K. Bromberg - Bend

Why didn’t I yell for help yesterday when I was being raped and held against my will, but I cry out now because of something as menial as a cold shower?

The question circles in my mind, my body sagging against the chilled wall behind me, my conscience trying to disengage from the facts. The guilt. The doubts. The truths.

Why didn’t I fight harder, resist more? Did I allow everything to happen? Is this on me?

The temperature of the water heats in an instant. Cold to hot. Frigid to inviting. Was that me yesterday? Resistant and unwilling, then accepting and compliant on a turn of a dime.

I choke back the bile as the thought hits me. As I question myself and what I should or shouldn’t have done. Of the things I found pleasure in.

“Oh God.” The words tumbling from my mouth are like a repeated mantra as I stand mid-stream and let the scalding water burn lines down my skin. I grab the bar of soap with trembling hands and begin to scrub my body with vigor. The steam suffocates the small bathroom but is no match for the weight smothering my soul.

I reduce the bar to a sliver and immediately open another package of the cheap hotel soap and begin anew until my skin is pink, raw, and abraded. But it’s not enough. I’m still dirty, still tarnished—inside and out. I take my fingers and lather them with soap and slide them between my legs and inside of me, trying to wash every trace of him away as best as I can. I move in a frenzy. My swollen, torn skin stings when the soap hits it, but it doesn’t matter. I can’t seem to cleanse the claim he staked.

Tears fall. My body shivers. I open my mouth to let the scalding water fill it and burn my palate. I can’t seem to erase the taste of his kiss or the feeling of his dick sliding over my tongue. I start to gag at the thought, water spraying everywhere as I choke and cough and attempt to draw in air.

And I don’t know how long I stand there, the hot water burning welts on my skin, but I don’t care. I welcome the forced focus on the pain, the cleansing of my flesh, because it’s easier to concentrate on that rather than the doubts and questions and thoughts that overwhelm my mind.

The ones I’m afraid to look at closer, find answers to.

I stumble out of the shower after some time. I go through the haphazard mechanics of sliding on the hotel provided robe and pull it as tight as I can around me. I’m freezing. The muggy Italian weather permeates the room, but I’m so very cold. I walk the short distance to the bed, crawl back into it, teeth chattering and body exhausted.

But it’s now that I’m physically cleansed—that my eyes are closed and body is sinking into the mattress—that I can hear the cars on the street below and the sound of the vacuum in another room nearby. My throat constricts momentarily.

Is that where they had me? Held me against my will just a few rooms down from this one? I try to process the possibilities. I have no idea, and the panic hits me full force again, the thought an unexpected blindside. Was I really being held so close to here? Could I have screamed and stopped the course of emotional destruction I now find myself on. My heart thunders and hands tremble.

I squeeze my eyes shut and force myself to focus on my surroundings. Everything seems the same as it did yesterday … or the day before yesterday. I fixate on that. On the normalcy of everything, hoping my mind can shut down for a few moments. I have no idea how much time has passed but it all seems the same, and yet every single thing in me has shifted, been forever changed.

I finally allow my mind to go there, to try and process what the hell happened: the whys, the what-fors, the answers for some reason I know I’ll never find. I reach down out of habit to twist my bracelet, my small form of comfort amidst this maelstrom and touch bare skin. I look down to my wrist, thoughts warring when I find my favorite piece of jewelry gone.

The anxiety returns as my mind tries to recall if I had it on last night. If I lost it during everything that happened. I urge my mind to fire, to break through the fuzzy memories, but the furthest I can recall is waking up bound and blindfolded.

I start to get up, want to look for it, needing that reminder of my family—my boys—to hold on to right now, but I stop when my eyes catch a glimpse of the faint red lines ringing my wrists. I pull them in close to my chest and rub them, my mind losing focus on what I was going to do. After a moment lost in thought, I hold them out and stare at them again. The funny thing is I know that when the marks fade, I’ll still feel them—somehow, someway—because what was done to me will be etched in my soul forever.

The question is, is it a nightmare or a memory?

I think of a kidnapper I trusted in some inexplicable, screwed-up way, who tried to protect me, praised me, showed me an unexpected and sporadic tenderness. How does someone wrap their head around that? Kidnapping, drugging, and restraints are in no way consensual, so how did he make me feel like it was my choice?

My thoughts flicker to Marco, the person who said nothing but whose presence owned the room with his mere silence. His cold demeanor and lack of tactility from his place at the end of the bed such a stark contrast to my kidnapper’s. The mysterious man who sat there watching without so much as a word, but who took something from me I’ve never given anybody else.

And then I think of Anderson. The sob catches in my throat as I focus on the betrayal and infidelity until the guilt wreaks havoc in my psyche. I scramble off the bed to the dresser where my cell phone lies and grab it like a life line, not understanding why this wasn’t my first thought when I woke up. There are ten texts from him asking if I’m alright, to call him back, that he’s going into more meetings. My hands grip it tightly, knuckles turning white as the tears return and course down my cheeks. I welcome the feeling, the shedding of emotions that weigh heavy.

Do I tell him? Do I go home and act like this never happened? Carry on life as usual all the while I’m reeling inside with … what? What exactly am I feeling?

Relieved.

Confused.

Sated.

“Oh God,” I whisper my mantra into the room. Memories stain my mind and unease reigns in my soul. One hand grips my phone—the platinum of my wedding ring clicking against it—while the other lifts involuntarily to cover my lips. I sag onto the bed and succumb to the onslaught of emotions I’m not quite sure how to handle.

I wasn’t harmed. I was put back in my hotel room. Is anyone going to really believe I was abducted, raped, and released physically uninjured? I blow out a breath, my fingers on my lips now beginning to tremble. I’m in a foreign country. Alone. I’ve just washed all traces of them from me without thought. If I went to the authorities, would they really believe me?

Indecision wars as time passes, the discomfort with each movement a subtle reminder of everything. Shadows shift across the room as the day wages on.

I cry when my cell rings. The sound seems so foreign in my echo chamber of thoughts. I fumble the phone momentarily, my hand sore from unconsciously gripping it all this time, and look down to see who’s calling.

Anderson.

I stare wide-eyed at his picture on the screen for what seems like forever but is really only two rings. The rush of blood in my ears drowns out the ringtone as I swallow over the lump in my throat. I know it’s only seconds that pass, but it feels like hours that I stare at the screen. Indecision wars. And then once I choose to answer, I can’t get the phone to my ear quick enough.

“Hello?” I’m already sobbing the words out, breath hitching, desperation echoing in my voice.

“Lil? Lil, what’s wrong?” And it’s his voice—concern, comfort, everything—that undoes me. Unravels me . Hits me like a sucker punch to the gut. I can’t catch my breath fast enough, can’t speak, because I’m overwhelmed by the truths I’m finally ready to face. To accept.