by Key, Liana
MAGDALA
I was so uncooperative at the ER department, that they had to call in a specialist pediatrician to work with me. I verbally abused and squealed when any of the doctors even tried to touch me, there was no way a young Asian doctor, male or female, or the older, bald doctor with a hook nose was going to examine me down there, and I'd clenched my thighs so tight together as if they were held by super glue. Nurses were telling me to shush, saying they needed to stop the bleeding, needed samples, evidence. But I curled myself up as small as I could and wouldn't let anyone touch me.
So they sent Dr Julie Surridge, later I was told they got her to come in specially to tend to me, and that's when I felt I might be all right. Dr Surridge's voice calmed me, she soothed me, she told me we could do this together. She stroked my hair, and patted my shoulder and before I knew it I'd pried my legs open a fraction, and the evidence was gathered. She'd shooed the police away, telling them I needed rest, questioning could wait.
When I woke up the next morning, Dr Surridge was there again. I couldn't see out of one eye, it was swollen and closed up, and I remembered how he punched me in the face. I remembered a skull ring on one of his fingers. I remembered him kicking me, around my belly and my back. He was wearing old Nike boots, white with red laces. His jeans had been dirty, ripped, pale denim, his t-shirt might have had California or Cali fornication written on it.
He'd wolf whistled as I approached the van he was leaning against, and I'd smiled at him. I looked hot, I knew I did, I'd wanted to - for Nathan. He had longish blond hair, the beginnings of a mustache, numerous piercings in both ears.
"Whoa, looking hot!" he'd said as I passed by, "looking sexy!"
I'd tilted my head at him, a girl with all the confidence in the world, but I held tighter to my phone, just in case. "Wanna drink?" he said, moving, taking a can of beer from the front seat and holding it up to me. I shook my head, thought I was still walking, but maybe I had stopped. His arm hooked through mine, he swung me around, I tightened the grip on my phone.
"Just a little drink," he urged. I was thinking, he's drunk, he's high, he's wasted. The side of the van opened further, someone else was in there, someone laughing. I'd been pushed in, had I fought? Had I tried to free myself? Or had I gone in willingly? There was a single row of seats in the back of the van, and behind that a mattress, a thin mattress. Laughing person was stretched out on that seat, a can in his hand, his t-shirt was green.
"Come on sexy pants, you know you want it!" He's pushed me onto the mattress already. I'm thinking my white top is going to get filthy, the mattress is covered by a grubby sheet. It looks disgusting. I don't want to be on it. I don't even know if I've said anything, or if all my responses have only been in my head. Have I said No? Out loud?
"Get off me," I hear my voice now. I'm not mute. "Get. Off. Me." It's a plea.
"You know you fucking want it." The voice is mocking me. I need to scream. I need someone to save me. Scream girl, I tell myself. "Hel -" but it's feeble, and the slap comes unexpectedly, the sound frightening me more than the sting. Then a fist to my face. Did he just punch me? A throb. My eye. Pain. Blurring.
Laughing behind me. "She's feisty," the voice says.
"That's how I like it." A snigger. A hand, groping at my underwear, ripped off, fingers touching, probing. A tongue on my face. Slobbering, sticky, the smell of hot dog, mustard. Yuck. I feel sick. Where's my voice? Where's my scream? He pushes now, pushes into me, ramming, quick thrusts. Oh let it end. Please let it end. Laughter behind me again. I squirm beneath him. If I could just flick my foot up somehow, kick him. He releases a wrist, and I pounce, I reach and scratch at his face. "Bitch." Anger now. Reach for his ear, pull at his earrings. "Fuck," he yelps, it's had to hurt. And in a flash he's holding a knife, from where? His boot? I don't feel a cut, just a trickle of blood, warming my neck. "Fucking bitch." Insanity, I see insanity in his eyes. The knife goes low. I don't know how low, I don't want to know. There's a sharp pain. Blood, I can feel blood. Then he's kicking me, my belly, my ribs, my back, he kicks me to the door. "Fucking get rid of her," Laughing Voice commands, "let's get the fuck out of here." I feel one almighty kick as my head catches on the base of the seats, and the last thing I remember is thinking "Where's my phone?" as I drop out of the van onto the carpark.
