by Selena Kitt
What the hell’s going on with me?
‘Do you want some hot chocolate?’ I blurt out.
She smiles. ‘I’d love some.’ She folds the tea towel, puts it on the counter, and changes the open sign to closed.
We sit in the same positions as last night, drinking in silence.
‘I’ve got something for you,’ I say after a few sips. I’m trying to delay drinking it so I can stay here with her.
‘Another ciabatta?’ She grins. ‘I was thinking maybe I could add some sandwiches and stuff to the menu, but it seems like a lot of extra work.’
‘No, it’s not more food.’ I pause. ‘How did you feel after talking to me yesterday?’
She bites her lip again. ‘OK, I guess.’
‘And you know it’s not your fault now?’
‘Knowing it and believing it are two different things.’
‘Which is why I wanted to give you these.’ I reach into my bag on the floor, pull out two books, and slide them across the table.
She looks down at them, then picks up the one on top and reads the title aloud. ‘A Rape Survivor’s Memoir.’
‘I thought it would help. You probably feel isolated at the moment and that no one understands what you’re going through. But identifying with others who’ve been though the same things will let you know you can get through this, and there is life after rape. It makes the feelings less scary.’
She glances up.
‘I’ve read it. It’s a courageous book. Inspiring,’ I say. ‘I think reading it will help you appreciate and respect yourself as a survivor.’
‘Thanks.’ She puts it down and picks up the other book. There’s no title on this one, and the pages are blank. She frowns. ‘There’s nothing in it.’
‘It’s a journal. Writing down your feelings is a healthy way to express and release everything that’s trapped inside. It’s amazing how much getting it out of your head and onto paper can help. It can make you less scared of what’s going on, and it reduces its power over you, helps to purge the emotions you’ve been keeping locked inside. So far, you’ve been trying to push what happened to the back of your mind, just wanting to forget about it, am I right?’
She nods.
‘The thing is, you know yourself now that doesn’t work, because everything you’re trying to run away from is in your head. Trying to ignore or suppress your thoughts and feelings just makes things worse. All the pain and anger festers away inside. If you try to deal with the past, you can start to look forward, instead of constantly looking back.’ I pause to let her take that in. ‘The key to healing is acceptance.’
‘But isn’t accepting that it happened the same as saying it’s OK?’
‘Not at all. You have to accept what happened because you can’t change it, and you can’t erase it from your mind, however much you want to. If you don’t identify what happened, you can’t get over it. So acceptance leads to awareness of why you feel a certain way, and eventually it makes you less fearful. Then understanding and recovery will follow. If you don’t face the feelings, you can’t deal with the grief. Don’t be scared of your thoughts about the rape. They can’t hurt you now; they’re just thoughts. Instead, you can try analyzing them. Know them for what they are—a normal response to trauma. It validates the pain and helps you understand why you feel scared, angry, or sad. The more you understand your feelings, the more equipped you are to start dealing with them. Then you can change your responses to more positive ones and start to rebuild your life.’
She strokes the journal with her finger.
‘It’s also a way to chart your progress through your recovery. You don’t have to show it to anyone.’
I don’t tell her it’s my journal. The journal I should write in but can’t bear to add my story to. As a counsellor, I know all the tools I can use to heal, but I can’t seem to do the things I’m telling her to do. It’s easier to help other people than it is to help myself.
So what does that make me?
Chapter Nineteen
Grace
‘You don’t have to write in it if you don’t want to,’ he says. ‘It’s just there in case you do.’
I place both hands over the journal, as if trying to gather courage from pages that aren’t even filled yet.
‘And there’s something else you can do, too. Instead of blaming yourself and knocking your self-worth, say positive things to yourself everyday. Affirmations that make you feel good.’
‘Like what?’
‘Anything that makes you think in a different way. A way that doesn’t damage you anymore.’ He pauses for a while. ‘Love helps the healing process.’
‘Love,’ I whisper. I’m never going to find love. I don’t deserve it.
‘Self-love. Instead of saying negative things to yourself, look in the mirror and just say, “I love you”.’
What is he talking about? How can anyone do that? I don’t know whether to laugh or balk at that.
‘I’m serious,’ he says. ‘Just try it and see what happens. Repeat it over and over again, along with positive messages to yourself like “I am strong”, “I can get through this”, “I am a survivor”. These are all things I’d suggest for anyone who has counselling. The more you tell yourself good things, the more you’ll believe them.’
I avoid his eyes and look at the floor. ‘But it’s so much easier to believe the bad things.’
‘I know, but it doesn’t mean they’re true. No one said counselling is easy. But you’ve taken the first step. Let’s just deal with it bit by bit.’ He bends his head down so I have no choice but to look at him. ‘I’m right here with you.’
The look he gives me is so serene and sincere that I start to believe it’s really possible to get past this and move on. I don’t know him well, but it feels like I’ve known him for years, and telling him things seems almost natural. There’s no one else I’d rather have right here with me.
‘OK, I’ll do it,’ I say. ‘I’ll give it a try.’
