Crash Into Me

by Liz Seccuro

  There was a shout in the hallway, “Holy shit! What did you do to her?!” but I could not open my mouth. It was sealed shut with dried, scummy residue and the rest of me could not move. I don’t know how long I lay there or how many people saw me. I heard a commotion somewhere on the floor with shuffling and yelling. The music started and stopped over and over. My body and brain swam down into a warm nest. I tried to lift my head at one point and I felt someone touching my face as I fell back into darkness.

  Hours later, sunlight streamed through a window. I opened my eyes and assessed my situation. My mouth was almost glued shut with film. Where was I? I slowly became aware that I was in a room with a bed, two desks, and a loft bed above me. My eyes scanned to the right and left in the early-morning sun and I realized I was on a couch and that it was probably before seven A.M. My head hurt horribly; I raised one hand to the back of my head and felt a painful lump at the crown. I was wrapped in a dirty sheet. With horror, I looked down and saw the bloodstains from my thighs all the way down to my ankles. I began trying to peel the sheet off my body, but the blood was dried and brown and it felt like ripping a bandage from a scab.

  Finally, I got free and shakily stood up, holding the sheet to my body. I steadied myself on the post to the loft bed, and crept over to the dresser. There was a pile of papers and mail on the top. “Will.” The name jumped into my mind. Someone named Will. Sure enough, I saw his name in the papers. William Beebe. As I put the papers down, I heard footsteps behind me. I froze. There he stood, just as I remembered him. His face terrified me. This man was an evil man, I thought. This man had hurt me.

  But his face smiled.

  “Well, I hope I was a gentleman last night.”

  I said nothing. I tried to figure out how to escape.

  “No? Hey, you’d better get out of here before someone sees you. Take a jacket if you want. It’s chilly out there.” His head jerked toward what I assumed was a closet door.

  I couldn’t move. How could he be speaking to me after the violence of the night before? I was still afraid of what he could do to me, so I stood stock-still as he gathered his things and packed his backpack. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him take a plastic baggie that looked to be filled with a white powdery substance out of the top drawer of the dresser. I just stood with my head down, scared.

  “Hey,” he said loudly. I snapped my head up and looked him in the eye. With a stern look, he pointed his finger at me in warning. He kept that finger pointed at me for about twenty seconds. Then, he turned on his heel and left the room, clomping down the two flights of stairs. Why was he warning me? I heard the creak of the front door open and close. I did not breathe or move for at least three minutes. Stillness. No sounds.

  I scrabbled on the floor in the sheet, like a desperate animal, looking for my clothing. By now, the full realization of what had happened was crashing into me. There was my skirt, there, my bra. Farther down the room, almost under the bed, was my sweater. Hastily, I put these things on. My hands flew to my neck and ears; my earrings and necklace were still on my body. I couldn’t find my underpants, but I didn’t want to stay to hunt for them any longer. Going to the closet, I grabbed a large denim jacket to wear outside. Then I found a piece of paper and a golf pencil on top of a desk. I wanted this animal to know that I knew what he had done. I would write a note and leave it on the bed, which was covered with bloodstains.

  “If you ever want this jacket back, you can come to get it at Gwathmey, room 222. I won’t be alone, so don’t even think about trying to hurt me again.” I had no idea why I was giving him my personal information, but I couldn’t find the words I wanted, to match the gravity of the situation. I wanted to let him know by this note that I was not going to let him off the hook. I had no idea what else to do. I was disoriented and mortified, but I knew what had happened to me, and that it was serious.

  I limped into the filthy, green-tiled bathroom, where there were three toilets in a row with no seats on them. Bright yellow urine stains spattered the rims of each one and the tile floor was also spotted with dried urine. One toilet was filled with unflushed feces. There was crusted vomit in a small plastic trash can under one of the sinks. I desperately had to go to the bathroom, but there was no toilet paper. I tried to squat, but my shaky legs gave out and I sat on the seatless toilet. When the flow finally came, it burned like fire as I let out an audible yelp and put my head in between my legs to keep from fainting. Standing up, my own urine dripped down my leg as I went to one of the sinks and turned on the cold spigot. As I looked up into the dirty mirror, I noticed blood on my lip and a small, lurid bruise forming on my cheekbone. I picked up a filthy hand towel, running it under the cold water. It reeked of mold, but I did not care as I ran the damp towel up and down my legs and thighs, scrubbing off the dried blood and urine. I even used it on my mouth, although the stench of the fetid thing overwhelmed me.

