by Maren Foster
“How many sexual partners have you had?” She asked.
“None. Unless you count my rapist. Then one.”
She saw my teary eyes and shook her head. “I’m so sorry.”
I nodded. “Thanks.”
“Which clothes were you wearing when the rape occurred?” she asked.
I put my backpack on the table and pulled out the plastic bag.
“These,” I said.
“Did he penetrate you?”
I nodded.
“Where? Your mouth? Vagina? Anus?”
It was the way she said anus, so matter of fact, as if she had said fork or spoon instead. I pointed to my vagina.
“He penetrated your vagina?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Anywhere else?”
“Not that I remember.”
“Please undress and put on this gown. Underwear off too.” She placed a large plastic bag with “Evidence” printed across the front on the exam table. “Put all of the clothes you were wearing into this bag. I’ll be back in a minute.”
She closed the door and I began to undress.
There was a stain of pink-colored fluid on my clean underwear. I wrapped the paper sheet around my naked body, and placed my soiled clothes into the bag marked EVIDENCE.
At the end of the exam table, I turned around and sat down. Ouch. I stood back up and set about maneuvering my body clumsily up onto the exam table. As I lay there waiting I began to shiver.
A knock came at the door.
“Yes,” I said.
The nurse came in followed by a younger man in a white coat.
“Is it okay if Doctor Nelson observes? He is training as a resident?” she added.
I didn’t like the idea of a guy who didn’t look much older than me watching the exam, but I was tired, cold, on the verge of tears again, and wanted the whole thing to be over as quickly as possible.
“Fine,” I said.
They washed their hands, opened a plastic box that looked like a large red lunchbox, and began removing an assortment of swabs, plastic tools, and bags. She walked to the end of the table and extended two metal stirrups for my feet.
My feet rested against the cold metal; there was no protection of any kind from the sheet dress which she lifted up and piled around my waist. I was exposed, spread eagle on the table, with nowhere to hide from the shame and embarrassment of what he had done to me. Tears began to stream down my cheeks. I turned my head away so the nurse and doctor wouldn’t see, and cried softly as they carried out the exam.
“Scoot down to the end of the table,” she said. “We will need to take photos as we do the rape kit, for evidence.”
“Um, okay.”
“Are you sure?” she asked.
Whatever it takes to make sure that bastard can be held responsible someday. “Yes, it’s fine,” I said
She slowly inserted a cold metal object inside me. I winced in pain as she began to pry me open, exposing my insides to the cold, hospital air. The nurse and the resident were both standing at the end of the table, peering into me. She was explaining what she saw and the significance of it all to the younger doctor.
“Severe hemorrhaging of the labia minora, Fourchette, Bartholin glands. Laceration of the Fourchette. Hand me a ten millimeter, suchers, and ten milligrams of Novocain.”
She turned toward me and in a much softer voice said, “I’m going to give you a local anesthetic. You need a few stitches. They will dissolve after about ten days, so you won’t have to come back to have them removed. Refrain from any sexual activity during that time.” Is she kidding? I was just raped. I might never have sex again.
I focused on controlling the rise and fall of my chest as she shot Novocain into my swollen tissue. The sharp pain that followed was like salt in an open wound. She kept busy preparing her tools while we waited for the drug to take effect. She warned me before she went to work and the resident snapped successive photos up close, from multiple angles.
She expertly swabbed and plucked and pulled evidence from inside me, and opened and closed plastic tubes and baggies of all sizes and shapes. When she was done she removed the speculum.
“Ice,” she directed and the young doctor left the room.
“The police will be here in a few minutes,” she said.
“Oh, do I have to talk to them now?” I asked.
“Yes, they’ll at least want to take a statement while things are still fresh in your memory.”
“Oh, yeah.”
I hadn’t thought about any of that yet. About pressing charges or filing a criminal complaint. Getting caught up in a legal battle with someone who didn’t live in the state and who seemingly had the means to mount a strong defense, did not sound appealing. But he has to pay. Krista hadn’t believed me. Sure, I could hope that they found some of his DNA inside me, but what if it wasn’t enough? And even if they did, like Elisa said, wouldn’t he just say it was consensual sex? Everyone saw me with him, dancing, groping, kissing. All of a sudden everything felt futile. What’s the point? Why subject myself to all of this?
“Get dressed and when they get here I’ll knock again,” the nurse warned before leaving.