He smiles with relief. ‘Good. You’re more than what happened to you, Grace. You’re what you choose to be.’ He scrapes his chair back and stands up. ‘I’d better head off, then.’
I’m disappointed he’s going. I thought we could talk longer, but part of me is eager to get home and make a start on this stuff.
I rinse the mugs and leave them in the sink, then turn off the lights and lock up as he waits outside the door. He walks me round the side of the building and we’re close, almost shoulder to shoulder, but it’s not scary. It’s just…comfortable.
‘Night, Grace,’ he calls as I go up the steps.
A strange kind of warmth floods through me at the way he says my name. I unlock the door and wave to him. I don’t move inside until I’ve watched him retreating through the car park and out of sight.
When he’s gone, I’m cold for some reason.
I put the books on the floor, and because the sight of them distracts me, I check each lock only three times. I want to read this woman’s book. I want to know if what Ben says is true.
Can I get through this, too?
I root around in the freezer and find a frozen lasagne ready meal. As it’s nuking in the microwave, I sit at the kitchen table with a glass of cold white wine and open the book. By the time I hear a ping, signalling my dinner’s ready, I’ve read five pages and my cheeks are already wet with tears. The author’s voice is raw and passionate and, yes, courageous, like Ben said. I can already tell she’s a fighter, a survivor, and I want to be like her.
I read until two a.m., expecting her book to spark off a panic attack. Our stories are different, but the journey is the same. Her brother’s friend—someone she’d known for years and never felt threatened by in any way—raped her. The biggest thing that resonates with me is exactly what Ben said.
It’s not my fault.
She overcomes blame, self-loathing, depression, post-traumatic stress. Because of what happened to her, she turned to drugs as a way to blot it
all out. It’s not until she meets a fellow survivor who helps her that she begins heal again.
I look at the journal and wonder what my story will be from here. It takes a few moments in your life for things to go so desperately wrong. How long does it take to make it right again?
To live with it?
To fight back and win?
I’m holding two things in my hands right now. Hell and hope. It’s up to me which one I choose to follow.
I get in bed with the journal, pick up a pen, and scrawl my first words.
My name is Grace, and I was raped.
It’s been a year, and I’ve tried to forget. Tried to bury everything, but it’s still always there, waiting for me. Taunting me. It won’t let go of its stranglehold. I’ve been drowning in a secret ocean of shame, barely able to kick my legs anymore and stay afloat. Existing in a cold, dark place. Isolated. Terrified. Numb, but at the same time hyperaware of every thought, every feeling. Tormented.
I’ve been unable to trust anything anymore—my judgement, my sanity, not even a locked door. Nothing feels safe.
I kept the nightmare to myself because I thought I could keep that night there, in the past. Secured in a tiny segment of my brain, so I wouldn’t have to remember. But it’s not in the past. It’s everywhere. In everything. I thought keeping silent would make me feel safe from the shame that people would see in me, but silence doesn’t make it go away, either.
I can’t fool myself anymore, though. Can’t hide behind the mask I’ve built. Can’t convince myself I’m over it. Can’t stay silent, because I know I’m falling apart. I owe it to myself and my survival to face it now. I’m alive…but not living, and what kind of life is that?
And now I’ve been offered a life raft from the ocean. I’m choosing hope now, because I’m tired of being in hell.
It’s a start. Admitting it to myself is enough for now. I put the journal and pen back on my bedside table and turn off the light.
Only when I’m drifting off to sleep do I realize it’s the first night I haven’t sat in front of the door with a knife in my hand.
Chapter Twenty
Ben
I walk into the building and say hi to the receptionist. She already knows me by now; I’ve been coming here since I moved to Cambridge. Every week without fail or I’d be in serious shit.
I lean back in the uncomfortable plastic chair and cross my foot over my knee, wondering whether Grace read the book I gave her yet.
‘You can go in now,’ the receptionist says without a smile. She probably thinks I’m a worthless piece of rubbish, too.
I walk along the corridor to an office with a nameplate that reads, “Mark Graves—Parole Officer”.
I know the first thing he’s going to say when he sees the state of my face. The bruises have faded a bit, but you still can’t miss them.
I knock. Push the door open.
He looks up at me from behind his desk. ‘Please tell me that’s not from a fight.’
‘I was in a car accident.’ I sit in front of his desk piled high with paperwork and folders.
He regards me sternly for a while. I don’t take offence. He’s only doing his job, and he’s been incredibly helpful and supportive over the last two years since I was released from prison on license. As a condition of my license, I have to do a certain amount of volunteer work, and Mark managed to set up the volunteer self-defence classes I teach. He’s also the one who got me the part-time counselling jobs I’ve had so far, and enables the supervised sessions I’ve done so I can be accredited to the counselling association and finally apply for full time work. So, yeah, I’ll never have a bad word to say about the guy.
‘You can check with the hospital,’ I say. ‘They’ll tell you what happened.
‘I will.’ He opens my file and writes something down. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’ He sits back in his seat and studies me. ‘So, this is your final appointment with me. After this, you’re officially released from your parole license.’
