Butterfly (8 page)

‘Gradually, he became
possessive. I couldn’t go out unless it was with him and his
friends. I had to wear what he wanted me to wear. Do what he wanted
to. But I thought I was in love with him, and I thought it was
normal. I’d never been in a serious relationship before. Any
relationship, really.’ A familiar band of panic tightens across my
chest, and my hands shake so I wring them together to try to stop
it. ‘He’d never been violent before that night. We’d been to a
party with some of his rugby friends, and he was pretty drunk. When
we got back to his house, he started having a go at me, saying I
was flirting with some guy there. It wasn’t true, but nothing I
said to him made any difference.’ My voice drops to a whisper. ‘He
just kept getting louder and angrier and then…it all happened so
fast, it was hard at first to really comprehend what was going on…’
All the breath has left my body. I’m lightheaded, so I hang onto
the edge of the table for support, but I have to carry on. Have to
get this out finally. ‘He hit me across the face. He plays rugby,
so he’s a big guy, and it was really hard. I was so shocked, I
froze. I couldn’t move at all. He threw me on his bed and…’ I can’t
say it. I can’t say the word.

‘He raped you?’

I flinch at the ugliness of
it.

‘Saying the word doesn’t bring
the act to life or condone it. It lessens the fear and shows
you’re
in control, not it.’

My gaze meets his for a fleeting
moment before looking away. ‘Yes. I was raped.’ I nod up and down
uncontrollably. My cheeks are wet with tears.

Suddenly, I can’t breathe
anymore. I gasp for air, but my shoulders shudder so much it’s
impossible. I’m having a heart attack. I think I’m actually going
to die, and maybe that would be easier than trying to stay
alive.

‘Just breathe, Grace.’ Ben’s
voice is steady, completely calm. ‘Look at me and breathe, OK? You
can do it.’

I look up to his face, but this
is a bad one, and I can’t focus. I clutch my chest and lean
forward, hunching my body over my knees, battling to get my
breathing under control. I can’t feel my hands anymore. An ache in
the back of my skull hammers away like a pneumatic drill.

‘Breathe with me. Come on,
Grace, you can do this.’ He takes a deep breath in and a deep
breath out. ‘Grace, you’re OK.’

Something about the way he says
my name, or how he’s so calm and sure, makes me finally see him
properly. My chest heaves in erratic gasps, but I try to
concentrate on his eyes.

‘In. Out. Nice and deep.’

I find myself following him.
Breathing to his rhythm. I don’t know how long it takes, but the
grip on my chest gradually relaxes, and I stop shaking.

‘You’re doing great.’ He smiles.
‘Just keep breathing, OK?’

Sensation tingles back into my
fingers. I wipe my cheeks with them as I keep my gaze locked onto
his.

He pushes the paper napkins on
the table towards me in silence. He doesn’t ask me if I’m OK, which
would probably have finished me off. Instead, he tells me I’m OK in
a soothing voice.

‘You’re safe, Grace. It’s not
happening now. You’re here with me, and you’re OK. You’re just
having a flashback, which can happen. It’s important to know
why
these panic attacks are happening and why you’re feeling
how you are. If you can understand why, it’ll help the
process.’

‘I’m so sorry.’ I take a tissue.
I must look a complete mess, but he hasn’t batted an eyelid. He
looks like we’re just having a casual chat about the weather or
something.

I wipe my eyes and blow my nose,
which sounds so loud in the silent shop.

‘Why are you sorry?’ he asks.
‘It’s not your fault. It’s his fault.’

‘It is my fault!’ I cry. ‘If I’d
done something differently, it wouldn’t have happened.’

He pauses for a moment. It’s
something I’ve noticed about him. He seems to think long and hard
before he says things. Like he’s not just talking for the sake of
it, and anything he says must have some kind of meaning.

‘No one asks to be raped,’ he
says. ‘It’s just a myth. A lie.’

He leans forward slightly,
holding eye contact with me, but it’s not intimidating in any way.
All I see is understanding and sincerity shining through.

‘If you were burgled, would you
blame yourself? Would you think it was your fault simply because
you happened to own a house?’

For some reason I laugh, because
that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. ‘No.’

