Elastic Heart (2 page)

“Do you want us to call the police?”

“I don’t know.”

“Have you used the restroom?”

“Um…”

“After the assault, sweetheart.”

“Yes.” Is that important? Have I already fucked up? Ugh, I hate this so much. It’s like taking a test I could never be prepared for. This is almost worse than the rape.

Almost.

“Are these the clothes you were wearing when you were assaulted?”

“I…” I look down at the dirty clothes I grabbed out of my hamper. “I… No, I changed.”

“Do you have the clothes?”

“No…” I lower my eyes. “He took them.”

The nurse nods knowingly and purses her lips. “Well, these may still have some evidence on them. We’ll collect them anyway.”

I swallow. “Collect them?”

“Yes. I’ll have you stand over this paper mat and disrobe. During the examination you’ll wear a paper gown. Afterwards we’ll give you some clothing to go home in.”

“Home.” I say the word blandly. I do not want to go home. I want to curl up somewhere, yeah, but not home.

Home isn’t really “home” any more.

He
has been there.

“Or I can give you a list of shelters, if you need them.” I nod at her. I’m not safe from him anywhere, so it doesn’t really matter.

The next hours pass in a blur of acquiescence. She asks me to turn to my side; I do. She asks me to open my mouth; I do. She asks me to spread my legs; I do. When it’s all over, I feel numb and violated again.

“Would you like anything, Nami? Water or soda?”

I shake my head, eyes blank.

“I’m going to ask you one last time: do you want me to call the police?” The clothes she gave me were nice enough, fresh scrubs that fit all right. To me they felt cold and foreign. They were anathema to my skin, like the way he had felt inside me. All of this—from checking in to spreading my legs—had been one giant reminder of the event. A big, neon sign that blared I, NAMI DEGRACE, WAS RAPED.

I look at the nurse, my voice clear for the first time all night as I answer her question: “Yes.”

I spend so long talking to the police that when I wake the next morning it feels like a dream. Did I really tell them everything? I shake my head, feeling hungover despite having had no liquor.

God. The way that one policeman looked at me, it was as if I drenched his firstborn in acid. I wanted to scream at him that I wasn’t lying, that it was the truth, but then I would have looked crazy. After all, he hadn’t actually called me a liar. He was just very…cold.

Aloof.

Hateful.

He told me the police would “look into the matter”. When I asked him about my rape kit, they said it could sometimes take months to process.

“Months?” My face went ashen. I couldn’t handle this for months. “But I told you who it was. Can’t you bring him in and test it?”

“Well, frankly, Miss…” The officer glanced down at his pad impassively. “Miss…
DeGrace
,”—he said my name like the mere word on his tongue was tainted—“the evidence isn’t all that compelling.”

My heart fell into my stomach. It was exactly what I feared. There was nothing wrong with the evidence. The evidence was clear as day on my body and in the kit and in my memory.

It was
him
.

I remembered his graying blond hair.

I remembered his mean blue eyes as they smiled at me. They acted like everything was fine the entire time. I would have preferred anything to the way he looked at me. I would have preferred hate. I would have preferred contempt. Anything, because the way he looked at me made me question it all. It was as though he felt it was all okay. As if he felt it was
deserved
. The way he acted was as if what he was doing to my body was completely within his right.

He was jovial when he left. He was completely deaf to my cries.

“It would probably be best if you dropped the accusation. Nothing will come of it, after all, save some bad press.”

“Bad press for him, you mean,” I added, immediately regretting it. In lieu of a response, the officers merely glared.

“Well, we have your statement, and we’ll let you know.”

Sure you will, I wanted to say, but I knew better.

At least, I thought I did.

SIX MONTHS LATER

The milk fell to the floor in a steaming hot mess. “Excuse me,” I murmured, my voice disappearing down my throat.

“Miss, your drink!” I didn’t hear the rest. I had to get away. I hurriedly threw cash on the counter, not caring if it was too much. I
had
to get away. I couldn’t breathe. It felt like my ribs were trying to join with my lungs while my heart simultaneously tried to escape out of my mouth.

Here.
He
was here. Ordering a coffee like nothing had happened. And people were excited! They were excited to see him! If I hadn’t been so damned post-traumatic I would have been furious.

I had tried so hard to find one place where
he
wouldn’t visit. I did my research. I found a little apartment miles away from him and miles away from my old place. I barely left the apartment. I had my groceries delivered. I walked my dog in my backyard. But then one day… One day, I saw a small coffee shop down the road.

I thought I would be safe.

I gripped the brick wall and dry-heaved. Why couldn’t
he
just leave me the fuck alone? Tears burned my eyes in betrayal. Bile charred the back of my throat.

“Are you all right?”

“Jesus!” I yelled, flinching. I glanced warily at the sound of the voice. I recognized him as one of the patrons from inside. Before, I wouldn’t have noticed the guy at all. I had never noticed anyone before, unless they actively talked to me. Now, however, I noticed everything. I noticed a leaf falling from a tree, I noticed a car going a little too fast, and I noticed every single patron in the coffee shop. He was eyeing me, his dark sunglasses reflecting the street behind me. They were tilted downward, gaze pointed like I was a bomb about to detonate. I shook myself from the wall and tried to stand straight.

“Yes… I’m fine, thank you.” I spoke curtly. I had no reason to be mad at this man, it wasn’t
him
after all, but I was mad at the world right now. This patron just so happened to live in the world. Too bad for him.

The man squared his shoulders, the glasses shielding his eyes once more. He folded his arms and looked at me.
Excuse me?
I glared my thoughts.
You can leave now, strange man.
He didn’t make any move to go and towered over me. My belly clenched. I’d been towered over before.
He
had towered over me.

