Chapter 6

I open my eyes. My room has a warm glow, lit from the low sun shining in through the windows. My brain feels foggy. What time is it? What happened? Memories begin to emerge in my mind, but did that really happen or was it a nightmare? I adjust my body so I can see the time better and immediately feel the aches and sharp pains that accompany the slightest movement. Now I'm remembering everything as each scene from last night floods my brain and the realization of what happened is all too real. It takes me a few minutes just to get into sitting position with my legs hanging over the bed and my feet on the floor. I see my clothes ripped in pieces, strewn across the room. Chairs are out of place, empty beer bottles are on my dresser, and my sheets and comforter are in a pile from when Steve stripped the bed earlier that night. I can only imagine the mess left behind me on the bed. I can't look. Not yet.

3:22pm. I've been out for almost 10 hours. I hobble across the bedroom to the bathroom. My whole body hurts with each limp. As I reach the sink for a glass of water I look up and stare at a person I don't even recognize. It has to be me because I'm the one standing across from the mirror, but I don't know the torso looking back at me. My usually meticulous hair is a snarly mess, my eyes are red and blotchy, and the left eye in particular is already swollen and turning purple. I see bruises forming on my cheek, arms, wrists and breasts. Even a dark red hand print is emerging across my neck. I can't see below my waste and I'm thankful because that is where it hurts the most. I don't even want to know. I start the shower and lock both doors to the bathroom while I wait for the water to turn warm. As I step inside, I let the water rinse over me, and I can see swirls of red running down my legs, toward the drain where it makes a little pink pool before filtering through the pipe. I'm shaking uncontrollably as I slowly lower myself to the bottom of the tub where I remain curled up in a ball for the next hour.

I've since made my way to the rug in the middle of the bathroom, wrapped in an oversized towel, laying there, feeling a throbbing pulse in all of the places that are most painful: my eye, wrists, groin, rear. My hair is dry so I know it has been some time. I hear someone in my bedroom. I freeze and quickly glance at both locks before sighing in relief. Still locked. I hear him walk up to the bathroom and slide something under the door, followed by my brother's authoritative voice, "You will remain here and you will not tell anyone. In case you get any ideas, here's a taste of what will reign down on you. I think you'll find it much easier to stay quiet."

I pull myself closer to the door where I find the manila envelope he slid into the room with a note written on the outside that reads, "There are more where these came from." I peer inside and find six 8x10 photos. Each one is of me and Jason, and each one is more disgusting than the last: the moment where he was moving in to kiss me, when he was holding my throat, when he first thrust himself into me, when I was turned over and he was holding my arms back, when he was lying on top of me after he finished, and OH MY GOD ... The last one was the worst. They snapped a photo at the exact moment I came when he was manually stimulating my clit. Now I know why they reacted the way they did. My back was arched off of the bed, breasts high, head back, mouth open, and you could just see it on my face. This photo is absolutely devastating. The worst part was that they were all just as he promised. Every single one of those pictures, out of context and with no sound, looked as though I was enjoying every moment with my older brother.

Blackmail. They had me and they knew it. I spent the next two days on the floor of my bathroom.

It has been about three weeks since the incident. Jason called in sick for me at school that first week after so that no one would see my bruises. Never mind the fact that I was a complete and utter emotional mess. Still am. I don't know why I didn't go to the police regardless of the photos or tell someone. Anyone. I couldn't. Why doesn't a woman leave her abusive husband? Why doesn't anyone say something to their teachers or friends when their parents hit them? Why doesn't a kid tell his or her parents when an uncle or neighbor touches them inappropriately? Embarrassment. Humiliation. Hurt. Denial. Fear.