‘So why do you blame yourself
for being raped?’

‘Because I didn’t do anything to
stop it. I didn’t fight back. I didn’t scream. I didn’t try to run,
and I didn’t say no.’ My voice is louder, defensive.

‘I’m sure you know about the
flight or fight response?’

I ball up the soggy tissue in my
hand and look down at it. ‘Yes, and I didn’t do either of those
things. That’s the point! Which means it’s my fault. I must’ve
wanted it to happen subconsciously.’

‘There’s also another response
to trauma or attack. It’s where the body freezes. Similar to a
rabbit caught in the headlights, or an animal that plays dead to
fool a predator. It’s a subconscious action, which means you had no
control over it. It happened instinctively. It’s also a survival
reaction, just the same as flight or fight.’ He tilts his head. ‘So
you can look at it another way. Instead of blaming yourself, look
at it that
not
screaming or fighting back kept you from
being beaten, or worse. It actually kept you alive.’ He pauses for
a moment, and when he speaks, his words are precise and clear. ‘It
wasn’t your fault.’ His gaze holds mine, unwavering.

Something inside me shifts,
then, and it’s as if the world is blurring in front of my eyes
before reshaping itself and coming back into focus.

Because hearing all that from
him, hearing the quiet certainty in his voice that it wasn’t my
fault, gives me hope.

14

BEN

As she tells me her story, the
anger inside rages at full force. I clench my fists under the table
so she can’t see them. If I want to be good at my job, I have to
control it, which is why I beat a punch bag now instead of fighting
in a ring. Well, that and because the last time I punched someone,
I destroyed my whole life.

My heart cracks into a million
pieces. Her pain and hurt are like shards of glass, stabbing me all
over, which just makes me want to comfort her. Protect her. Take it
all away.

I want to give her a breather,
some time to compose herself. And I need to do something with my
hands before I punch the wall, so I get up from the table. ‘I’m
going to make you some hot chocolate.’

I heat the milk in the microwave
to save turning the machines back on. I add spoonfuls of hot
chocolate into two mugs as she sniffs and blows her nose.

I put a couple of cookies from
the box on the counter onto two plates and take them over to the
table. The microwave pings, and I pour the heated milk into the
mugs, stirring well to get rid of any residual powder, then
sprinkle them with chocolate powder.

‘Here, drink this.’ I put a mug
in front of her and sit down opposite with mine.

She’s shivering, despite the
heat in the shop. She cradles the mug as if it’s a lifeline.

‘Thanks,’ she says softly, her
eyes dropping to the chocolate as she takes a sip. Her face is
pale, mascara smudged down her cheeks. She looks drained.
Exhausted.

But she also looks utterly
beautiful to me.

I don’t know how long we sit
there. Just sit in silence as the tears dry on her face.

‘I’m so embarrassed,’ she
finally says.

‘You have nothing to be
embarrassed about. In fact, you should be really proud of
yourself.’

‘Why? I’ve just told a stranger
disgusting things I’ve never told anyone.’

‘Because you’ve asked for help,
which is the first step, and which also makes you very brave.’ I
bring the mug to my lips. Swallow a mouthful. ‘So you didn’t report
it?’

‘No. How could I? We’d been
seeing each other for two years. I’d slept with him lots of times
before. How would anyone see this as any different?’

‘But it is different. It’s
completely
different.’

She stares down into her
mug.

‘About four out of five rapes
are actually committed by people you know, not by strangers. And
half of those are committed by partners or ex-partners. Many women
don’t report it because they think people will think it’s not
“real” rape. If you slept with him before, then what’s the big
deal, right? It’s not the same as some stranger jumping out of the
bushes and raping you? But that’s not true. It’s another myth,
another lie, and there are plenty of them out there. The bottom
line is you didn’t consent to it. You didn’t want it to happen, and
he forced you. That’s rape. Just because he was your partner
doesn’t make you any
less
raped.’

We drink in silence for a while,
but the silence doesn’t feel uncomfortable. I don’t break it. She
needs to get this out in her own time.