I glanced nervously around. It would
not
happen again. The street behind me was relatively busy, but behind him was deserted. Just a dumpster and an empty building. I weighed my options. Looking tough wouldn’t do shit. If I let him know I was on to him, I would lose precious getaway time.

Oh fuck it.

I kneed him square in the groin and ran fast, not bothering to see if the blow landed; I thought it did based on the curse he gave. I was at the street before my apartment before I could catch my breath. Where to go? I couldn’t run back to the coffee shop, not with
him
there.

I felt a hand on my shoulder. “What the hell!” I screamed and turned around. The guy I’d just kneed now gripped my shoulder. Everything blurred into a colorful vignette as my mind shrieked in terror:
It’s happening! It’s happening again!
I had to fight and win this time. Adrenaline burned through me like fire; cars on the street slowed down, trees stopped swaying. I punched him in the face as hard as I could—
fuck,
my hand! It worked though; he let go of me. Without looking back, I ran toward safety.

I sobbed uncontrollably the minute I passed the threshold of my home. Raskolnikov, my part-terrier, part-everything-else rescue pup bounded toward me, his face a ridiculous grin. I couldn’t help but be comforted as he pawed at my shins. I picked him up, happy when he licked my face.

“You’re the only good thing in this world, Raskol,” I said, hugging him tight. I let Raskol down and opened the back door for him while I went to make tea. I was in a ground floor apartment, so he was able to play in a small fenced-in backyard. It wasn’t much, but it was enough for Raskol.

Raskol bounced around in the snow before turning on his back to roll around. He always had to get every inch of his body covered in dirt. I laughed, shut the screen door, and went to the kitchen.

As I placed a kettle on the stove, there was a knock on my door. Not aggressive like the delivery man, and not soft like Doris, the landlady. It was somewhere in between. I frowned, wiping tear stains from my cheek. I wasn’t expecting anyone.

Still reeling from the encounter with
him
and the man in the alley, I picked up my newly acquired .22 and opened the door.

“Woah there!” The visitor immediately stepped back. It was the man from the coffee shop. The bastard had followed me home. Well, I had my gun and all my tears were shed, so bring it on, fucker!

“Who the hell are you?” I asked, raising my .22 slightly.
Did
he
send you
? I wanted to ask.

The man narrowed his eyes and cocked his head to the side slightly. “Usually ladies buy me dinner before they beat me up.” I tightened my hold on the .22. It still seemed too small, but the guy at the gun store had basically insisted that if I was starting out, it was the one for me. I didn’t know a thing about guns, so I’d listened and bought it.

I still didn’t feel right owning one, but it was better than the alternative. Already I was seeing its value: I had a nice barrier between me and the new asshole.

“I think it’s best you leave. Now.” I straightened my aim. It felt like a billion marbles had been let loose inside me, but hoped I was keeping it cool on the outside.

The man eyed the gun and returned his gaze to me. All sharp edges and muscles, he was handsome—if you’re into assholes, that is.

“I’d like to take you out,” he said.

“Are you insane?” I nearly dropped the gun at the unexpectedness of his request, but held firm. Was it possible that I’d mentally snapped after seeing
him?
None of this was happening and I was actually living out my life in a mental ward.

He seemed to genuinely mull my question over before answering, “A little bit…maybe.”

I leveled my gun. “Well the answer is: No. Fucking. Way.” He didn’t seem the least bit perturbed by my cannon aimed at his nose. That bothered me. I mean, it
was
my only leverage.

He smiled a wry half-smile that, if I had been any other girl in any other situation, might have made me melt. I wasn’t any other girl, though. “My finger is slipping,” I warned. “It would be a shame to mar that pretty head with a bullet.”

“You think I’m pretty?” Folding his arms across his broad chest, he leaned against my doorframe.

“I think my trigger finger is getting tired,” I spat.

He kicked off the door. “All right, I’ll leave for now, Miss…?”

I shook my head, aim still steady. “None of your fucking business.”

He nodded, mulling over my response. “Sounds French.”

“It’s not.” What was this guy’s deal? Get the fuck out already. I gripped my gun for emphasis and he winked and turned around. I waited until he had disappeared down the street to slam the door. My heart was racing. Sweat prickled the back of my neck. The stranger was all I could think about. He was ridiculously handsome, but he was more than that. He was intimidating. Like a movie star gone rogue. I didn’t know if I was afraid of him or utterly beguiled. In the end, I went with completely disgusted.

The tea kettle sounded, its high-pitched whinny bringing me out of my fugue state. I ran into the kitchen and pulled it off the stove. As I finished pouring the hot liquid into my cup, I remembered Raskol was still outside. I walked back into the room and opened the screen door.

Lying on his side and completely tuckered out, Raskol didn’t even lift his head when I opened the screen door.

“Some guard dog you are,” I muttered before turning back to get my tea.

After the coffee shop douche left, I spent most of my afternoon and evening dry heaving, sobbing, and throwing things against the wall. When 10 pm rolled around, I threw on my makeup—war paint against the cruel world—and went to work as if I was a normal human being. Inside I was crumbling like ancient ruins.

I crawled back into my apartment at the butt crack of dawn and had been in bed—well, on couch—ever since.
I will stay on the couch forever. Couch is my new home. I will live and die in fluffy pillow perfection. When they come to retrieve my body they will say… Well, I don’t know what they’ll say. And who cares. Because I’ll be dead. I’ll have died among my people: the pillows.

It was around two in the afternoon, the only reason I knew that being the paper delivery. And seriously, who still gets a paper delivered? I had tried over and over again to cancel, but no luck. I didn’t give a shit what the paper said. I knew it was all lies, and I got my lies the way all millennials do: the internet.