Fragments

You are walking home at dusk. Perhaps you were working on that over-due biology assignment with a friend, or you had just finished piano class. It doesn’t matter because, now, you are walking alone.

The sun has yet to dip behind the skyscrapers completely, but you feel uneasy; something is off. You ignore the chill that runs down your spine as you walk past a well-dressed man loitering near an ally way, cigarette in hand.

You wish you hadn’t.

A moment later, you sense more than see a blade glinting in the half-light of the setting sun, finding it’s way deftly to you throat as a hand covers your mouth. You can smell cigarette smoke on the hand.

“Not a sound, or you’re dead,” a hiss in the darkness. The voice is menacing, the hands are rough, and you go numb. You let yourself be dragged into the alley, afraid but not of what is to follow.

Pants are unzipped, one pair pulled down and all you can see are shadows and light, blurred shapes moving quicker than your own eye. You mind is bare as he forces his way in, as your insides are torn. You can hear his harsh breath, and your own stifled whimpers. You can feel uneven brick at your back, rough, unforgiving, and even more prominent: the hands, restraining you, silver death ready to strike.

You want to scream, but you’re more afraid of death than of rape.

Rape.

The harsh word echoes in the empty plains of your mind as the thrusts continue.

And nearly as suddenly as it began, it ends. You feel his residue as he pulls away. He zips up and walks off, leaving you broken and alone, as you slide down to the filthy ground, rough brick scraping your back and the scent of cigarettes still in the air.

***

“Shannon, this is good. Detailed… why do you end it there? Did you not go to the police after?”

Shannon sighed. “No, I… I was too scared.”

“Of what?”

“I don’t know, of the police, of admitting it had happened, of what they’d say, that they’d tell my parents… I was 15, I was scared of everything.”

***

“So, how was the first session with Dr. Lewis?” Trish asked her roommate as she walked into their apartment.

“He made me write about it,” Shannon replied.

“Did it help?”

Shannon shook her head. “It only brought up things I’ve tried to forget.”

“Oh… well, I got us take-out for tonight,” Trish replied, trying to lighten the mood.

“I think I'll just go to bed.”

“But—”

“Goodnight, Trish.”

***

It feels like days, those minutes you spend sitting in a pile of filth. By the time you pick yourself up, the sun has completely set. You pull your coat tight and carefully walk out of the ally, your eyes scanning the street for anyone.

The street is empty.

You walk, slow measured steps. You take too long to get home, but it doesn’t matter. As you walk through the door you’re greeted by the sound of running water in the kitchen.

“Is that you dear?”

Your mother, oblivious to the world, doesn’t realize how late you are. You call back that you’re going to take a shower.

You walk up the stairs, old wood creaking under every step.

In the bathroom you undress, slowly, methodically, and turn the hot water tap on full. You step under the scalding water, the burn finally bringing you back to reality from the numb.

You stand there until it runs cold.

***

“Did you tell anyone?”

“Right after? God no.”

“Why not?”

“I was scared.”

“Of judgment?”

“Of everything.”

***

“Shannon? Is that you? I’m in the kitchen.”

“Yes mum,” Shannon replied. She had missed her home, but it still brought back thoughts she didn’t want.

“Just finishing up this pumpkin pie for tomorrow night. How’s Montréal?”

“Fine. Trish and I are… fine. The new apartment’s great though. Right downtown, and affordable. Not like here. I think you’d like it there mum.”

“Nah, I’m a Toronto girl, you know that, honey. So, have you met anyone yet?”

Shannon sighed. She always got this question, every time she would come home. “No mum, I’m too busy with school.”

“Oh come now, I met your father while we were in school.”

“I know mum, I know.”

***

“Honey, are you okay?”

Your mother always liked to pry.

“I’m fine,” you reply, finally turning off the water.

You go about your life normally. No one suspects that your smiles and laughs are false, no one can guess a thing is wrong.

But everything is.

And you’re terrified.

***

“Are you still scared, Shannon?”

“Yes, but not like then.”

“How are things different now?”

“Now I’m only scared of myself.”

***

“Hey, sis, happy Christmas!”

“You too, Graham. How’s Saskatoon?” Shannon replied into the phone.

“Bloody freezing! Sorry I couldn’t make it home… can you tell mum that? She won’t listen if I try.”

“’Course. You better come visit me after you dig out the city.”

“Hey, Montréal will be nice and warm compared to Saskatoon, it’ll be a welcome break,” Graham replied laughing. “I can’t wait. So, I talked to Trish earlier, she said you’re seeing a—”

“Yeah, I don’t think it’s helping much.”

“Well, stick with it for now, alright? And call me more often, I miss talking to you.”

***

Weeks go by, a birthday passes, you still haven’t gotten you’re period. Your mother just thinks you’re a late bloomer, like she was, but you’re worried otherwise. And finally, you go for your annual check-up with your doctor.