I waited, all alone in the cold, white room, remembering the stories I’d heard about women who were raped, only to hear later that charges had been dropped and nothing had been done. I was beginning to understand how the uphill battle of providing evidence, pressing charges, and going to court on top of the overwhelming guilt and embarrassment of being a victim could keep a woman silent. And how much courage must be summoned to take the opposite route; to go public, to make noise, to demand attention and justice. Easier to just move on and try to forget? But will I ever actually forget or be able to forgive, or will this trauma fester inside me, growing like a cancer until it has consumed the hope and optimism that is required to live?
If Elisa is right and I won’t get justice through the legal system, then what? How can a petite nobody like me get retribution against a big, strong, confident guy like him? I’m no match for him physically or financially. Each time I’d heard whispers of an alleged rape, my first thought had been that I would try to forgive and forget. I’d never understood the women who were willing to go public and fight, only to be embarrassed and publicly humiliated. Now it’s my turn. Now I have to decide. Do I fight or do I walk away? Do I expose him or do I disappear?
A loud knock startled me. A few seconds passed and the door opened for two uniformed officers, guns visible in holsters at their waists. They followed the nurse into the room. The older of the two looked like he could be my father. The younger was maybe in his mid-forties. They introduced themselves as Detectives Johnston and Cowell and each took a turn shaking my hand.
“We understand that you say you’ve been raped.”
The nurse interjected, “Her injuries are consistent with aggravated rape.”
I smiled at her, thanks. She looked back at me with a somewhat detached expression, as if this was all business for her and she had seen it all before.
“Tell us what happened. Start at the beginning, please,” the officer said.
Nate’s warning reverberated in my head: If you even think about telling anyone about what just happened…I’ll ruin you. Think about your family, your future…dirty slut who gets off by being tied up…it’s already backed up.
I took a deep breath. “I went to a party last night at the Phi Psi house with my roommate, Krista Jacobsen.”
The younger officer interrupted, “Were you drinking? Taking drugs?”
“We were drinking. First beer and then whiskey,” I said. “No drugs. I don’t do drugs.”
He scribbled on a pad of paper in a metal portfolio.
“Weed?” he said.
I shook my head. “Like I said, I don’t do drugs.”
“What happened at the party?”
If I tell them the truth and Nate finds out, he’ll ruin me. “We were drinking and dancing. The last thing I remember is g
oing out onto the back porch to get some air? I woke up alone in a twin bed in the house,” I lied. “I was in pain and there was blood on the sheets.”
“Are you saying that you were unconscious for the entire rape?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Do you remember any of it?”
“No,” I lied.
“Well, that’s good,” the younger officer said. By the look on his face I gathered that he was being sincere, but the suggestion that anything about losing consciousness and getting raped could be good made me furious. The throbbing pain in my vagina disagrees.
“Do you know who raped you?” he asked.
“No,” I lied.
“Was anyone acting differently or strangely before you blacked out? Did you leave your drink unattended at all?”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “I don’t remember.”
“Is it possible that you gave someone the wrong idea when you were drunk?”
“I’m not a tease. I was a virgin,” I said quietly.
They bombarded me with additional questions about Krista and the other women at the party. They asked about how I was dressed and if I’d ever been on a date with anyone at the party before. After about ten minutes of giving them just enough detail, but not too much, I was exhausted.
“We will need a list of all of the men at the party,” the younger officer said as he handed me a pad of paper and pencil.
“I didn’t know all of the men at the party last night. It wasn’t my party,” I said.
“Then please give us the names of everyone you knew.”
I tried to remember who I’d seen. There were all the regulars, and a few people I hadn’t recognized. I put down all of the names I could remember, including Jake, but excluding Nate.
They told me they would be in touch once they had DNA results from the rape kit, and that I should stop by the station later that week to review the police report and sign a witness statement.
“Do you have any questions before we leave?” the older officer asked.
“What happens if there is a good DNA sample from the rape kit?”
“It will get entered into the State’s DNA database and if there’s a hit, then we’ll follow protocol to verify that it is a true match, and issue a warrant for arrest.”
“What if there isn’t a match?” I said.
“If he’s not in the system, which he probably isn’t given his age, we could still interview people at the party and review any security footage that the fraternity or surrounding buildings might have.”
“Oh, okay. What happens to the DNA sample from the rape kit if there is no match?”
“It stays in the database in case there is ever a future match.”
I nodded.
“And if you do figure out who did it, what will happen then?” I asked.
“We would arrest him and then you would have to confirm whether you want to press charges.”
“If I want to press charges will I have to testify in court in front of a jury?”
“We’re not lawyers, Miss., but there would be more questions. The prosecutor and the defense attorney will want all the details you’ve given us today and more. The defense will get all of the evidence, including the statement you just gave us, before any trial.”
