by Leanne Davis
It’s the first time I’ve ever feared for my safety. That’s a new phenomenon for me. My hands are still shaking as I rush into the house. I start crying immediately when my mom gets up and hurries over at my hasty, dramatic entrance. She takes me in her arms and I cling to her shoulders crying as I tuck my face into her neck.
“Hey, hey, baby, what happened? Are you okay?” she croons, her voice full of concern and love.
I lean back and shake my head when I finally calm down. “I r-ran into Harrison and some of his friends…”
“Oh, honey.” Her arms scoop me up again. I sob against her chest.
“I know what I did to him. I know I made him feel awful. But…”
“What did they say?”
“I just didn’t expect it would be that bad. They… they scared me. I’ve never been afraid for my safety before. I mean… I can’t describe it… I felt so small and helpless and so, so weak. I’ve never felt so weak before, Mom.”
I hug her and cry again. I know I’ve lost my mind and sound like a teenager. I’m just so unnerved by how violated and vulnerable I feel after being manhandled.
“Did they hurt you?”
“No.” I take in a deep breath, my voice rattling with emotion as I try to calm down so she can understand me. I’m sure I just scared the crap out of her. She doesn’t deserve it, considering her own history. I shake my head and reply, “No.”
She takes my hand and leads me to the couch. I flop down and begin picking my fingernails nervously. I take in a deep breath and begin, “They surrounded me. They were calling me names… bitch, cunt, whore. But Jamie grabbed my arm and Bobby stood behind me so I was trapped by them as Harrison just stayed neutral. He didn’t do or say anything, but he didn’t help me either. He just… stood there. I know what I did. But what about what he just did?”
Mom grips my hand. “You know the answer. Nothing you did can justify him bullying you. Nothing.”
I glance down, staring at my fingertips. “It feels like more than nothing. I feels like I did something and that I deserve it, Mom. It’s hard for me to find the difference. I know I don’t want them touching me, but I when I looked into Harrison’s face, all I felt was regret and sorrow for what I did to him. So maybe I deserve some kind of repercussion.”
“No. You don’t. You deserve to walk down the street unafraid and untouched. No one should touch you. No matter what you did.”
I shake my head. “My head knows that, but my heart can’t help but qualify what they did. What Harrison did. He’s hurt and humiliated and he just wants me to suffer as he is. It seems like a realistic reaction to what I did. I can’t erase the harm I did.”
My mom stares into my eyes. “You have to move past this. You can apologize, but Harrison and his friends’ actions cannot touch you and their words can’t intimidate you. You have to hold strong. If you think your aunt and I didn’t deserve what happened to us, then you can’t think you deserve this happening to you.”
I sit up straight, startled. “Mom, I never for a moment thought this was even in the same ball park as what happened to you. Oh my God! It’s nothing like it.”
She sighs deeply and cups my cheeks. “It actually is, sweetie. It’s in the ball park. It’s someone lining up to practice hitting the ball in the same park.”
I shake my head. “No. Mom, it isn’t,” I insist, sure. “This was deserved retaliation that didn’t feel good. What happened to you was rape and assault.”
“It starts somewhere, Emily,” she says it softly and easily, with complete confidence.
I shake my head, sure these aren’t the same experiences. That Harrison hasn’t taken some baby step towards a slippery slope of violence. It was annoying and mildly harassing to me, but it wasn’t what Mom experienced. My gaze holds my mom’s as she stares at me, her lips flat in anger.
“Do the memories ever fade?” I finally ask after a weighted silence. I squeeze her hand and she grips mine back. She’s worried about me and I find it sweet. It also squeezes my heart that I brought this to her and scared her. She doesn’t deserve it. The stress or worry over something I could have handled on my own. I should have handled it on my own and not come blubbering home to a mother who is a survivor of sexual violence.
Her expression tells me she knows I mean her memories, and not my own of this far, far milder incident.
“No. But they change. I don’t know how to describe it. It’s like you grow used to them, the memories. They still hurt, and they’re terrible, ugly, and brutal, but they aren’t new. They aren’t as vivid as the fresh experience. So what shocks you is something I got used to.” She leans forward and grips my shoulder. “Your experience isn’t mine. But mine doesn’t make yours any less legitimate. Harrison and his two friends bullied you and physically intimidated you. From something like that, violence can follow. That’s why you’re so scared and confused. That is where it starts. They think they are bigger and stronger, so they’re justified in their intimidation of you.”
“But they didn’t actually do anything.”
“Nope. Not yet. But it doesn’t mean that one of them won’t try. Especially if they feel emboldened by what they consider justifiable reasons.”
“You think I’m in danger? From Harrison?”
“I think his behavior is unacceptable. I think we should report this. I know nothing will be done about it, but at least, it will be on record.”