  With my shoes in my hand, I ran out into the hall and leaned over the railing, looking down the dizzying spiral staircase. It occurred to me then that there was not one person in the entire house. It reeked of alcohol, sweat, and smoke, but I could hear nothing. This seemed odd in the early-morning hours after a large rush party. Where was everyone? Were they hiding? Lying in wait for me? My heart pounded so hard I could actually see my sweater moving. The doors to all of the rooms were shut, except for the room Hud had been locked in. There was no Hud, and my Bermuda bag was on the chair, right where I had left it. Where had he gone? The whole scene was eerie. I had to get out of there. I knew I had to do something to help myself, that I had to tell someone what had happened to me.

  Because what happened to me had a name. An ugly name. It was called rape.

  CHAPTER 4 Sweeping It Under the Rug

  I hobbled silently down the staircase of Phi Kappa Psi. I went out to the front porch and down the wedding-cake steps onto Madison Lane. I blinked at the sun and automatically turned right, toward Rugby Road and my dorm. But then something in my brain whirred and clicked like a shutter of a camera lens and I turned around and went left instead, propelled on numb, sticky legs as I walked over to University Avenue, where I took another left and walked the entire Corner (a stretch of shops and eateries on University Avenue). It was about eight in the morning by now. Suddenly, I realized that I was still holding my navy leather flats, hanging from two crooked fingers. At first, I had not put on my shoes because I wanted no one to hear me creep down the stairs of the house. But now I saw that I couldn’t put them on if I tried—my toe was too swollen from trying to kick down the locked bedroom door. As I walked I looked straight down, to avoid eye contact with anyone. I was walking in the opposite direction of any undergraduate classrooms, so it was unlikely I would be greeted by anyone I knew. I simply did not want to see anyone who might remember me, naked, at that party, anyone who had watched me being savagely violated. As the terrible assault flashed through my head, I became even more convinced in my horrifying sense that people had watched it happen. The shame was overwhelming. It was a sunny, crisp day—the same beautiful fall weather that had delighted me the day before. I tried to focus on the feeling of the sun on my face as I put one foot in front of the other. I willed myself to walk. Just walk.

  At seventeen, I had had no experience with crime or with sex, but I knew that after something so unspeakably violent and horrible I needed to get to a hospital. In 1984, there were no cell phones—no easy way to call a friend to help me, or drive me. I just had to get to the hospital on my own. My bruises and bleeding felt acute and as I became more aware of my body, I noticed that it hurt when I tried to breathe deeply. My head and face throbbed, my vaginal area was burning, and my whole body felt tender and swollen.

  At some point, I became aware of the pain on the soles of my feet. Realizing I was stepping on painful pebbles and bits of trash, I forced my shoes on to my swollen, throbbing feet for the rest of the long walk.

  I walked through the sliding glass doors of University of Virginia Medical Cente
r emergency room, scanned the lobby, and took a deep, painful breath. My legs were wobbly and shaky. I walked first to a water fountain and took a big drink, the water dribbling down my chin onto my sweater. Then, I straightened up and approached a desk, where I simply stood, not summoning anyone. I just stood there like a ghost. Finally, a middle-aged woman in scrubs came up and asked if I needed anything.

  “I’ve been raped. I need to see someone. I think I am hurt,” I said.

  Immediately, she came around the desk and took me by the arm, walking me toward a bank of chairs.

  “Honey, what did you say?”

  “I’ve been raped,” I repeated in a near whisper. “I don’t feel well and I need to see a doctor.” She led me quietly to a chair. She knelt down beside me, and asked me to tell her everything that had happened. In broken sentences, I told her. “Let me see what I can do for you,” she said.

