding and covered in quickly cooling urine. I had actually urinated in my pants.
Stunned, I looked at my pants and leg and couldn’t comprehend what the hell had happened. And it was that lack of comprehension that finally freed me from my trance of fear.
Jumping up, my humiliation and fear drove me to race for my home. Running, I threw my shoes in front of me, bent quickly and scooped them up as Patrick grabbed me from behind.
Fighting him, I screamed to let me go. I screamed at Patrick to leave me alone. I screamed at Patrick to not touch me. I screamed and screamed until the scene blurred all around me again.
Gasping
and fighting, I shoved him away as 2 college looking men crossed the busy main street to come toward us. Watching in sudden silence the scene play out, I was so afraid of the men I began running again. I ran until I could hear them yelling for me to stop. I ran hearing them yell at Patrick to stop. I ran and ran down our side street until I made my way up the front steps of our apartment.
But o
nce there, I realized I no longer had my purse or keys and I began ringing every buzzer on the door panel. Smashing the buzzers, I waited as Patrick approached me slowly.
Whipping
my head toward his voice, I saw his hands extended offering me my purse, as the 2 other men walked up to him.
And
I was afraid. In that moment I was afraid of everything. I knew they might hurt me and I knew Patrick might hurt me. I knew they could hurt me and I knew Patrick could hurt me, though I honestly didn’t think he would. Looking at him, with his arms still extended, holding out my keys in one hand and my purse in the other, he blocked me from the men.
Looking, I realized I wanted
Patrick. Looking, I really saw Patrick. Looking, I finally understood.
Shaking my
head to clear it further, and taking my keys and purse from him, I turned and unlocked the front door of our apartment.
When one of the guys
stepped forward and asked, ‘Are you alright?’ just as he touched Patrick’s shoulder I knew I had to fix this.
“I’m okay. He hasn’t hurt me yet. Oh, I mean ever. We’re friends. But thank you.” And throwing myself into our building, I bolted up the stairs to my landing and fought my shaking hands preventing me from unlocking my front door. I fought the shakes by holding the key with both hands. I fought and eventually won as my door pushed open and the alarm sounded its warning.
Pushing inside, Patrick followed, even as I tried to shut the door behind me. Pushing his way in, Patrick was the one who disengaged the alarm then quickly reset it. It was Patrick who made the beep-beep-beeeeep sound of my reengaged alarm. And once I heard that sound, I knew I was okay.
“Don’t talk yet.” I told him, and he nodded as I leaned against the wall and tried to breathe.
It’s hard to say if my lack
of breath was because I ran for the first time in years, or because I was so out of shape, or because I smoked a pack a day, or because I was too keyed up by the adrenaline. Whatever the reason, I knew I needed silence as I leaned against the wall and fought to catch my breath.
Eventually, I turned from Patrick and entered the bathroom. Closing and locking the door behind me, I stripped off my soiled, bloody pants and underwear, removed my sweater, pulled my hair up in a ponytail and ran the shower. Looking down at my leg, I was surprised to see all the little cuts against my thigh. I was surprised and clueless as to how exactly that happened.
But once in the shower I sat on the tub bottom and just tried to warm myself. I cleaned my body and squirted antibacterial soap on my thigh cuts which burned brutally. I was freezing and shaking, and really, just so tired from all the mental aerobics and physical exertion, I needed to relax and warm myself, so that’s what I did.
However long later, I remember Patrick gently speaking to me from behind the shower curtain.
“Are you ready to get out now? You’ve been in the shower for an hour.”
“Not really. I’m still cold.”
“I can help you get warm. Why don’t you get out now, and I’ll help you get warm. We can just chill out if you want?”
“Okay... Can I have a towel?”
And then the curtain was moved slightly at the end, and a towel was handed to me by a hidden body.
Standing, I took the towel offered to me and dried myself. Covering up, I remember inhaling before opening the shower curtain because I was honestly afraid of Patrick in that moment. I was afraid of him, but not physically. I was almost one hundred percent sure he wouldn't physically hurt me, I really was. It was in that moment I truly feared his reaction to me. I feared the look on his face and I feared the way we were probably going to change. I feared the ending of our friendship.