NATHAN
I ring my boss the next day and tell him there's been a family emergency, but he says they're already short staffed, so I end up working. Can you fucking believe it? Magdala has been raped and stabbed and I'm at work, carrying on as if everything is normal. I'm pissed as hell, can't focus, just going through the motions. I text Cassian: how is she? Can I see her? It's like an hour later that he texts back: sleeping mainly. Dad says wait till tomorrow.
So then I think maybe working is better than sitting around a hospital waiting room, especially if only family is allowed in. The boys come round later that night, some of them are going to the movies, they tell me to come, take my mind off things. I couldn't possibly. Tom hangs around and we end up gaming for a few hours.
The next day I have a morning shift, and I half expect Cassian might text me, but he doesn't, so I text him, rewording the text about ten times before I think it sounds right: will I be able to visit Magdala later? He doesn't reply straight away, I'm stressing, anxious, don't like not being in the loop. Half an hour later it comes through: yes, come later.
Now I don't know when later is. So I go home, shower, change, buy some red roses and go.
When I get to her room, the door is slightly open. I tap on it and push it slightly, poking my head in. Her Dad and Grandad are sitting on two chairs pulled up by her bedside. They both stand. Her Grandad shakes my hand and whispers a hello. He then leaves. Her Dad gives me a hug, which is awkward because I'm holding the flowers, then gestures that I should sit on the chair he has just vacated. Magdala's asleep, she's lying on her side, her face towards me, swollen, purple, yellow. I don't know what to do with the flowers, look around, lay them on the bedside cabinet. There are already half a dozen bunches in vases. I'm thinking I should have attached a card.
Her Dad sits on a bench seat at the end of the room. I look at Magdala again, it's a horrifying sight, my mind whirling with what might have happened. There's a plaster on her forehead, a bandage on her neck, her left eye is the one that's swollen, surely indicates being punched. He punched a girl? What kind of monster did this? I bite my lip, I don't want to cry but I can feel my eyes watering. I glance across at her Dad, he's busy on his phone. I lean forward towards her bed, reach for her hand, barely touch it. I don't want to wake her if I can help it.
"Magdala," I whisper, suddenly shy, not wanting her father to hear. "Magdala." I don't even know what I want to say, don't know what I should say. I take her hand in mine, just holding it gently, a rush of emotion sweeping over me. I want to say I'm sorry, sorry for not being there, sorry for not looking for her earlier, sorry for the filth who did this to her. But the tears are rolling down my cheeks now, and I wipe them away, sniff as softly as I can, whisper, "Get better soon, I love you so much." Then I kiss her hand, just a brush of my lips really and place it back on the blanket, like its breakable.
I rise, and her Dad does too. He opens the door and follows me out. I frantically wipe at my eyes.
"You okay?" he asks.
I nod, but I'm not, I'm devastated, it's worse than I imagined, now I've seen her, I know it's real.
"She's going to be all right," he says, "she's a fighter."
I nod again, can't look him in the eye. I wonder if he blames me, like Jakey does. I wonder where Cassian is.
"She'll probably go home tomorrow or the next day," he says, and I nod again and wipe my eyes with the back of my hand, damn leaking eyes. "She talked to the police yesterday," he says, "and told them what happened."
I want to know what happened, but I don't. I can't stand to think of someone else being with my Magdala, of violating her, of attacking her. Did she scream I wonder.
; "Will you tell her I came?" I say, and it sounds strange when it comes out, sounds wrong.
He nods, "Of course. I'll show her the flowers."
"Will you tell her I'm sorry?" I say, and suddenly the tears are streaming again, and he reaches out and hugs me. He pats my back.
"Hey it's not your fault," he says, "don't blame yourself." He sounds genuine, it's reassuring to hear, but I can't quite believe it. We release and my hands frantically wipe my eyes and I have to sniff several times. Now I know why Mom carries tissues at all times.
"Cash has your number?" he says and I nod. "I'll get him to let you know when she gets home. Magdala's phone is lost."
"Thanks," I say.
"Thanks for coming," he says and pats my back before I leave. He goes back into her room. I go in the direction of the elevator, her Grandad is walking towards me, with a tray of coffees.
"I got you a coffee," he says, and takes one out.
