It Happened

This story is by Sarah Gribble and was part of our 2017 Winter Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.

I count to calm myself as I pick at a fray on the faded red chair: three, two, one. My nails are ugly, jagged from months of worried chewing. It’s too quiet. The clock ticks away on the wall, counting down to the moment I’ve been dreading: the moment I see him again. All I hear is that clock. Tic, tic, tic. The minutes whittle away to seconds.

Three, two, one. Nine o’clock. Time to go. Deep breath.

I can’t do this.

“Miss? This way.” The bailiff is tiny. No muscles, short, too young. I don’t feel safe. Right now, I need to feel safe.

One foot in front of the other. My new heels echo along the corridor. They’re low, conservative, like the pantsuit I’m wearing. Not my normal style, but necessary for my ‘image’. No stilettos and tight skirts for me. Not anymore. I have no urge to show off my body and all my presentable clothes hang off my newly emaciated frame.

The courtroom smells stale, suffocating, like a long-unused attic. I’m surprised at how many people fill the seats. After months of slumming around in sweats and baggy t-shirts—afraid to show my face to the world—I feel horribly and utterly exposed. The majority are here for him. Supporters, the ones who say he’s innocent, it was a misunderstanding, he would never harm anyone intentionally. The ones who’ve done interviews extolling his character and kicked off campaigns to fund his legal fees. The ones who’ve made me doubt my own sanity, question whether it really happened the way I remember. Did I lead him on? Maybe it was a misunderstanding. Maybe he didn’t know. Maybe…

My parents aren’t here; I told them not to come. I didn’t want to see my mother cry as I tell my story, as they flash pictures of me bruised and cut and covered in forest-floor detritus. Now, I wish they were here. I’m alone against the world.

I’m in a haze, a dream state, as I settle into the witness box. The chair is surprisingly comfortable. They’ve provided tissues and water. A small effort toward comfort but one that doesn’t make me feel one iota more at ease.

He’s there, I know, but I can’t look. I raise one hand, touch the other to the Bible. Both shake. Dear God, let me get through this—the same prayer I said that night. The Bible’s gone, replaced by a cold glare from his sister. She shakes her head; I lower mine. She doesn’t believe. Not many people do. I’ve been labeled a whore, called a liar, told I deserved it. What was I wearing? Did I lead him on? Weren’t we dating? I had to delete my social media accounts and I haven’t watched the news in months.

The prosecutor nods to me, a silent encouragement. She’s on my side. Nothing to be afraid of with her. She’s been kind to me: gentle, understanding. She’s never called me a whore. Still, she has to ask the details. Excruciating details.

Her hair is long and flowing loose, a contrast to the granny bun at the nape of my neck. I wonder if he finds her attractive. My gut clenches with worry for her.

He has a female lawyer, too. I’ve known this for almost a year—but every time I see her, I get a renewed sense of shock, of rage, of betrayal. How can a woman defend a man like that?

Three, two, one. Deep breath.

Oh, God, I can’t do this.

The questions start out easy. Get-to-know-you questions, as the prosecutor puts it. Meant to help me feel comfortable. I can’t help but compare them to baseline questions for a polygraph. The ones meant to lull you into a sense of ease right before they catch you in a lie.

How old are you? What do you weigh? What had you had to eat that night? How did you get to the party? Were you planning on meeting up with the defendant? What were you wearing? Then she moves on to the details. Where, when, how. I recite the timeline mechanically and then she has no more questions.

Take a sip of water. Try to relax. Wait for the bomb to drop.

His lawyer paces. Back and forth, coming closer to him each time. My eyes follow even though I don’t want them to. She’s a ticking pendulum and I can’t look away. Just get it over with—another prayer I sent up that night. She’s too close to him; I catch his eye. He looks away. My skin crawls as breath leaves me. He’s had a fresh haircut. Head down, hands folded, new suit. Not how I expected him to look. No scratchy stubble, no hoodie, no crooked smile; he’s put on a costume too. A wolf in sheep’s clothing. My palms are damp and slick. So is his forehead. I can see the beads of perspiration from here, rolling down his hairline.

His nerves should make me more confident, but all I can think of is his sweat steadily falling on the back of my neck. Drip, drip, drip. His heaving breath assaulting my skin, forcing the sweat to run around the sides, forming a liquid noose I can’t loosen. Half a dozen showers once I they let me, once they were done poking and prodding me all over again. Swabs and pictures and statements. Half a dozen showers—scrubbing, scrubbing, scrubbing—and countless since and I can still feel that sweaty noose around my neck.

“Do you go to parties often?”

Boom goes the bomb. The prosecutor warned me but the question still sends a shockwave through my core. I stutter something about my social life. I don’t know if it makes sense. Do I party too much? The frowning jury members shift in their chairs. An older man rolls his eyes. At the question or me?

Three, two, one. Deep breath.

I worry at my lip, at the place inside where my teeth punctured that night. The scar that won’t go away. It opens again, flooding my mouth with the sharp metallic tang of blood.

I’ve lost so much blood. Some that night. A lot a month later on a cold table in my doctor’s office with my legs in the air. I didn’t cry before that appointment. I couldn’t. Since, there hasn’t been a day tears haven’t fallen.

“You’d been on a date with the defendant approximately a week prior to the party on August seventeenth, correct? You went to dinner?”

I want to scream. Everyone’s faces are stern, judgmental. The jurors’ frowns deepen. The old man’s lips purse. Yes, I’d been on a date with him. Yes, I’d flirted with him, both before the party and during. We’d known each other for a semester. Same major, so same classes. He’d seemed nice. Charming. Harmless.

“Did you ever kiss the defendant?”

I did, after our date. It was my idea to go on the date and I moved in for the kiss. He’d seemed surprised. We shared a shy smile and then I got out of his truck. I shudder at the thought that I may have brought this on myself.

Three, two, one. Deep breath.

“Did you enjoy the kiss?”

A hot pang of anger takes hold of me, somewhere deep inside, at the center of my being, shoving away the nagging feelings of doubt. How dare she ask me that? How dare these people stare at me with their judgment, their shaking heads, their looks of disapproval? How dare he sit there looking like a choirboy, like the honor roll student, like the innocent victim in all this?

I know the truth. I’m not a whore. I know what he did to me and so does he. This was not my fault.

Three, two, one. Deep breath.

I can do this.

“A kiss, even if I did enjoy it, does not give someone perpetual permission to do what they like. There was no permission. He raped me. It happened.” I say with more power than I thought I possessed, continuing even as the defense attorney rattles off objection after objection. I look at him. He stares back, wide-eyed. Scared, I hope. Terrified. Like I was that night. Like I’ve been every night since.

Reexamination to calm things down. I can barely hear the questions over the adrenaline pumping through my veins. I did it. The jury looks uncomfortable; the eye-rolling older man hangs his head. The prosecutor wears a proud smirk. I’ve done my duty, to myself and to womankind. The noose loosens a little. As I descend from the witness stand, I feel a little lighter. I know the pain will never go away, but for the first time, I think I might be able to live with it.

I count each step as I leave: one, two, three.