I kick off the blanket when the pain hits me again. To my shame and embarrassment, blood smears my legs.
"Oh god," he says, shaking his head as if reliving his own trauma. Maybe he is.
"I don’t know." It hurts too much to think right now. "Give me something to clean myself up. Please," I tack on like an afterthought. It’s hard to talk.
One spasm builds on another, then another. I hear his heavy footsteps retreat, then return. The bed sinks down when he sits next to me.
"Let me," he says softly.
I shake my head and reach for the washcloth in his hand while he stands there helplessly.
"Leave me alone," I tell him, riddled with shame and pain.
"This doesn’t bother me," he starts.
"It bothersme! Leave me alone, please."
I get a momentary break from the pain. I breathe through my nose, clumsily clean the blood, dab my wet legs with the towel, and toss everything in the general direction of the laundry hamper.
I curl up on the bed, and I hear him talking on the phone.
I’m afraid he’s going to call an ambulance and have me taken to the hospital, but when I breathe hard and try to listen, I’m hit with another spasm of brutal, blinding pain. And I can’t think anymore.
The memory of the night of my assault flashes in front of me every time I close my eyes, but when I open them, the pain seems even harder to bear.
I try everything.
I roll onto my side and bring my knees to my chest, a move that sometimes brings temporary comfort. It doesn’t.
I get on my hands and knees and rock back and forth—a move an OB in London once taught me—and it has worked before.
Not this time.
I stretch my arms and legs on the bed like a starfish, and it hurts so badly I immediately crawl back into a fetal position, grit my teeth, and bear it.
Just like I did that night. When fighting didn’t work, and I couldn’t escape, I bore it and reminded myself that I wasn’t going to die, that this wasn’t the end, and that, eventually, I would get my vengeance.
But there is no getting vengeance when my own body is assaulting me.
God.
I’ve ruined his sheets.
I bleed heavily because of scar tissue, and I’ve never found anything that helped with that either.
I need feminine supplies. Privacy. A shower.
But I can’t.
I’ll get new sheets. I just don’t want him near me right now.
There’s silence.
Just me.
And my pain.
My memories.
