Page 10 of Shamed
My father arrived within minutes, bringing with him a mood I’ve never experienced from him before. Pure, calm rage.
It took my mother longer to arrive from where she lives in Chicago, but she also walked in here like a volcano ready to explode.
Neither of them offered hugs—not that I would have welcomed one at this moment. I haven’t been able to look them in the eye, either. I haven’t been able to lookanyonein the eye. Not since whatever was in my system started clearing away.
Having all these people know every disgusting detail that was done to me has me feeling raw and exposed, like I’m lying here naked in front of them to examine.So fucking dirty. The violation and humiliation haven’t stopped with Jacob using and abusing my body.
I shift, squeezing my knees tighter against me. I guess I should be happy they said he used a condom. It’s the tiniest consolation.
“Here’s the number for the counseling sessions, as well as the number for the local group meetings.” When I don’t immediately take it from her, she lays it beside me and turns to my parents.
I don’t know why they’d think I’d want to discuss the details with even more people. If it were up to me, I wouldn’t utter another word about it to anyone.
Jacob was already caught, let’s just leave it at that.
But I know my father, and I doubt he’ll let anybody rest when it comes to this. Add in the fact that my mother is alawyer, and probably already has someone working on the case, and I doubt I’ll be allowed to stay quiet.
My head and body were still a mess when I arrived here, my pulse rocketing and eyes flying in every direction, but I’ve since withdrawn into myself and have been staring at the painting of black dahlias across the room for the past while, waiting to be allowed to leave.
I know the real flowers aren’t actually black at all, but rather a deep maroon or purple. I feel black right now, but I wonder if there is still some pretty color hidden underneath?
Regardless, black is my favorite shade, so the flowers, dark and beautiful, have held my attention while the world moves on around me. The bright pink background contrasts the dark so perfectly, and the combination draws me in.
Finally, after what feels like an uncomfortable lifetime, I’m told I can go home. There are more things said, but I’m still so far in my own head that I don’t listen, leaving it for my parents to deal with.
The drive home with my father is awkward and silent, causing the interior of his Bentley to feel stifling.
My emotions are all mixed up, and I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel, let alone know what to say to him. I wonder if it would have been the same in my mother’s vehicle traveling behind us.
Would she have tried to talk?
No doubt it would have been worse.
Head resting against the window, I stare outside, going through all the what-ifs, the possibilities spinning around in my head like a merry-go-round.
What if I had gone inside with my friends? What if I hadn’t accepted the cup he gave me? What if I hadn’t rejected him? What if I didn’t go to the party? What if I fought harder?
Would it have changed anything? Everything?
What if I’d worn pants? My father never brought up the skirt I was wearing, but I did catch him glancing at it with distaste.
I squeeze my eyes shut, fighting to keep my focus on one thing, but a slight fuzzy haze still lingers like a morning fog. I try to wade through my thoughts and feelings, but the sudden memory of pain between my legs from brutal thrusting, along with the horrid sound of grunting in my ear, flashes through my mind. My eyes pop open while my stomach twists into a sloshy mess that threatens to expel the contents.
Thankfully, we’re already pulling into the driveway of our large two-story home, and I manage to swallow down the feeling long enough to push out of the car and breathe in some fresh air.
The awful memory lingers, but I’m able to pull it together enough not to lose my stomach right then and there.
A rush of overwhelming emotions start bubbling up and spilling over as the reality of the situation catches up on me. Or maybe it’s just from finally being home.
“Why don’t you head on up—”
The rest of my father’s words are lost as I rush inside and up the stairs, almost tumbling down on my way to the bathroom to be alone.
I tear at my clothes, wanting to get the tainted material off me, but I can’t seem to get them off fast enough. My fingers aren’t working properly, and an agonized sound slips from my mouth as I struggle to undo the buttons and zipper.
Once they’re finally ripped off, I jam every last shred of fabric into the trash can in the bathroom and shove it away from me, falling backward onto the ground in the process with a heaving chest.
Air. I can’t get enough inside my lungs. The filth is suffocating me.