  I sat in that chair for a long time, replaying not only the horror of the night before, but the sheer terror of William Beebe confronting me in his dark bedroom that morning. I stood up and got a pile of magazines to distract myself, but I couldn’t read them. I kept looking up at the desk to see if someone was ready to see me. Every once in a while, I noticed one of the doctors, nurses, or EMTs looking at me. But I was left waiting.

  After what seemed like hours, the kind nurse came back, bearing a Styrofoam cup of tea with milk in it. “Drink this,” she told me. “It will help you feel better to drink something warm.”

  I accepted the tea gratefully, and she disappeared again. Again, I was left waiting. I was anxious, scared, and in pain, but I had never been to an ER before. It seemed that everyone else was waiting, too, that these things just took a long time. I sat quietly where I was told. Out the window, I saw the light changing, the day progressing.

  At last, the kind nurse returned. I brightened as she came toward me, but her face looked sad.

  “Sweetheart—here’s what’s going on. What you need to have done, we cannot do here.”

  I stared at her blankly.

  “You need to have some tests done and we don’t do that here. You need to go to a major city hospital—perhaps in Richmond or Washington, D.C. Can you do that?”

  Could I do that? I didn’t understand. This happened here in Charlottesville. What test was it that a doctor couldn’t do at this world-class teaching hospital?

  “I don’t have a car, ma’am,” I said. “And I don’t have money to take a train. Why can’t someone examine me here?”

  “Honey, you need to have special exams done for a rape and we don’t have those tests here. Do you have a friend who can take you?”

  I just shook my head. I felt overwhelmed and completely alone. There was no way I could take the long trip right now to Richmond or D.C. I didn’t even thank her. I just gathered my things and walked out the door. I wanted to go to my dorm, to be around friendly faces. Perhaps my resident adviser could help. My legs carried me gingerly to my dorm. I passed the bike racks and some students lolling on the grass in the chilly sun and opened the heavy front door with much effort. Once inside, I climbed the stairs, found my key in my bag, and entered my room. Alice was away in Pittsburgh for the weekend, as usual. My green sweatpants were folded neatly on the bed where I had left them. My stack of books and assignments was still on my desk. What now? What now? I realized with shock that I was wearing William Beebe’s denim jacket. I shrugged it off my body and crumpled it into a ball that I threw on the bottom of my small closet. What now? I peeled off my clothes, put them in a plastic grocery bag, and left them in the closet near the jacket. I wrapped my aching body in my pink bathrobe, grabbed my plastic container of toiletries and two towels, and headed for the bathroom down the hall.

  I turned on the water in one of the more hidden shower stalls. When it became scalding hot, I climbed in and began to scrub myself vigorously with a washcloth and soap. I watched the rusty-brownish water swirl down the drain before realizing I was staring at my own blood draining off my body. My face stung when I lifted it to the spray. My lip was throbbing and I noticed fingerprint-sized bruises on my arms. Everything hurt—touching my vaginal and anal areas made me cry out in pain. I wanted him and his vile, nasty stench off me. OFF. I used my hands instead of a washcloth to gently clean my genital areas. I shampooed and conditioned my hair, and then I slid down and sat on the tile floor of the shower, letting the water pound over my head. I didn’t cry. I just sat and soaked in the downpour.

  Twisting my hair into a turban with one towel and wrapping the other around me, I approached the filthy sinks and brushed my teeth, purging any sticky residue of that drink or his saliva. I felt clean. So clean. When I finished, I folded my sore limbs back into my robe, padded back to my room, and crawled into my bed with my hair still in the towel. I lay still there for a while, before sitting up with sudden urgency. The hospital hadn’t helped and I still needed to tell someone. I grabbed the phone by my bedside and called my friend Caroline. “Hello?” It was late afternoon by now, and luckily she was back from class.

  “Caro, it’s Liz. I need you. There’s been trouble.”

  I hung up before she could ask questions.

  Shortly after, she burst into my room.

