She had fought against it for so long. It was time. For almost a year, her life had been enveloped in gloom, ever-present because of the incident.
The incident. What an insipid term. It was a crime, but she chose not to report it. In fact, she decided not to tell anyone about it, hoping that over time, memories would fade and nightmares would stop. She reckoned that if she had told the police, or her family or friends, any investigation or discussion would have been unbearable.
In the weeks after it happened, she came close to ending her life. She even stockpiled pills and kept them in a bedside drawer.
One miserable day when the wind was howling outside and heavy rain was drumming the windows, she became so depressed that she sat on the bed, opened the drawer and arranged half a dozen little bottles in a neat row. But she couldn’t do it. After reliving what happened for the umpteenth time, she sobbed, lay back and calmed herself. The bottles were returned to the drawer for another time. One day, her shame might just push her over the edge.
In the shower, she had been rough with herself ever since that day. The first shower after it happened, she scrubbed for an hour, using up a full container of gel. Her body was a mess of redness and scratches but she still never felt completely clean. Every shower after that was a long process to cleanse not only the skin but her head of any guilt. She would spend a few minutes looking at herself in the mirror, chanting the mantra: “You’re not to blame. You’re not to blame”. It didn’t work. Her conscience was a long way from being clear. A year of self-reproach, of reliving the whole grubby episode.
But now, it was time. She had fought against it for too long.
It was a street of expensive terraced houses, each with an entrance three steps up from the pavement. Number thirty-six looked immaculate, the solid front door distinctive in flawless red gloss paint. It stuck in her memory. It was a door into hell.
That night she had been tipsy. She was convinced that something had been added to her drinks. There was a taxi, a slip on the second step, a fit of giggles as she was helped into the house. And then the struggle as this man, only an hour before a stranger, hugged and kissed her. Her struggle led to two slaps across the face sending her reeling against a wall before she fell to the floor. And then it happened. And it went on and on. She was powerless. She gave in.
When it was over, she was dumped in the street, left to find her own way home.
Violated. Humiliated. Ashamed.
*
She pressed the doorbell and waited. She heard footsteps and a door chain being released. The door opened slowly.
The two police officers beside her smiled reassuringly.
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