So opening the curtain, I braced myself, but I shouldn’t have worried. With arms wide open, Patrick had a look on his face that I'll never forget. It was sympathy and
love
.
Staring at him for mere seconds, I just took in his face. And he loved me, I could see it. In that moment, I saw everything on his face that he felt for me and it was that look of love that was my undoing.
Not waiting for me to embrace him, Patrick pulled me hard and fast into his arms. Grabbing my hair he forced my head to his chest. Gripping my toweled back he forced me tightly into his arms, and I cried.
I'm sure it was another post-adrenaline dump, or maybe exhaustion, or maybe relief, or maybe just life. I don't know, but for whatever reason I stood still in the tub with Patrick’s arms wrapped around me, and I cried.
Eventually, Patrick made some silly comment about me getting snot on his sexy silk shirt and I pulled away with a grin.
Stepping carefully out of the tub, Patrick kept a hand on my elbow as he made me to sit on the toilette seat. Seated, I didn't really know what to say, so I waited for him to take the lead, which he did.
Bending down on the floor, Patrick raised my towel slightly and looked at my thigh. Looking, I still didn't know, so I asked.
“What happened?”
And waiting for an answer, he sat his butt on his heels, looked up and exhaled. “You started stabbing your thigh with your pocket knife while you were on the sidewalk. I didn't know what was happening at first, until I did know, and then I took the knife from you.” And taking my wrist into his hand, Patrick showed me the bruise around my wrist. And it was a dark bruise. A perfectly shaped bruise of a hand wrapped around my bony wrist, with finger marks and even gaps in between. It's funny, but I remember being almost mesmerized by the hand print bruise. It truly was perfect.
“Oh. Why did you bruise me?” I asked gently because I didn't want it to sound like an accusation.
“I'm sorry. I tried to get it away, but you were so still except for your hand hurting your leg and I tried to get it away, but I had to squeeze your wrist hard to make your fingers open. I really did try to get it away, see...” And raising his own hand I see a bunch of nicks and cuts on this fingers and inside his palm.
“Oh! I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you.”
“I know-”
“No, I really didn't mean to hurt you. I wouldn't hurt you on purpose. I didn't realize what I was doing.”
“I know. I could tell you were kind of in a trance or something.”
“I didn't mean to hurt you.” And I really didn't. Seeing Patrick’s injuries bothered me very much.
“I know, Sadie. Look at me, pretty girl. It was
my
fault. I tried to get the knife from you by grabbing at it, instead of your wrist. It was totally my fault. It really was. I know you didn't mean to hurt me. And don't worry, I'm clean, and I assume you are as well. So it's over now.”
“What do you mean...?” And then I understood. “Oh, I AM clean! I never thought of that. Sorry.”
“I am too. I'm kind of the condom Queen in this here town, no matter how much I put out,” Patrick grinned at me. “Plus, I'm tested regularly anyway, and I’m clean. So we're okay, and it's over now. You didn't hurt me, I did because I was stupid, and we're okay. I'm just going to put some band aids on your thigh, okay?”
And nodding, I waited as he nursed my thigh in silence. Reaching out, I placed my hand in his hair and pulled him toward me by his nape. Leaning in between my legs, Patrick wrapped his arms around me and rested his head against my shoulder. Embracing him, I tried to make sense of our terrible night out together.
I couldn't believe I saw my rapist. I couldn't believe he was standing at the end of my street. I couldn't believe he seemed to be watching me. I couldn't believe he was waiting for me. I just couldn't believe I saw him again.
“I saw him...” I whispered.
“I know. Can we call the police now? I really want them to know, Sade. I'm going to call them anyway, but I think you need to tell them, too.”
“It doesn't matter. He's gone now.”
