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And it wasn't my mother in the room.
Or my father, for that matter.
No, it was a stranger.
Tall and an almost emaciated sort of skinny, something that made his suit hang off his body, looking like a skeleton dressed up for Halloween.
There was nothing significant about his face, except his eyes seemed black and too close-set.
He was just like any average guy you might see on the street or in the store.
But he damn sure didn't belong in my bedroom.
My mouth opened, ready to call for my mother.
But even as my lips parted, I could hear her.
Already screaming before the sound abruptly cut off.
This man wasn't the only one in the apartment.
And someone was doing something to my mom.
I wasn't naive.
I knew all the terrible ways a man could hurt a woman. I just... I just never thought it could happen to my mom.
Or happen to me.
But then this skinny man was moving across my bedroom floor, was making his way to where I was still stretched out on my bed.
I wanted to scream.
I wanted to run.
I wanted to fight.
But it was like something had clicked off in my brain. It was like the connection between my mind and my body was misfiring.
I couldn't scream.
I couldn't run.
I couldn't fight.
I couldn't move.
Not even when he got to the bed.
Not even when his hands moved out, pulled off my clothes, touched me, pulled off his own clothing.
The clearest memories I had of that night were of the aftermath.
It was how I distinctly remembered how the bed bounced as he moved off of it, how I finally managed to move, curling up on my side, wrapping my arms around my legs. How tears had soaked my pillow without me having been conscious of crying in the first place, how cold my room was, making goosebumps bead up across all my exposed skin.
It was the man's hands as he methodically pulled his clothes back on.
Underwear. Pants. Shirt. Belt. Jacket.
It was his one hand, in particular.
With a big, red birthmark covering it.
I knew the shape, the shade, where it ended and began.
It was the most vivid memory I had as I lay in my bed, crying, in pain, even after the man left.
At some point, I was aware of my mother in my room, her lip split, her eye black and blue, her hair a mess, wearing only a t-shirt when she'd gone to bed with sweatpants on as well.
"It's okay, baby. It's okay. I'm here. We are getting help."
And we did.
The police showed up.
My mother and I were brought into the hospital.
We were separated.
I was given some sort of patient advocate as the all-female team came in, scraped under my fingernails, trimmed them, took pictures of my body, put me in stirrups, and prodded already sore spots.
It was then that I told the police about the birthmark. I'd even taken her pad, drawn a hand, and colored in the spot, so I knew she would get it right.
It never occurred to me at the time, but my father never came to the hospital.
Eventually, my mother and I huddled together in the back of a cab and rode home, both in silence, but clinging to one another, neither of us able to talk about it yet, to vocalize the horror. Just there for each other. Just in it together.
We went back into the apartment, and she settled me on the couch, knowing I couldn't go back into my room, not going back into hers either.
She made us tea, but never drank her own.
She put on Gilmore Girls.
She put a blanket over me.
And then she sat in the chair at my side, eyes glued on the front door of the apartment, seeing something I didn't, thinking thoughts I never considered because I was so confused with my own. Thoughts of stolen innocence. Thoughts of feeling unsafe in my own home. Thoughts of how I was going to explain this to my friends. How anyone could ever understand.
"I should have talked to my mom," I told Lorenzo, feeling tears clinging to my lashes. It had been a long time since I let myself remember that night. It never got any easier when I did.
"You were a little girl, Gigi," Lorenzo reminded me, hand touching my knee, giving it a little squeeze. "And you had just been through hell."
"I know that."
And I did.
On a rational level.
But people, well, we were rarely rational. We were emotional people.
And as horrible as the last part of my story was, the hardest was the next part.
Because my mom knew something I didn't.
I hadn't known that at the time.
I hadn't asked.
And maybe she wouldn't have told me if I had.
But she knew something.
Something so horrible that when I had fallen asleep, she'd taken a kitchen knife, went down the elevator, gone onto the front steps of our apartment building, and slit her wrists.
