April’s Story

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I’ll tell you what I remember about that night.� I remember my apartment, and I remember him being there.� I remember waking up, but not knowing where I was at.� I remember what I was wearing (although I never saw those clothes again after that night): my new khaki shorts, a long sleeved grey shirt, my favorite ‘worn’ white leather belt, my favorite brown leather sandals, and matching hot pink bra and panties.� Afterwards, I remember kicking myself for remembering such seemingly irrelevant and petty information.� I remember he was wearing this God-awful short-sleeved white shirt that he left unbuttoned and khaki shorts.� He had bleached his hair from the last time I had seen him, but still wore the diamond stud earrings.�

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I remember every moment of feeling panicked.� I remember looking into the eyes of the numerous people I begged for help…and seeing nothing but ice.� I remember the humor they found in my fear. I remember the laughter.� I remember wondering what people would think of me, once they found out who I had been with.� I remember wishing, wanting, praying, hoping, bargaining, dying – to be anywhere but there.

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I remember being violently ill, puking my brains out in the middle of nowhere…and for the life of me not having any idea of why I was so sick.� I remember being sober.� I remember bargaining with him…raising the stakes with each mile that disappeared into the darkness… ”If you let me go here…I’ll go home and not say a word.” “If you let me go here…I swear I’ll give you all the money I have.” “If you let me go here…you can take my fucking car and I STILL won’t say a word.”

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I remember the Nokia cell ring tone – his phone.� His girlfriend wanted to know where he was.� “None of your business.”� Lie after lie, she was just as clueless as I was.� Except he had told me not to make a sound.� I learned later on that she eventually found out what he did that night.

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I remember getting desperate, reaching over, and punching him in the face.� I remember feeling, but not seeing, the backhand I got in return.� I remember his left hand never left the steering wheel.� I remember his right hand, however, being his only weapon of defense against my flying hands, fists, anything I could hurt him with.�

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I remember finding my cell phone.� I remember the piss-poor signal on my cell phone.� I remember the gravel roads, and how not one of them made itself distinct in any way.� I remember frantic dialing and how his hand flew again.� I remember the moment it became a live-or-die situation in my mind.�

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I remember the car losing speed, eventually stopping on one of those anonymous gravel roads I still did not know.� I remember watching him get out, and walk toward my side of the car.� I remember hearing the electric ‘click’ as I fell on the power lock button, keeping a pane of glass between him and me.�

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I remember the headlights that approached from behind, and the fact that those lights gave me imitation hope.� I remember seeing him walk away, and get in that car filled with his allies.� I remember his final words, “You fuckin’ bitch…I loved you and this is how you act.� What’s your problem?” I remember the moment he was gone, and the fact that I was strangely not relieved in his absence.� I remember thinking to myself that he could very well have killed me that night – and several times, wishing that he had.

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I remember my salvation – in the form of my mom and her makeshift search party composed of a couple of my former co-workers.� I remember returning to my apartment, and having to face my parents in his aftermath…I remember being 21 years old and afraid of them reprimanding me for what had happened.� I remember going in to my bathroom to pee.� I remember that time stopped for a moment, skipping a beat, when I looked and realized that my underwear was missing.� I remember looking at the girl who was staring back at me from the mirror…and wondering, “Is that me?”� I remember the rat’s nest hair…the smeared eye makeup…the torn inside-out-and-backwards shirt.� I remember wondering where my bra went to.

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I remember the phone call my mom made… “My daughter has been raped.”� I remember not speaking a word as my dad drove me the 25 minutes to the hospital.� I remember my arrival, and the nurse who met me at the ER entrance.� I remember her expression, saying to me “I’m so sorry” without uttering a word.� I remember the exam room, and how the lighting seemed to put a nuclear blast to shame.� I remember the paper drape on the floor, and how I was instructed to strip completely, leave everything on the drape, and walk buck-ass naked to the exam table where my hospital gown awaited.� A walk of shame.� I remember the deputy, and I remember wondering how she already had both my information and my ex’s without me uttering a word.�

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I remember the rape exam.� I remember wanting to die during this rape exam.� I remember wanting to smack the doctor who was between my legs and bolt for the door.� I remember being thankful for the nurse who held my hand, but wanting to apologize for probably giving her several fractures in her hand from my death-grip.� I remember the deputy methodically packaging up each and every swab and sample in a neat little box.� I remember the thought “Funny how they box up your life like that.”� Pieces of me…each little package contained pieces of me…would there be anything left?� I remember the ugly-ass clothes I was given to put on.� I remember not being given shoes, but the standard issue ‘gripper socks.’� I remember the downpour outside, and my dad carrying me to the car so my feet wouldn’t get soaked. � I wonder if it rained on the other girls this had happened to.

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I remember the sheriff’s office.� I remember the interview room.� I remember the tape recorder on the table.� I remember wondering, given the setup of the room, if I would be read my rights.� I remember feeling like a criminal.� I remember that questions were asked, although I can’t be sure of the exact wording.�

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I remember returning to my apartment.� I remember the deputy who followed me home.� I remember showing her my bedroom, and that she closed the door behind us.� I remember her telling me that I had to pull down the ugly-ass pants I was issued so that she could photograph bruising on my inner thighs and crotch.� I remember crying, knowing that my parents and best friend were in the next room as this was happening. � I remember believing that “this is it.� This is my life from now on: damaged goods.”

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I remember all of this from the night of July 19, 2003.� I was raped that night.� My ex-boyfriend had entered my apartment, beat me and drugged me unconscious, drove me (in my car) to a farmhouse that belonged to a friend of his, raped me, let his friends rape me, and eventually left me in a road ditch about 20 miles from my apartment. � I did everything I thought I was supposed to do: I reported the rape, I went to the emergency room unshowered, and I filed charges with the police.� My ex got away with it.� I wish I could remember justice, but someone else will get theirs if one more rape is reported after hearing my story.

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However, perhaps in some sort of ‘blessing in disguise’ (my mom’s words) I do not remember the actual rape.� I do not know how I was drugged, or when I was drugged.� No longer do I remember the pieces of my shattered life that took place before I was raped.� I guess that phase of my life is over, and I need to keep realizing that and learn how to function post-trauma.�

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I lost a lot of things in one night, even if they didn’t actually disappear until later on.� I lost ‘things’ – clothes, property, stupid shit that I still mourn for some unknown reason.� I lost friends, and I lost a lover.� I lost a job, I lost an apartment.� I lost ideas – safety, security, confidence, trust.� I thought I had lost my identity, but I really only gained a title.� It was up to me, however, which title I wanted to go by: victim or survivor.� ‘Victim’ would not let me advance any further.� ‘Survivor’ would help me get back what I could, and release what I could not.

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There are things in my life now that I want to keep with me, and remember for the rest of my days.� In the years after I was raped, I have met fellow survivors, and each of them have had their own impact on my life – fingerprints, if you will.� From them, I have learned that no matter how low I get, how much I despise my life and everything that has happened to it – I’m not alone.� We’re all linked together in our survival.� I’ve seen four anniversaries so far – they will always come, year after year.� They are a constant, now.� They will never stop.� Each one that passes is one more that someone else can learn from.� Each one that passes is one more year that I survived.