Since it happened, I’ve been encased in armour. I could detonate any bomb. I could walk through fire. I could leap from forty stories and not break as much as a bone in my little finger. I feel nothing. I feel no one. Try me.
I said, I don’t believe I will trust anyone again. He said, Oh, I’ve destroyed your trust in everyone, have I? I knew from his tone he knew well what he had done but more, he resented that I had been there for him to do it.
It was not meant to happen, he later wrote, as if it was an abstract in the control of some other agency in the face of which he was entirely helpless. It was not meant by whom to happen? Who did not mean it to happen? What it, which who?
Another thing that troubles. He knew my childhood. Asked questions.
After it I wrote, Did you sense something does my past reveal itself, unknown to me, as a point of vulnerability? It can’t be a coincidence that you knew my childhood, and then it that was not meant by whom just happened.
They don’t usually take ownership of what they’ve done, said the counsellor. They usually do everything but acknowledge it.
You will trust again, she said, but you will likely be more wary.
You are angry, she said, I’m glad you’re angry.
She rings the detective. J is ready to make a statement, she tells him. It will be beneficial for her. She wants me there.
They organise a mutually convenient date. I nod my agreement.
I am angry. I am white-hot angry. This bullshit. This it wasn’t meant to happen bullshit. How does a man accidentally violate a woman? Let’s see how the smartest man in any room explains that, shall we?
2 thoughts on “EIGHT: It”
It’s hard to respond to posts such as these other than to acknowledge your extraordinary capacity with words to convey the depth of your pain.
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That is the best response I can imagine, Elisabeth. Thank you.