“Pictures?” I hear her voice now and the sound of it, makes my knees shake. She sounds scared.
“Yes. We need pictures for evidence purposes.”
Suddenly, it feels as if the walls are closing in. I can feel my heart pounding in my chest, and even though I’m standing still, my body rocks forward a little with each beat. No, it’s more of a thud. My heart may be exploding from my chest. My breathing becomes rapid and shallow and my face must register excruciating pain and shock, because pure alarm flashes across Pyper’s face. She steps toward me and takes my hand, “What is it? What’s wrong?”
I open my mouth to reply, and find that nothing comes out. My mouth and lips suddenly feel dry and I’m pretty sure if I don’t walk away right now, someone will be summoning a nurse for me. And some poor custodian is going to have to clean up the goddamn puke I’m about to project all over the damn place.
I’m rescued as Joy suddenly approaches us, “I know it’s awful here, but we are going to go get some more coffee. Can we bring you anything?” She’s looking at me, and it takes extreme effort to make my lips move and give her a reply.
“No, thank you,” my voice sounds unsteady, raspy, “I’m fine.” Part of me wants to break out in hysterical laughter at the word ‘fine’. I’m anything but fine.
“How about you, Pyper? Can we bring you back anything?”
Pyper, with her eyes red from crying and looking extremely tired and disheveled, doesn’t look away from me when she answers. “Some coffee would be great, thank you.”
“Would you like cream and sugar?”
“Yes, please.”
“Okay honey, we will be right back.”
Pyper nods at Joy, but I don’t acknowledge her leaving at all. I don’t think she noticed though. Pyper continues to stare at me, though now appearing to be in a state of confusion. I’m sure Pyper thinks I’m nuts. I’m not budging from Olivia’s door, and I know I have a look of horror frozen on my face. I can’t help it.
“Olivia, other than being drugged, were you abused in any other way, meaning physically or sexually?”
Those words are an echo…continually reverberating in my brain. “Were you abused… were you abused…. were you abused…”
“Luke, are you okay? Something is wrong. I can see it on your face. What am I missing?”
The last thing I want to do is tell her. I don’t want to worry her, and as much as I want to talk to someone about it, I couldn’t ever betray Olivia that way. So I lie. “I’m not feeling so hot all of a sudden, uh…stomach upset” I mumble. “Gonna go to the bathroom.” I gesture down the hallway.
“Do you need anything?”
“No, thanks.”
I can’t look at her as I walk away. I’m trying to appear casual when all I really want to do is take off in a sprint at the fastest pace I’ve ever run. The overheard conversation is getting louder in my head. And won’t stop. I want to scream. But that wouldn’t help anyone. I just want to get the hell out of here. For a moment, I contemplate going to the bathroom, and shutting myself in a stall, but the lure of the outdoors and fresh air is far too strong.
Once I know I’m out of eye sight, I do take off in a run. People look at me curiously as I pass - and I almost take out the nutritionist pushing her food cart - but I can’t bring myself to care. I mumble an apology, but I don’t stop. I can’t get out of the hospital fast enough.
Once I’m outside, I take big gulps of air like a fish out of water.
I brace my hands on my knees and stay that way deeply breathing in and out for several minutes.
“Were you abused….”
I hear someone exit the hospital behind me, which brings me to awareness of where I am. Standing here is probably not the smartest move. Nor is it far enough away. I race through the parking lot, making my way to my car. Once there, I unlock it, and practically lunge inside, still trying to catch my breath. I’m breathing so hard it sounds like I ran a 5K at a dead sprint. I clutch handfuls of my hair, as if doing so will get the words I keep hearing over and over out of my brain and the noise to stop.
“Were you abused…”
It echoes like a drum in my mind, beating against me until I scream out and start pounding on the steering wheel over and over and over.
“AHHHHHHHHHHHHH FUCK!” I can’t hold it in. It feels good to scream. To rant and rave and punch. I keep punching the wheel until I feel my skin crack and bleed. The blood catches me by surprise because I just feel numb – the only pain is from my bleeding heart.
“Goddamn it. God fucking damn it. Not my beautiful girl, not my Olivia. This is all my fault. All my fucking fault.”
I can feel beads of sweat on my brow. My shirt feels hot, itchy and suddenly constricting and uncomfortable. And I am suddenly sweaty. I still can’t catch my breath, so I start my car and blast the air conditioner, looking for relief that I know damn well I’m not going to find in here. The kind of relief I need comes from just one look by a dark haired, green-eyed angel that has my heart in the palm of her hand.
Each slam of my heart in my chest feels like an accusation screaming, “Failure, failure, failure.”
Oh god, he touched her. He put his hands on her; hurt her. Closing my eyes, I picture her face. Her beautiful face. I wonder if she has any idea that her green eyes twinkle with love and a hint of mischief when she looks at me. Such expressive eyes. I can tell what she’s thinking by just one look. Those eyes are the window to her soul. I thought I would never see them again. The thought makes me groan in pain.
I picture her skin, her hair. I hear her laugh. I can see the curves of her body. In my mind, she’s smiling at me. Then, like a flash of lightning I see her eyes alight with fear and I picture her lying on a bed somewhere, drugged up, with a monster. I see him touch her, look at her, want her. I imagine him kissing her. Squeezing her too tight and hurting her.