I imagined trying to recount the rape in front of a jury and a judge. Elisa’s words of warning ran through my head. Said it was completely consensual…called me a slut and worse things…said I wanted it…spread rumors…got really ugly. I thought about the video that Nate had threatened to put online. What would Vi think? What would my teachers, my friends, my acquaintances think? What would potential employers think? Every time I met someone I would wonder whether they knew, if they had seen the video, and if so, what they thought about me. His defense would say that it was consensual and might even fabricate lies to destroy my reputation. No, that is not the kind of attention that a young woman needs. The thought of sitting on a witness stand, telling the whole world the minute details about the most painful experience of my life in order to assuage the doubts they might have that I am the victim made my stomach turn. I felt physically ill.
“I understand. Thanks,” I said.
“Yep. Take care.”
They left and the nurse came back in. She handed me a prescription for strong painkillers. “If you have additional bleeding, please go to your gynecologist,” she said. “You’ll want to get a check-up in two to three weeks either way to make sure that everything is healing properly.”
“Thank you.”
I left the hospital and filled the prescription on my way back to the dorm.
I sat on my bed and tried to focus on studying for my upcoming exams, but my mind wandered as I read through my lecture notes. He never even told me his last name. I don’t even know his last name! I grabbed my laptop and pretty quickly found his player bio on the university athletics website: Nathan P. Ellis, 22, from Westport, CT. Seven seat in the varsity eight. Studying Business with a minor in Economics. There was a brief Q and A section below his headshot, which I skimmed. The last question was, “What sets you apart?” His answer, “I want to be the best at everything I do. I don’t accept failure.” Even when it comes to having your way with women! Motherfucking prick! This guy has to pay.
The Put-up
Friday, September 4, 2015
Manhattan
At work on Friday, my nerves were hard to hide. Nate still hadn’t responded to my message on the dating app and I was getting nervous. It’s been almost a week since I replied. Maybe I responded too quickly and scared him off. Damn it.
My co-workers, Natalie and Noreen, could sense something was up and kept asking if I was okay. Eventually I gave in and told them about the date I was hoping to land with Nate.
“How’d you meet?” Noreen asked.
“On that Christian dating app.”
“ChristianMix!” she exclaimed.
I looked around to see most of our co-workers staring at her.
“Could you please!” I implored.
“Since when are you on ChristianMix?”
“Whatever.”
“You know, I heard that JewsDate is the place to go to meet successful men who are looking for more than just a fuck.” She glanced around the office with a devilish smile on her face.
“You’re the worst!” I said under my breath. “Maybe I am just looking for a good fuck!”
“Haha, come on! You’ll be fine. I’m sure he’s a real gentleman.”
“Let’s hope.” No chance.
It was Friday afternoon before Nate finally replied:
Wyn,
How about tomorrow night? I made a reservation at Bianchi’s. 8pm. Hopefully, I’ll see you then. I’ll be wearing pink.
Nate
And if I have prophetic powers, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. 1 Corinthians 13:2
Yes! Thank God! I have to get close to him to learn his weaknesses and how to ruin him. I managed to wait a few hours before responding:
Nate,
Sure. See you there.
Wyn
You see that a person is justified by works and not by faith alone. James 2:24
I was up early on Saturday, too excited and nervous about my date with Nate to sleep in. I’d been on the anti-anxiety med for a while, but couldn’t honestly tell if it was working. I realized that I might not really know until I was face to face with him. Just in case, I’d been upping my dose slowly since his first message in hopes and preparation for a date. I took even more with breakfast, and then went to a yoga class. I ran a few errands and spent the afternoon lounging on a blanket in the park, reading the newest Vogue and watching tourists and locals stroll past.
I went in to brush my teeth again and check my face in the mirror just as the late summer sun disappeared behind the New York City skyline. I second guessed myself and applied a little more eye liner
before heading out.
The city was awash in an evening glow as I walked to Bianchi’s. I found him tucked away in a booth behind the bar. He was wearing a light pink dress shirt and stood up as I approached the table, “Wyn?”
I nodded and smiled. Oh my God, this is it.
“Nice to meet you,” he said.
“Nice to meet you,” I said. Stay calm. Here we go.
I climbed up into the small wooden booth. It was the old-fashioned, uncomfortable type, whether or not it was actually old. I looked up and met his gaze. Holy shit! Face to face again. He was staring at me confidently.
I leaned forward and rested my hands on the table in front of me, inches from his. They weren’t shaking. I’m okay! The medication is working.