I sit there. What am I supposed to say to that? Am I supposed to comfort her because she feels bad for me? Am I supposed to say I’m sorry it happened, too? Should I tell her how angry I am with myself for being there in the first place? That I’d known better. That I shouldn’t have—
She interrupts my train of thought with a question. “Do you know who did this to you?”
I shake my head as bitter acid coats my tongue. Isn’t that the kicker. That bastard did this to me and I don’t even know who he is. He didn’t know me. We’d never met before but he still did this.
“Did you see his face?”
“No,” I choke out with a hard shake of my head. I ignore the spinning sensation that hits me with the movement and bite back the bile in my throat. The nurses think I have a concussion. He gave me a concussion when he slammed my head against the brick wall of the school. And that’s the least of it all.
“Do you remember anything that might identify him in a lineup?”
I hang my head again. All I remember is his voice. His words. The feel of his body against mine. The pain of him inside of me. And his hand. I remember his hand. I stared at it while he … no. I don’t want to relive it. I don’t want to remember.
I shove the memories as far down as they’ll go and tuck them away with the emotions I refuse to let free right now.
I shake my head.
“Have they done a rape kit, yet?”
I swallow hard and whisper out another, “No.”
She nods to herself. “Do you know if he used a condom?”
My brows pinch together. Why does she want to know that? My mind goes back to that moment. To him pushing me down and ripping my pants off of me. I was turned away from him. He shoved my face down on the ground. Pressed my cheek in the dirt. But I remember the sound of a foil packet. I heard the distinct sound of him tear something open behind me before forcing himself—
My breaths come out as shallow pants and suddenly Janessa is right in my face.
“Allie. Allie.” She snaps her fingers in front of me.
I can’t breathe. I claw at my own throat, desperate for air.
Janessa grabs the back of my neck and forces my head between my legs.
I cry out at the sudden movement but don’t fight her. I can’t. I still can’t breathe.
“Breathe, honey. Just breathe.” Her grip tightens on my neck and inside I’m screaming for her to let go. Not to touch me. But I can’t get the words out. Seconds tick by. Then minutes.
When my breathing finally slows down she lets go and steps back.
“It was just a panic attack,” she says as I lift my head back up.
My vision blurs for a moment but then she comes back into focus.
“Take another breath.”
I do as she tells me and when I no longer feel like my lungs are going to collapse in on me, I mutter out the answer to her last question.
“I… I think he did. I think he used one.”
“Good. That’s good.”
She pulls out her phone and her fingers frantically type across her keyboard before she puts it back in her purse.
Then she leans down and lifts a small bag from the ground that I hadn’t noticed when she first walked in. “Here. I brought you some clothes. Let’s get you dressed and I’ll take you home.”
I nod, accepting the bag but then I stop. “What about the…?” I make a small wave with my hands unable to say the words aloud. Tears prick the corners of my eyes again as I brace myself for what I know will be another form of violation and shame blooms in my chest.
I can’t do it. I just can’t.