“Were you abused…”
Suddenly, the devil invades my mind like a thief in the night and my thoughts take an unanticipated flight, bringing me agony and pain. I’m consumed and tormented by thoughts I don’t want to have. Did she, oh god, did his touching her arouse old feelings; make her remember how she felt about him at one time? Did she like it on some level? I wrack my brain trying to remember what it’s called when you fall for your kidnapper. Did that happen to her? Does she miss him? Want to be back with him?
I whimper like the pansy-ass bitch I am - a hiding pansy-ass bitch. What the fuck is wrong with me? Why would these thoughts even occur to me? I know better than this, how dare I even think such things; yet the thoughts invade my mind anyway, and all I can think is oh god, he touched her.
When I touch her, will she think of him? Will she be able to stand being touched by anyone now?
He touched her.
What can I say to her to make everything better? How can I even begin to apologize for this? I don’t even know how. Can she ever forgive me? How could she? Can I even forgive myself? I should have been there. How could she possibly get over that when I don’t even think that I can?
He touched her.
What am I going to say to her? She doesn’t know I heard. Will she tell me?
I put my head in my hands. And I cry. I just fucking cry, gut wrenching, soul screaming sobs. I cry for the woman she was before this. I cry for the woman I know that is forever changed because of what she endured. I cry because I didn’t prevent this. I cry for the fact that she has to go through this. I cry because I’m afraid things will never be the same. I cry because I wish my mom were here, and that she could offer me advice on how to help Olivia get through this. I cry because I love my girl so fucking much and I don’t know how, or if, I can make this better.
In the dark recesses of my mind I wonder… can I touch her again? Will I be able to kiss her, touch her, look at her and love her without thinking about the fact that his hands were there too? Are Olivia and I strong enough to get through something like this?
I use my shirt to wipe my eyes a
nd I put the car in reverse.
I’ve made my decision.
I need to get out of here.
7.
NUMB
Olivia
“Hi, Olivia. My name is Katie. I’m the forensic nurse that is going to perform an evidence collection exam that you agreed to have. This can be a difficult and intrusive process, so I won’t pretend that I can make you comfortable, but I will proceed at whatever pace works for you and want you to make sure to tell me if you need a break or have a question during this process, okay?”
I nod, feeling numb, not able to do much else. I want this over now.
“I’m going to do a few things, including a vaginal inspection, collection of some hair and nail samples, and blood draws. I will explain what I’m doing as we go. Do you have any questions before I begin?”
“Since I’m not positive that… he… ” I take a deep breath, but she doesn’t make me continue.
“It’s best to be precautionary. While findings and evidence is most reliable when this process is conducted within 72 hours of an assault, that doesn’t mean that any evidence we obtain here won’t be helpful down the line. It will also help to determine if you acquired any ailment or disorder. If that occurred, we will provide the appropriate care for you promptly.”
“Okay.”
Katie gives me a small smile while she eases on a pair of exam globes. “I’ve already gathered the clothes you were wearing when you were brought in, so we are going to start with hair and nail samples.”
“When was the last time you showered?” Katie asks unemotionally. Her calm, steady speech and effortless, easy motions are simultaneously reassuring and unsettling. She has obviously done this many times.
“I…I’m not sure. I don’t even know what day it is. It’s likely been a couple days at least, I guess.” I respond, trying to be equally impassive.
“Okay. Don’t worry that you don’t remember exactly. That’s fine.” Katie proceeds to cut my nails, capturing each one in a plastic bag. “Next, I need to gather hair samples from your scalp. This is going to sting just a little. I need to pull one hair out of your scalp in five places. One on each side of your head, the center, and then from the front and back.”
I remain silent as I feel her selectively comb and then the sting and snap as she pulls a hair from each place on my scalp, and then places them in their own plastic bags labeling each one.
Next, she approaches me with cotton swabs.
“I need to take swabs of your saliva, please. Just open your mouth for me.”
I open my mouth and wrinkle my nose at the feel of cotton in my mouth as she swabs my gum line, and the inside of my cheek. When she’s done, she smears the samples on glass slides. The process is repeated with two more cotton swabs, but these are not placed on slides.
“Normally I would collect samples of the blood from each of the scratches on your body, however each of your punctures and scratches were cleaned and medicated when you were brought in. Next I need to retrieve pubic hair samples, as well as do a pelvic exam. Do you have any questions about that?”
“No.” Is she crazy? I don’t want to ask her questions. I want to pretend none of this is happening and drift off to la la land.
“Okay. I know this is going to be difficult with your leg cast, but we will make it work.”
“Okay.” What else am I supposed to say? Should I say ‘great’ or ‘thanks’, because I don’t feel either of those things.
Katie comes to the side of my bed and presses a button that makes the bed rise into a sitting position. She can’t lift it too much because the cast on my leg does make it difficult, as predicted.
“Are you ready?”
I can only nod – or at least I think I did, because she efficiently pulls the cover and sheet back as she deftly adjusts my gown to assist in providing needed access without undue difficulty.