"Oh, it's all right," I say, "I'm fine."
"No, take it," he says, handing it to me. "Is she still asleep?"
"Yeah," I say. "Thank you." I indicate for the coffee.
"She's on a bit of medication, so I think she'll sleep for awhile yet," he says. I nod. "Are you doing okay?" he asks, and it takes me by surprise. That he's asking me if I'm okay. I feel my mouth want to turn down, my chin tremble. I bite my lip quickly so I don't burst into tears, I don't want to look weak. I shrug and nod my head quickly. He puts a hand on my shoulder, squeezes it, and somehow that gesture makes me feel better.
I sit in my car, drink my coffee, it's black and sweet, amazingly how I like it. I put my radio on loud and sit there crying, crying for my beautiful Magdala, dreading what's ahead for her, for us.
MAGDALA
I thought coming home from the hospital would be a good thing, that I would feel safer. But it's too dark, too quiet in my room. In my hospital room there was always a light filtering through, always noise, of nurses and patients, footsteps and wheels, machines and elevators. You knew you were never alone, and even if it was impossible to sleep, it was comforting.
That first night, after Dad and Antonia said goodnight, I leapt up from bed, switched on the light and drew back the curtains. I wanted light and I wanted noise, so I turned the tv on and kept it at a low level. Cassian heard the sound late at night, his bedroom is on the same level as mine, whereas the others sleep upstairs.
"Magdala," he whispered, pushing my door, "are you still awake?"
"Yes."
He came in, sat on the bed. "Are you okay?" He stroked my hair, like a mother would do to a sick child. I patted the bed next to me and he laid down, but he didn't get under the covers. I started to cry. He took me in his arms, held me. He didn't say anything, but he stayed there all night.
My mother comes from Hawaii and stays for five days. She stays in an apartment she still owns near the beach, and visits everyday. But she doesn't really know what to say to me, other than the obvious, and she spends most of the time sitting in the sun on her iPad or reading books. My mother is obsessed with two things, tanning and reading. She has a major in history and is always reading about it. She has her dream job now, working at the university in the anthropology department. Her life is reading, history and sunbathing, perfect for her. I don't complain; Honolulu is a great place to visit and surf, and she flies me out, and Cassian too if he wants to, two or three times a year.
Grandad, Aunt Kate and Connor, my two Uncles, Blaise and Chandler all visit. Two teachers from school and my piano teacher all pop by, and Dad makes the visits short, only allows them time to say hello and drop off flowers. He knows I don't want to talk with or see anyone. He tells them I'm sleeping, or resting. They're okay with that; nobody knows what to say to me.
Cassian tells me that Nathan has been texting everyday. Am I ready to see him? I shake my head. Not yet.
How do I explain that I don't want to see Nathan? My mind tells me that it's Nathan's fault I was raped. If he had come to the carpark to meet me, then it wouldn't have happened. He knew when I left my piano practice, he knew how long it would take me to get to the school gymnasium, he should have been waiting outside for me. But he wasn't.
Another part of my brain is full of shame. It knows it isn't Nathan's fault, it's mine. I told him I'd text him when I arrived, but I never did. I strutted through that carpark in my short skirt and high heels, wanting some glory, some attention. A terrible thing happened, all my fault, and I'm ashamed to face Nathan, ashamed for him to know that what we shared has been damaged, desecrated, that I have ruined everything we had between us, that I am now ruined. I don't want to him to know the facts, the details. I know I should just let him go, it will be the easiest way to deal with it.
Dad, Cassian and I are sitting at the dining table. Antonia is sorting out the two little ones in the kitchen. I'm pushing the chicken and veggies around my plate. I don't have much of an appetite, haven't since it happened.
"Eat something," Dad says softly, and I slide a slice of carrot onto my fork and hold it to my lips. I've lost weight, my jeans are loose around my belly.
"Nate wants to see you," Cassian says. I lift my eyes to meet his, then look away. I quickly swallow the carrot, and Dad says, "You need to see him Magdala."
I nod. I know I do, it's been ten days since it happened. I was in hospital for three days, and I remember him being there. My eyes could hardly open, part from the swelling, part from the medication. But I heard him and I felt him. His voice was soft, quiet, broken, "Please get better, I love you so much." His hand grazed my hand, he was gentle, he didn't try to squeeze it, and then he kissed my hand and placed it carefully back down. I didn't acknowledge any of it. I played dead.