“It DOES matter, and I'm calling them anyway. But I want you to tell them what he was doing and wearing, okay. I mean it, Sadie. I want you to tell them everything that happened. I still have Detective Monroe's card so I’m calling him. But I want you to talk to him as well. I mean it, Sade. If you don't, I'll get all Queen, and bitchy and Drama on you until you do, so you may as well give in.” And pulling away from our hug, Patrick stared at me with a mixture of humor
and
seriousness until I knew I wouldn't win this battle with him.
“Okay...” And we did.
Patrick took me to my room and pulled out my clothes to wear. He walked into my kitchen and poured us a drink, and made a pot of coffee. Patrick sat me at my dining room table and called Detective Monroe, who amazingly, was actually on duty that night.
And close to two hours after Patrick's call, Detective Monroe was sitting across from Patrick and I, as Patrick told the tale. With little help from me, Patrick filled him in on our night out. Patrick explained that I rarely went out. Patrick explained that me going out was an anomaly, and therefore extra scary and strange that I saw the bad man the one rare night I actually went out. Patrick explained everything he could, until it was my turn to explain.
But I didn't really have a voice. I didn't know what happened. I couldn't explain the panic and fear or the knife or the urine. I couldn't explain the sounds and sights. I didn't have words to express what that moment was like for me- what it had felt like. It was too weird and too messed up in my head to explain.
I didn't really see his features or anything specific. It was more like I saw him as a whole. I thought he had on a dark blue sweater and jeans, but I really only saw him as kind of a blue-ish whole. It's like he was backlit, or glowing, or the only thing illuminated on the street.
But I tried to explain what I saw and how close he was to us, and what happened, I really did. And Detective Monroe said he understood, and that my description was common and typical of a victim experiencing a vision of their attacker. He said most victims suffer this tunnel-vision type memory of the events. He forgave my inability to accurately describe the man who hurt me thoroughly, as I tried to stop shaking.
Patrick and I didn't tell about my knife, and we didn't mention me urinating myself. Or maybe he did. I don't think so, but I found myself very distracted while Patrick spoke.
I was tired. It was well after midnight. I had had a long night and all I wanted to do was sleep.
And when Detective Monroe and Patrick both looked at me in silence, I realized I hadn't heard the question, because I really didn't know anything at that point, except my exhaustion.
“I asked if you'd like a victim counsellor to call you in the morning, Sadie.”
“Oh, no thank you. I'm okay. I just want to set my alarm and go to sleep. I'll be fine,” I stated automatically.
When he eventually rose from my kitchen chair I remember the relief I felt. I wanted to sleep. I wanted to be safe. I wanted to be alone. I wanted my stranger to come to me to make my fear go away.
After Detective Monroe left, it took me another 15 minutes to get Patrick out of my apartment. He was so stubborn and adamant about staying over. He wanted to sleep on the couch. He wanted to stay with me. He wanted to be here if I needed him. He wanted, he wanted, he wanted...
Eventually, almost angrily, I convinced him to leave me alone. I told him it wasn't about what he wanted, but about what
I
wanted- and I wanted to be alone. So he left, begrudgingly.
And once alone, I rewashed my body and changed into an attractive nightgown, made my way to bed, and then I waited.
I waited all night for my stranger. I waited up. I forced myself to not fall asleep. I stayed up waiting for Him, but He didn't show up that night.
I spent an entire night thinking and waiting until it was morning and I finally fell asleep. And I did sleep until Patrick forced me to get up in the early afternoon.
And that was the last time I ever saw the man who hurt me. I think that was an unconscious decision on my part to protect me. I think I never wanted to see him again, so I didn't. I think my mind simply blanked him out.
Eventually, his face disappeared. And eventually his body disappeared until I never saw him again.
I could never make the sounds go away. And I ALWAYS heard his voice uttering his disgusting words of love and affection for me, but I didn't see him ever again. It's like my mind blanked out his physical appearance from my life. My mind stopped remembering his hair, and eyes, and body. My mind couldn't erase what happened to me or all the gory details, but it could erase his physical memory from my mind.
And so I stopped remembering what he looked like, and I never saw him again.