It’s just dinner party conversation. That’ll be your defense when you come out to see what’s wrong. You won’t know why I’m really upset. And I won’t tell you. I’ve never told anyone.
“How can they arrest a 70-something year old man for something that happened a million years ago,” your husband roared.
“Most of these women barely remembered what happened,” you agreed, sipping the wine while your husband passed me the mashed potatoes, not noticing my trembling hands. “There’s no evidence.”
“They were drugged before he raped them, of course they don’t remember,” someone else interjects, and I calm a bit, taking a hug gulp of pinot.
“Come on now, most of these women are liars, using his good name to get a piece of fame. Trying to take a good man down.”
That’s when I felt ill. I needed a bit of fresh air, so I excused myself to the foyer and leaned against the wall, taking deep breaths, trying not to remember. Me at 14, his hands on my throat, his rough breath in my ear.
Soon, you’ll come out, tell me I’m being silly, convince me to come back to the table. But for now, I am going to stand here, staring out the window, trying to forget.
68% of sexual assaults are not reported to the police. Visit Rainn.org to learn more.