“I now need to help you disrobe down to your waist.”
I start to try and awkwardly pull the hospital gown off my shoulders, but the bandage on my arm makes me clumsy, and I only manage to get one side – and not fully off. I can tell getting dressed each day is going to be an interesting experience. Joy.
Grabbing her camera from a nearby table, she matter-of-factly states that she needs to take a few pictures and begins taking photos. I look down at myself and gasp when I see all the scratches and bruises covering my torso. There are even a few bandages on places where fluid has leaked through enough to show on the other side.
“Can you tell me how you got these marks, Olivia?”
“I’m assuming most of the injuries were sustained during my fall.”
“Yes, I would assume that too, however, what about the marks on your arms that look like fingerprints?”
I just stare at her. Is that a rhetorical question? I think the obvious hand prints speak for themselves.
“Did Deacon Brooks do this to you, Olivia?”
“Yes.”
I don’t realize until after she asks, that she’s making notes on a notebook.
“What are the notes for?”
“I have to make sure I have notes that correspond with each photo I’m taking.”
“I see.”
The flash is on the camera and it is blinding. I don’t realize how much I’m batting my eyes, until they start to water. I close my eyes, just trying to shut this out and more tears fall down my cheeks in silent succession. I want to blame it on the flash, but I know better.
“We belong together, Olivia. Do you hear me? You are going to stay in this fucking room until you get that through your head.”
“Deacon, you’re hurting me.”
I open my eyes, hoping that doing so will make the images of him shaking me go away.
“Okay, let’s put this back up on your shoulders,” the sound of her voice startles me and I realize she had pulled the covers up in an attempt to provide modesty while she was taking pictures and writing, “then I am going to pull the bottom up to your waist and pull the covers down one more time. We need to do a pelvic exam now, and I can take pictures of your leg and hips, if needed, at the same time.”
“Okay.”
Katie is gentle. There is kindness in her eyes, and I know she’s trying to make this as easy as possible. But, is there an easy way? Is that even possible?
Katie lowers the bed back down so I’m lying down once again, “Olivia, please bend your knee on this leg,” she says tapping my knee, “and relax it to the side.”
Oh God. I hate these things. Once a year is enough. I force myself to relax and open my leg to make her job easier. It’s not easy. I feel vulnerable and completely violated.
“This may pinch a bit. I have to collect ten hairs the same way I collected the samples from your head.”
I squeeze my eyes closed. This is humiliating. The first thing I’m doing when I’m better is getting back to the spa for a wax and a full-on pampering session. I try to remove myself from the situation. Luke’s face comes to the forefront of my mind. I saw the confusion and hurt on his face when he looked back at me as he left the room. He wanted to stay, he wanted me to tell him to stay, but I couldn’t. I don’t want him to know about this.
I feel alone, and on one hand I wish he were in here with me holding my hand, telling me it will be okay. I want his lips in my hair and his sweet words in my ear. But, I know Luke, and I could see it on his face, in his eyes; he already blames himself for what happened to me. The last thing I want is for him to blame himself for this too. It’s bad enough already, and selfishly, part of me doesn’t want to deal with his emotions too. I can hardly handle my own.
I just want to move on and pretend this never happened. Do I think that will be easy? No. Do I even think that is healthy? No. But I refuse to let Deacon dictate my life. I refuse to let him and his sick obsession ruin everything I want in my life.
“Okay, Olivia, I’m finished with the exam. You can relax now.” She tucks my gown back down and covers me up again. “T
he last thing I need to do is scrape your fingernails in case you have any of his DNA trapped under your nails, that didn’t come off with the clippings.”
“Alright.” I am patient and quiet as Katie goes about her task.
I could have lied to the police when they asked me if I had been physically or sexually abused. I thought about it, for a moment, but I’m not stupid. I have no doubt the doctors already saw some of the marks on me during surgery, so if I lie, they will know it. Plus, I know that eventually, this is all going to come to a head and the more evidence I have on my side, the better. Documenting this is important. So I keep telling myself that, because knowing doesn’t make this any less demeaning.
“Oh, one more thing. I’m going to leave this cup. The next time you get up to use the restroom, I need a sample.”
“A sample?”
“Yes, a urine sample, please.”
“Okay. Why?”
“We have to run a pregnancy test.”
I feel faint at her words, “A… a pregnancy test?”
“Yes, that’s standard in a situation like this. We have to do that as well.”
I can’t even let my mind go there. Oh God, no. Absolutely not, I can’t be.
The nurse smiles at me with sympathy, obviously seeing my distress. “Okay, Olivia, that’s everything. I’m going to ask one more time if you have any questions?”
“No. I understand everything that occurred.”
“Olivia, what you have been through is very traumatic. There is a counselor on staff with the hospital; I would encourage you to talk to someone. Can I have them come in and speak with you for a bit?”
“No.”
She looks at me questioningly, and I see her open her mouth in order to argue with me. Before she can, I tell her, “I will remember that, and call a counselor when and if I’m ready.”
“Fair enough.” Katie squeezes my shoulder, “you take care. We will get the evidence tested and will let you know when we have some results.”
Pretty Little Dreams Page 6