You ask her if it’s possible to get pregnant before you have your first period. She asks if you’ve been sexually active, and you thank god your mother isn’t in the room.

You tell your doctor.

The doctor’s ever-present smile falters and she starts asking questions. When did this happen? Where were you? Why didn’t you tell anyone?

You can feel the tears burning down your cheeks but you only shake your head.

The questions stop when she realizes the answers won’t be coming. You need to be checked for anything harmful. You ask one last question before she leaves the room to gather her tools.

“Are you going to tell my parents? Please, please don’t.”

***

“Did she tell them?”

“She said she wouldn’t, but she did anyway.”

“She’s not allowed to do that.”

“I know, but it doesn’t matter now.”

“Are you sure?”

“It’s better that she did.”

“Why is that, Shannon?”

“I never would have.”

***

“It’s just us tonight, mum,” Shannon said as she hung up the phone.

“I thought you were going to pick up Graham at the airport later.”

“They’re grounded in Saskatoon, there’s a huge blizzard and he can’t get out.”

“Oh, I told him to take the train. The train always runs,” she said huffily.

“Who’s coming tomorrow?” Shannon asked, trying to get her mother’s mind off of things.

“Your Grandmother, and Uncle Fred. Fred said he might bring his new girlfriend along. Oh, and your cousin Cara.”

“Cara? She’s back in Canada?”

“That’s what Fred said.”

“Strange, she didn’t tell me.”

***

You hate it. You hate all the false sympathy, and the hugs, and that look people get when they see you.

Your friends don’t talk to you much anymore. As if they’re afraid they’ll catch something. You hear them whispering as you walk by.

“Did you hear about her?” “Is that the rape victim?” “She just wants the attention.”

All you want to do is curl up in a ball and die. You can’t escape their constant sympathetic glances, or the people who think you made it up. You don’t know how it got out. Perhaps your mother told one of your friends when she dropped off your homework after you were home sick that week. You were fine that week, physically, healthy as a 16-year-old should be, but inside you were crumbling.

You wouldn’t leave your room. You left twice a day to use the bathroom. You’re mother left trays of food for you out side the door that you ignored. Some water every so often, to replenish what the tears had washed out.

You wish it were still that week. You wish it were like before, when you didn’t see people whispering as you walked past. Now, everyone you know either pities you, or scoffs at you as you walk by.

You hate everything.

***

“And you no longer feel like this?”

“People here don’t know. Just my roommate.”

“Why her?”

“We shared a dorm in our first two years, and now we rent an apartment on Lincoln.”

“I see, but why did you tell her?”

“We got to be great friends after the first year. She stayed at my house over the summer this year as well.”

***

“So, you’re going back?”

“Yes, I only came home for the holidays. Dad said it had been too long, so he paid for the plane ticket.”

“Uncle Fred paid for something? Wow, that’s a shocker. He must have really missed you.”

“Oh, I know,” Cara chuckled. “He’s not paid for a thing if it had to do with me since I moved out.”

“I wonder if my dad would’ve been like that.”

The two girls fell silent for a moment, neither knowing where to go with the conversation.

“Have you guys gone out to Mount Pleasant yet?”

“No, I just got in yesterday, and wanted to relax. Mum said we’d go tomorrow.”

***

Four years after that walk home, the walk that forever changed your life, you meet someone. The relationship fails miserably. You can’t let him touch you; you feel alarm even with a light peck. It can’t work.

He ends it because you haven’t the courage to do so.

Your roommate buys a litre of ice cream for you and the two of you sit down to watch some old film starring Audrey Hepburn. You don’t cry over the lost relationship because you knew it would happen. It had to happen.

When she asks you why, you tell her.

You tell her everything.

And it feels right.

***

“That’s when you started coming here, right?”

“Well, no, that was a year or so before I started seeing you.”

“Has it helped? Writing about it? Talking about it?”

“I’m not sure.”

“You’re not?”

“No.”

***

Cara and Shannon drove out to the cemetery. It was almost more like a park, trees everywhere. Now, with a soft blanket of nearly untouched snow, it looked perfect.

“I love snow,” Shannon said as Cara parked the car.

“Really? I don’t, maybe that’s why I left for Africa.”

They laughed. Shannon surprised herself with how easy it came to her. They chatted idly as they walked through the park, trudging through the snow. It wasn’t too cold, but they were still bundled up well.

“Well, here he is. Do you want me to leave for a bit?”

Shannon looked at Cara and nodded, smiling.

“I'll be back in…?”

“Five?”

“Sure.”

As Cara walked away, Shannon knelt in the snow, gloved hands carefully placing a single yellow rose on the grave.

“Hey Dad. I’ve been thinking lately… a lot. I’m writing more, just like you said I should when I was little. It’s helped. And I started seeing a therapist. I didn’t think that would help, but I guess it has. Trish helped a lot. You would’ve liked her, Dad. Anyway… I think I just… I wanted to say… to tell you… I’m alright.”