‘I want to thank you for everything you’ve done.’
‘I’m just glad to help with your rehabilitation back into society again. I have to say, you’ve been a pleasure to work with, Ben. You should be proud of how far you’ve come.’
I smile, even though ‘proud’ is the very last thing I feel.
He leans forward and reads my file. ‘I see your counselling accreditation has come through, so you’re officially able to counsel unsupervised. Good job, Ben. Have you applied for any full time jobs yet?’
‘I’ve got an interview soon.’
‘Excellent. Where?’
‘The Clover Project. It’s a drop-in centre that supports women in violent or abusive relationships.’
‘I’m familiar with The Clover Project. It would be good for you, since you want to specialize in rape counselling.’
I don’t tell him about working in the coffee shop, too, because officially, I don’t need to tell him any of that as of today. The last thing I want is for him to pay a surprise visit there and check up on me for old time’s sake. What would I tell Grace? And anyway, it’s only going to be for a few weeks, so I swallow the words.
‘I hear the volunteer self-defence classes are going well.’
‘I’ve had to postpone them this week.’ I point to my face. ‘But next week I’ll carry on.’
‘The Women’s Centre is getting good feedback about them.’
‘Good. I’m glad I can help them.’
‘Anything else to report before I sign you off?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘OK, then.’ Mark stands, giving me a warm smile, and reaches out his hand for me to shake. ‘Good luck with the rest of your life, Ben.’
Chapter Twenty-One
Grace
I critically appraise myself in the mirror as I apply my makeup. When I finish, I stand back and stare.
I’m trying to work up to saying the words aloud, but they don’t feel right.
Come on. How hard can it be to say a few stupid words?
I hurl my mascara across the floor.
Just say it!
I look at my reflection and laugh. It’s hollow and echoing. It makes me sound crazy.
‘I love myself,’ I whisper.
The girl who stares back at me doesn’t believe it. She’s mocking me with her eyes. Maybe I’m not ready for this part yet.
‘You can do this,’ I say.
The girl nods back at me.
‘You can do this. You can survive. One step at a time, Grace.’ I inhale deeply. ‘I love you,’ I say, louder. ‘I love you.’
The girl in the mirror gives a barely-there smile. It’s a start.
By the time Ben arrives at the shop, I’ve almost sold out of food in the display counter, and I’m getting ready to bring in a new batch from the kitchen.
‘Hey.’ He smiles, his presence filling up the counter behind me.
‘Hey, yourself.’
A young woman in her early twenties interrupts us. ‘Can I have a caramel latte, a cup of tea, and two scones?’
‘Coming right up,’ he says to her.
Her eyes follow his movements with appreciation, and I feel a twinge of something I don’t recognize.
She sits at the table with her friend, and they’re obviously talking about Ben. They keep looking over at him and whispering to each other, but he doesn’t seem to notice the attention. Looking like he does, he must get it all the time.
Neither of us gets time for a proper break, but at one p.m., Ben gives me a prawn and mayo baguette that he’s made. The way he’s taken time to prepare something for me makes my eyes water with gratitude. It’s only a simple thing, but it’s so kind of him.
It takes me five minutes to eat it in the office, and by the time I come out the queue hasn’t died down, so I get back to work.
He pours an espresso into a take-out cup, and next to him, I fill an order for another customer. H
e leans in close to me and whispers, ‘You’ve got a crumb on the side of your mouth.’
I surprise myself by not flinching at his proximity. He’s talking about a crumb, but the moment feels intimate somehow, our faces only inches apart as we work. I smell faint traces of spicy aftershave and soap and something minty. I inhale his scent, trying to breathe him into me.
I giggle. Yes, I actually giggle. For some reason it’s funny, because it’s so sweet of him to tell me. ‘Thanks,’ I whisper back.
‘You’re welcome.’ He turns back to hand over the coffee to the waiting customer.
I turn the open sign to closed, and he’s already behind the counter, making us hot chocolate. It seems to have become our after-work ritual, and it beats any of the other ones I’ve done so far, like checking the locks.
I sit in my usual seat and watch him work. The way his lower lip juts out slightly as he concentrates. How he moves with a relaxed sureness about him.
He lifts his head and catches me watching him. My cheeks heat up, and I avert my gaze to the window.
‘Busy day.’ He sits down opposite me and puts the drinks on the table.
‘I’m knackered.’ I cradle the mug in my hands, staring at the froth and chocolate sprinkles on top. It’s hot and creamy, and it reminds me of Mum making it for me when I was a kid. For some reason the sprinkles make me smile.
‘What do you do on your day off?’ he asks. ‘Do you get to relax at all, because I’m not surprised you’re knackered. You start at stupid-o-clock in the morning and don’t finish until late.’
I almost laugh. I can’t tell him the truth. I usually hibernate in my flat and end up with a panic attack because I’m there alone, and all I think about is Theo coming to get me, which makes the lock-checking and sitting there staring at the door a million times worse.
