Predator: An Essay for the Adult Reader

When I was nineteen years of age and married for only three months to my high school sweetheart; I was attacked and raped outside of our apartment building. The year was 1971. I don’t often speak of the incident, although my thoughts are written in various journals I’ve kept throughout the years. I knew the time would come when some of those words would be put into print. If you’re thinking you’ll skip this posting because it’s TMI (too much information) that is your prerogative.

What follows below is an excerpt from Chapter II of my memoir:
He walks behind me. He doesn’t live here. I’m afraid. His hand is over my mouth and I’m in the Twilight Zone. He says; “Don’t move,” and I try not to struggle. He says he has a knife. I cry out and his hands go around my neck. I’m down behind the trash bin. “Are you a virgin?” and I tell him yes because I think he’ll back off or take it easy. Penetration, and I feel nothing. I think, where’s his weapon, and I realize it’s buried inside of me. This man accomplishes his goal; he puts fear into me.

As he finishes the act, a new Ja’Nee emerges. He says, “Close your eyes and count to 100,” and I know this is where he uses the knife. I see my stomach in the moonlight and I’m proud that it’s flat. Will my flesh be ripped? Will I bleed to death behind the trash dumpster, along with damp coffee grounds and rotting lettuce leaves? He gets up and leaves my skin in one piece. He takes my purse and scarf as a memento. He takes with him my trust, innocence, pride, and humor.

I pull my jeans up and don’t bother to zip them, and go into my empty apartment. My husband was recently drafted into the army and is based in Germany. I cry because I’m angry and shocked this has happened to me. Do I call the police, call my parents, or go upstairs to a neighbor? I want to soak in a bath and think about what to tell my new husband. I call my parents instead, say I’ve been raped, and drop the phone.

The police car arrives with lights flashing. Mom comes inside the apartment, but Dad decides to stay outside when I desperately need him with me. At the police station I’m given a report to fill out. My parents traveled in another vehicle and have not yet arrived. A young male officer says, “You were lucky the assailant didn’t use your scarf to strangle you.” At the Northridge Hospital emergency room, they give me a douche of all things. The nurse advises me to never tell my husband, and says she didn’t tell hers.

Back at the police station, I look at Polaroid pictures of suspects, and there’s one photograph I can’t identify 100 percent. In the line-up, I identify the plaid shirt. When I close my eyes, his voice is vaguely familiar, but his facial features, height, and weight elude me. I know he is a young Caucasian man with an out-of-place Afro American hairstyle. I know I had never seen him in our building or laundry room.

This man; this stranger; has a girlfriend waiting for him at the local park. The officers estimate he robbed me for the suede fringe purse because she coveted it. The rape was something that just came to him. I think he might as well have carved me with a knife. The pain I carry is constant and the scars are real enough. I’m haunted. I have no more trust in men but lots of faith in myself. I want to thank him for introducing me to real fear, and may he burn in hell. I am still a woman. I will always be strong and never be a victim again.

Footnote:
There are wonderful resources available today that will assist a victim of rape. There are compassionate individuals that will hold your hand and tell you it’s going to be okay. Believe them and let them walk with you.