The night she was raped she was 26 and next week she will turn 40. I untangle my hands and pull the door shut fast. Tears are coming unbidden and unwanted to my eyes, I have a brief moment of being aware of how I must look door open to the rain, thankfully hiding the fact that I’m weeping, I know I’m gently swaying forward and back, forward and back, hands clasped and never not moving, a hive of activity of twisting fingers and pressing thumbs. My breath loses all its rhythm, is shaky and spluttery like a jet engine on a boat coming to life.
What are you scared of? Just go do your shopping. He’d done it to this woman, he’d done it to me, who else? I had to come forward. I kept blinking in the green of the couch and thinking ‘he’d done it before’. My mind flashes up a memory of wind swept sea and beach and bare feet and telling my friend about what happened that night, in amidst the surf and the hazy cloud of intoxication. Six years ago, I’m sitting on my green couch in a little cottage and I’m laughing and I’m pregnant and I read a text from a girlfriend saying ‘that punk’, or something like that and it’s an article about this man who attacked me, convicted of raping another woman. Tell Me About It goes behind the scenes of stories on gender issues, to the real lives at the centres of them. I have no idea how long I’ve been sitting there, the air in the car seems to hang in suspended limbo, separated and nothing to do with the air and the going ons outside. My hands are twisting in my lap, fingers interlacing and unlacing and rubbing and pulling, sometimes just squeezing into a fist, nails leaving their half moon of a reminder on my skin. I close my eyes again and breathe in long shaky breaths that bring no relief. Each movement and sound is crisp and clear and I think my senses have extended to animal-quality levels. The hustle and the bustle, the noises, the trollies, the rain, the raincoats, the hurrying, the car boots slamming, engines revving, even the rustle of keys, of shopping bags. Keeping my head down, my breathing slow, I force myself to open my eyes. I keep swallowing, far more than I need to, the kind of swallow that precedes vomiting. My heart is racing, I’m talking to myself in a frantic high speed, berating myself, I think if I wasn’t surrounded by so many people on all sides of me I may have slapped my own cheek. I resolutely decide to not ever think of this man again, or be reminded of him, or talk about him.
Cartoon ghost skin#
I won’t say what’s happened and in the morning I come home to examine the bruises on my skin from the weight of his shoulder, his knee, his hands. My friend comes to help me and I stay the night at his house. I feel so ashamed of putting myself into the situation I just don’t want to talk to anyone about it. I think I’m running, I’m out, my heart's beating so loud I can hear it in my eyeballs.
Thirteen years ago, I’m seated at a small table replete with white tablecloth and flower in vase and there is a very distinct moment when it goes from feeling uncomfortable, to on edge, to pinned underneath him and I can’t move and he’s on top of me.įirst I’m struggling to catch my breath, he’s so heavy, he’s so strong, he’s so big, he’s so heavy.
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