  “What’s wrong? What’s the trouble?”

  I told her the story of the whole horrible night, the frightening morning, and the long, frustrating day. I pointed to my closet to show her the jacket. Like me, she wasn’t quite sure what we should do next, but she was deeply worried, even panicked. She squeezed my hand and told me she’d be right back.

  Minutes later, there were about five or six people gathered in my room, a group of concerned dorm friends. I finally felt like I could safely relax, surrounded by people who cared.

  I curled in the fetal position on my bed. People drifted in and out of the room, fetching Cokes, tea, water, asking what I needed. They spoke in hushed tones as I lay there, in pain. Someone brought some aspirin, which I gratefully accepted.

  “Someone should get Jonathan,” someone said. I heard footsteps running down the carpeted hallway. Jonathan was an upper-classman friend. He was dating a girl who lived on my hall and was sort of an informal adviser to many of us. He came into the room, bringing a clear sense of authority.

  “Everyone give her some room!” he bellowed.

  He sat on the bed and hugged me.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  I couldn’t bring myself to tell the story again and I started to sob, great heaving, choking sobs. One of my friends gave him the short version. He hugged me so tightly that my already-bruised ribs hurt and he said, “You stupid, stupid, girl. Why don’t they tell you never ever to go upstairs at one of those houses? Why?”

  I went cold. He had called me stupid. This had happened to me because I was a “stupid” girl. Of course, Jonathan was primarily expressing his frustration with the university and its failure to give first years thorough safety briefings, its unwillingness to suggest that fraternity houses could be dangerous places, especially during rush. But this was the first suggestion that my actions had contributed to my brutal attack. This is how it begins, the cycle of self-blame and destruction.

  I was shaking, but Jonathan just hugged me tighter and gave some orders around the room for more blankets, summoning people as needed while clearing others out. I was left with Jonathan and Caroline. Sleep was beginning to beckon and I drifted in and out until it was dark. Someone turned on a small desk lamp so I wouldn’t be frightened and they stayed there with me all night. Tightly wrapped as I was in my robe, the sweat poured off me, but I could not have cared less. At one point, someone helped me to the bathroom, where I urinated for what seemed like the first time in ages. The burn felt like someone had poured acid on my genitalia and I actually screamed. Fresh blood began leaking out of me and I asked my friend to get me a sanitary pad to line my underwear. She assisted me back to my dorm room and I crawled back into bed and slept fitfully until dawn.

  When I awoke, there w
ere three people in my room and I was fuzzy and disoriented, unsure where I was. Every part of me that had hurt, hurt more. I was one big bruise, throbbing and tender. I was clutching a stuffed blue seahorse. Someone told me that Samira, the adorable grad student down the hall, had brought it for me and tucked it into my arms in the middle of the night. I will never forget that. Still awake, I began panicking—what was I to do? Who knew about this? What was being said? Jonathan asked, “Is there someone we can call for you?”

  “Meg,” I said, thinking of my best friend from high school. “I need to call Meg. She’s at Trinity in D.C. I need her here.”

  Flipping through my little address book, I found her number and dialed it. Meg answered groggily and I gave her the thumbnail sketch of what had happened, then handed the phone over to someone to give her directions. She would leave later that morning and come to me straightaway. Arrangements were made for someone to pick her up at the train.

  Carefully dressing in a sweater and loose pants, I avoided the dining hall, though I was ravenous. Someone ordered me soup for breakfast and I ate it greedily, sitting up in my bed. My body was depleted from the experience and needed nourishment. As soon as I finished, my fears returned. I began to fear that he would come for me. After all, I’d left him my dorm room number, hoping for a chance to confront him on my turf. How fucking stupid.

  And then I got scared for Jim. Where was he? Did he get out? Did they hurt him, too?

  In my panic, I began screaming for Jim, thinking they had killed him or kidnapped him, as he was the one who knew me. It took three people to hold me down and tell me he was just fine and had no idea what had happened. He assumed I had gone home, tired of waiting for him. He was at class, they said. Thank God.