I don’t want Jafar to leave, but I can’t bring myself to ask him to stay. Not after everything that was said between us. And not after everything that happened to me. Things he’s going to want to know about. Instead, I watch as they leave. When they’re gone, I look around the hotel room that looks nothing like my other room.
The room where it happened.
Thank god Jasmine or Jafar was wise enough to have my things moved. I shudder. It didn’t even cross my mind when I said I wanted to come to the hotel and not their house. I just knew I didn’t want to be in a space that they share. It would be a slap in the face that I just can’t deal with tonight.
The scrubs and undergarments that I’m wearing feel rough against my skin as I curl into a ball on the bed. I should change. I just don’t have the energy. No, all I can do is lie there and remember what happened. It’s distorted, though. My brain’s way of protecting me from more trauma. Each time I close my eyes, I seehim, though. The way he ripped my dress. The way he laughed when I screamed that he was hurting me. Words he said as he rutted deep inside of me. His nails digging into my hips as he hurt me.
I roll over, only to be reminded of what happened to me. I hurt. Everywhere. My face. My arms from where I fought him off. My stomach. Lower. Places I didn’t know could hurt. Places that a lover should worship. My eyes water and I sit, hitting the pillow. I’m so tired. But I can’t go to sleep. Not when every time I close my eyes, I see flashes of what happened.
So I make sure I don’t fall asleep. Even when my eyes burn. Even when I have to pinch myself to stay awake. I won’t give in to the nightmares. Instead, I count the lines on the wallpaper. When my eyes close, I go to the bathroom, running a bath. The nurse at the hospital said it was okay to do this. She said any evidence they needed was collected in the exam. The thought has me gasping as I sink into the water. Evidence, because I’m a victim of sexual assault.
I close my eyes. This time I see flashes of the ER. Being carried in while I was in a dream-like state. The doctor with kind eyes talking to me. Two women who held me while I cried. Standing on the large sheet of paper while I undressed. They said it was to catch any hair or fiber evidence that might fall from my body. All of my clothes were dropped on the paper, too.
Next came the physical exam. They swabbed a sample from my vagina, mouth, and anus. Asked if I scratched the person who did this to me. When I said yes, they dug under my nails, saying I had done a good job. But I hadn’t because I didn’t stop him. They took photos of the bruises and measured them. At each step, I was given the choice to refuse. I didn’t. I want him to be caught. I want him to pay for what he did to me.
But I’m also scared.
Sinking under the water, I remember the look in his eyes when he said he’d kill me if I told anyone what happened. My chest is tight. Maybe I should end it now. Inhale water until I can’t breathe. No one will miss me. I’m alone, and I know that now more than ever. Jasmine and Jafar couldn’t wait to leave. Well, Jasmine couldn’t wait. I think Jafar would have stayed if I had asked.
My breath hitches, and I inhale water. Sitting, I cough until my lungs ache. Oh god. Jafar. He saw me like…that. Broken and used.
My eyes sting with tears and I jump from the tub, going to the walk-in shower. Turning on the water, I step under the spray. My skin crawls. Why do I still feel so dirty? It’s not hot enough. I turn the water as hot as it will go and still it’s not enough. Letting out a guttural scream, I turn off the water.
My razor sits by the sink, and I grab it without thinking. I slide the blades along the fleshy part of my hip. There’s pain and then there’s relief. This time I cry for real. I haven’t resorted to cutting in a long time, but if there was ever a moment to do it, now would be it.
Pressing my finger into the cut, I moan as blood drips from the wound. But for the first time since Al touched me, I feel relief. I make another cut on the inside of my thigh. The pain is worse, but so is the sense of calm that settles over me. I’m not sure how long I sit there, but there’s a pool of blood under me as I stand. I mop it with toilet paper. Yeah, I ought to wipe the blood from my skin, but I don’t. Not when I’m feeling a sense of high.
As I walk into the bedroom, I realize the sun is rising. I made it through the night. My eyes water. Everything is going to be okay. That’s what I’m thinking as my phone rings. It’s the police station. The nurses at the hospital told me there would be an officer contacting me. I think they usually do it sooner, but Jafar told them I needed rest.
I answer, knowing I can’t put this off any longer.
“Hello?”
“Is this Ellie Perrault?”
“It is.”
“Hi, Ellie. My name is Detective Mathias Morris with NYPD. I was hoping you could stop by the station and talk to me today?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. I’m free at eight. Will that work for you?”
“Yes, eight is fine.”
“Great.” He rattles off the station address. “I’ll see you then.”
Ending the call, I realize my hand is shaking. Not only that, but my chest is tight. I press into the cut on my hip, feeling the familiar sense of relief. I thought I had grown past self-harming, but I guess the joke is on me. Leaning back, I remember the first time I cut myself. It was right after my mom died. My dad was so upset and didn’t see that I was sinking, too. He lost his wife, but I lost my mom and my best friend. To me, it was the same as losing my world.
I crept into their room, searching for any little piece of her that I could sneak away. Things he wouldn’t miss. A ring. Her perfume. When I went into the bathroom, her razor was still on the side of the bathtub. Lifting it, I ran my finger over the blade, not realizing how sharp it was. There was a burst of pain that made my eyes well, but then something else happened. I felt relief. I snuck the items into my room, glad that I had a piece of her.
My dad got drunk a few days later and tore through my bedroom, searching for her perfume and ring. He never noticed the razor, though. That’s when I made the second cut. This time I cut on the inside of my arm. The pain was so much worse, but, god, did it unlock something deep inside of me. I learned that there was a way to feel in control of my life. My own hand guided the length and depth of the cuts.
And the pain… I can admit that I became addicted to the pain. It never let me down. Not when my father came home three short months after my mom’s death, telling me he was getting married again. Not when I discovered my stepmother had sold all of my mother’s belongings. Not when I was sent away to boarding school. Not when my dad died. Not when I was all alone. The pain was always there.
I sniff, wiping at my eyes. I stopped cutting myself when I graduated from boarding school. The same day I decided I’d rather struggle on my own than to go back to my stepmother’s house. Seven years of being a functioning adult ruined because of one man. Well, I’m not going to let him win.
I force myself to walk to my suitcase and dig out jeans and a nice shirt. I’m not sure if I’ll ever be able to bring myself to wear a skirt or dress again, and I change without looking in the mirror. I already know there’s bruising on my body from last night, and I don’t want to see it. I don’t wear make-up and leave my hair down. As I’m about to leave, I grab my sunglasses. I don’t want people staring at my black eye.