NATHAN
I'm practically skipping up Magdala's driveway, a large bouquet in my arms. I'm nervous, but excited to be seeing her, a dreamy vision in my head of a passionate, yet tender reunion. Of falling into each other's arms, not wanting to let go of each other. Antonia lets me in and leads me up the stairs, bright and bubbly, gushing about the flowers. Yet my instincts should have been sharper, more realistic. The text from Cassian last night was curt, a directive: Come see Magdala tomorrow after school. I'd replied back quickly: Ok, will be there, thanks. I expected a confirmation, but got nothing.
Antonia has taken me into the lounge, Magdala is sitting in an armchair, she's still in her pajamas, her hair tied back in a ponytail. Her face is lifeless, there's no color to her face, except for the yellowing tinge of a fading black eye and cheek. My heart breaks, reality sets in. Antonia shows the flowers to Magdala but she barely looks at them, she barely looks at me, all my hopes have gone out the window. Magdala looks broken. Antonia disappears with the flowers, there are bouquets all around the room, many bigger and brighter than the bunch I've brought. I lean forward in the chair, say, "How you doing?"
Even her voice is different, it's hollow. "Okay I guess," she replies, but she clearly isn't. It's just a line, a well-rehearsed lie.
"I'm, I'm sorry," I stutter, my mouth unable to form what my mind is thinking, "sorry for not being there -.” It's a feeble attempt.
"It's not your fault," she says bravely, her eyes scanning mine, but only briefly. It's like she can't even look at me, doesn't want to look at me. Antonia's heels on the stairs make me sit back in my chair. She has a tray of drinks and insists we go sit on the balcony. Magdala gingerly rises, she looks like she's in pain, and she limps outside. I want to take her by the hand, I want to scoop her up, but I hang back, watch her ease herself into the chair. She pours herself a water, offers me one but I decline, my hands feel shaky, I'd probably drop the glass.
"How are your -" I'm not sure what to call them, wounds? Stab wounds? The right word comes, "injuries?"
Her hand goes up to the bandage on her neck. Was he trying to cut her throat? Did he want to kill her? Who was this psycho? How could he hurt her like this? I want to know all the details, but I don't think I would want to hear it, don't think I could handle it.
/>
"Your eye is a lot better."
She almost smiles, and indicates with her hand how large it had been. "It was so swollen, and purple."
She takes a drink of water, then sets the glass down. I'm within touching distance, I just want to connect with her, I want her so much. I reach my hand to hers, I just want to touch her. She pulls away, sharply, angrily. She retreats, pulling and hugging her knees up in her chair, making herself small. Her body language says it all. She doesn't want me here. Not now, and I fear, not ever.
"You should go," she whispers. I stand, but I feel dazed, she lowers her head, she won't look at me.
"You know I love you," I say, the words soft, sincere, but I flee, not looking back, distraught. Antonia is there at the stairs. "All right?" she says, and I just nod.
"Give her time," she says gently, reassuringly, "she just needs more time."
MAGDALA
I'm sitting in the armchair in the lounge, still in my long stripy pajama pants and its matching pink top. I haven't brushed my hair in days, I've just tied it back, and when I looked in the mirror my cheeks were hollow and my face was still yellow from the bruising. I didn't care. I was sitting with my knees drawn up. Antonia answered the door, her heels clicking across the tiles. I waited, nervous, anxious, unsure of even my own reaction.
"Magdala," Antonia calls brightly, her heels now on the wooden stairs. "Nathan's here, sweetheart," she arrives, holding a large bouquet, "and look at these gorgeous flowers. I'll just put them in a vase." She holds them out towards me. Nathan is standing right behind her. I look at him, but I don't move, I don't stand up. "Take a seat here love," she guides Nathan to the opposite armchair, "and I'll get some drinks, shall I?"
Nathan sits, he looks uncomfortable, he looks tired. "How you doing?" He leans forward in the chair.
I shrug, grasp my hands around my knees. "Okay I guess," but my head is singing, 'I'm not okay, I'm not okay, I'm not o-fucking-kay', the My Chemical Romance song.