Eventually, she says, ‘I didn’t
report it to the police because his Dad’s the mayor here, and his
mum’s a barrister. I knew if I told the police, I wouldn’t stand a
chance of people believing me. They have the power to make me look
like I’m lying. They’d say it was consensual, and it would’ve been
my word against his. And I just wanted to forget it ever happened.
I couldn’t bear to be touched by anyone afterwards, even if it was
a doctor doing a rape exam.’ She sniffs. ‘After he raped me, he
passed out, drunk, and I left. The next day, I got up for work as
usual, trying to put on a brave face. Trying to make myself believe
it didn’t happen. Except it’s not as easy as that. I’ve tried to
forget, and it doesn’t work.’

I bite my cheek before I can say
anything, because the injustice of it all makes me see red. ‘And
Lisa doesn’t know?’

‘No. I only met her when she
started working here after it happened. All my friends were his
friends, so it wasn’t like I could tell them what happened. And I
can’t put all my shit on Lisa. It’s not fair.’ She wipes more tears
away with the back of her hands. ‘But I don’t want to be the person
I’ve turned into. I just want to ordinary again. The Grace I used
to be.’

‘The first step to healing is
identifying the damage so it’s possible to decide you need to heal.
You said you were attacked, but you weren’t. You were raped.
There’s a big difference between knowing what it is and naming it.
Naming and identifying it as rape is a big step forward. It gives
the responsibility for it back to him instead of you keeping hold
of it. You’re not a rape victim, Grace; you’re a survivor. And
you’re not ordinary, you’re extraordinary for surviving.’

‘Survivor.’ She rolls the word
around her tongue as if trying to commit it to memory.

‘And I’m going to say it again,
because I really need you to understand this: it’s not your fault.
So instead of taking the blame for this, give the blame back to
him, where it belongs.
He
did this to you. You didn’t ask
for it or want it to happen, and you didn’t deserve it.’

She takes another sip of hot
chocolate, looking at me over the top of the rim. A shadow passes
over her green eyes, and something sparks there.

An idea?

A realization?

‘How do I give the blame back to
him?’ she asks.

‘There are lots of ways. Getting
angry with him is one, but take out your anger in positive ways,
like exercise. Running or hitting a punch bag. Your being angry
doesn’t affect him in any way. All it does is affect
you
and
hold you down.’

For the first time since she
started talking, that ghost of a smile is on her face. ‘Yeah. I
think I could probably do with hitting something.’

‘Look, this is just the first
step. We’ll work on this together. You’re going to get through
this, Grace.’

I hope she hears the absolute
belief in my voice.

15

GRACE

I wait for him to look at me
differently, with disgust, but he doesn’t. Instead, all I see in
his face is kindness, compassion, worry, and patience.

Rape. Survivor
.

I think about the words, and I
know he’s right. It’s taken someone else to say them before it
sinks in.

He slides his fingers across the
table towards the middle and turns his palm upwards. It’s a simple,
soothing, and comforting gesture.

‘You’re safe, Grace. I’m never
going to do anything to hurt you. I just want to help you get
through this. You can trust me.’

I look at his hand and then
search his face. I do trust him, and I do feel safe with him. I
have ever since I met him, as irrational and weird as that
sounds.

Tentatively, I reach out and
slide my fingers towards his. He engulfs my small hand gently in
his big one, and we sit in silence. I don’t know why I’m allowing
myself to touch him. It’s something I don’t do with men, but I’m
surprisingly at ease with his touch. It’s compassionate.
Energizing, somehow.

I don’t know what the
appropriate thing to feel is after you’ve told someone you were
raped, and even though I’m bone-numbingly tired, I feel stronger.
As if he’s taken some of the weight from me and tossed it away in
the gutter where it belongs.

‘I’m so sorry about Mia,’ I
say.

‘I’m sorry about everything,’ he
says wearily.

I glance at the clock. It’s
almost ten p.m. That’s enough for me for tonight. I’ve taken the
first step.

‘I think I’d better be getting
back home.’ I release his hand, and already I miss the warmth and
comfort there. ‘I hope I didn’t keep you from anything.’

‘No.’ He points to the bruises
on his face. ‘I’m not allowed to teach for a while. Doctor’s
orders.’ He picks up the mugs and plates and rinses them before
stacking them in the dishwasher.