“NO! You can’t. It’ll only make it worse. What I did to him—”
“Doesn’t justify that kind of response. No one stood up for me or for Lindsey. Do you really think I, of all people, wouldn’t stand up for you? Nobody needs to be physically intimidated when they’re walking down the sidewalk. It’s not okay. Ever. Even if he caught you fucking his best man on the altar of the church.”
“Mom.” My eyes are wide with disbelief. Her voice is calm. She isn’t even wound up.
“Emily, I love you to death, but you are the most politically correct, unsuspecting daughter I’ve ever met. I said that to shock you and illustrate my point. Yes, one should not do that, but even if you did, neither Harrison, his father, his brother, his friends, his mother, his sister, nor anyone else, has the right to intimidate or harass you in any way.”
“I don’t want to make any more of this. It was upsetting but I’ll look like a crazy, whiny crybaby. It's—”
“Exactly what they’re counting on. Violence starts with minor threats, like a tone of voice, and then moves to intimidation and bullying. See how you feel in this situation? Now imagine if it involved your intimate, most private parts and maybe then you can begin to understand why so many victims like me never say anything.”
My cheeks burn up. She’s right. I’m embarrassed at the encounter and prefer to just forget about it and never think of it again. But it’s so mild compared to real assault. I see her point. I nod my head. “Okay,” I whisper, staring at my hands.
She presses her lips together and touches my chin. “I’m sorry, Emily.”
“You had so much worse. I can’t even…”
“You’re my daughter. You think I want you experiencing a taste of what happened to me? This? No. No woman should. That is the point, but it’s not the reality.”
“Should we wait for Dad?”
She stands up, already dragging her coat on. “Emily, I once needed your dad to stick up for me. But for you? I don’t need anyone to help me do that. And you know what? You are going to learn to do that for yourself. You don’t need me or your dad to stick up for you. You know what is right and how you should be treated. It’s your basic right to walk down a sidewalk without being grabbed and held in place. You don’t need justification for wanting that right. So no, we are going. You and I.”
Then my mom drags me to the local police station. I am burning with shame as I stand there while she does all the talking, insisting on reporting it to a detective and will not take no as an answer. A portly man enters the small room where we are seated and introduces h
imself. He nods at me. His face is neutral. He’s neither annoyed we’re taking up his time nor overtly friendly. “So you had some trouble?”
I glance at mom and with her eyes wide she tilts her head slightly as if to say speak. I lick my lips. “Yes. I was bothered by my ex-fiancé’s friends. I’m not looking to press charges or anything. I just wanted to make a record in case…” In case why again? I focus on my fingers. I can’t do this. I feel like such a fraud. My mom puts her hand over mine.
She straightens up. “Emily recently jilted Harrison Jencks at the altar. He is understandably angry. She doesn’t begrudge him this. But when he and his two friends Jamie Carlberg and Bobby Bretelson detained her on the street, that is what she has a problem with. Do you agree?” My mother’s tone is acidic as she raises an eyebrow at the detective. Her point is obvious that if he didn’t see that as a problem, then he’d soon have a problem. From her.
He nods and a small smile touches the corner of his mouth. “I do agree. I wish more people would give us this kind of warning. Create this kind of record.”
“Go ahead, Emily,” Mom says as she nudges me again to speak.
I tell him my story. He takes it down and promises to speak with all three of them with a warning. I was not pressing charges at this time, but they would be warned and if anything like this happened again I might have grounds for a restraining order.
I shake the man’s hand, surprised he’d taken me so seriously. Mom hugs me when we step out of the station. “I’m proud of you. I know how hard that was and how unjustified you felt. But you did the right thing.”
“I hope so,” I say as I close my eyes, suddenly exhausted from the day. First work, then the confrontation, and then the adrenaline rush of reporting it. I want to go home and burrow under my bed covers. The reoccurring theme of my summer.
It’s a day later when I get a text from Harrison. You called the police? What the hell is wrong with you? You did this to me. You stupid bitch. What kind of games are you playing? You going to cry rape next? Startled, I click to delete it, but then I don’t. I decide to keep it. Just… I don’t know why. Just in case. He’s so angry at me. And irrational. He’s responding in ways I never pictured him doing. I flop down on my bed, depressed and upset. If Harrison could turn so—whatever it’s called—and start bullying me, no matter if he thinks he’s justified, then why not every other guy? After listening to my mom’s story and experiencing my own ordeal, I feel so let down by the entire male population. Even knowing my dad, Max, Sam, and Seth would never do such things or condone such behavior, it still exists.
Harrison calls my number. I won’t engage any longer. I don’t answer his three calls. I gave him a chance to say his piece on the day I went to his house. I was willing to listen to him chew me out and say whatever he needed to. That’s off the table now that this has happened. I think I’m going to listen to my mother this time and take it as the warning it needs to be. I no longer feel like I owe him my ear. I might have allowed him to vent before all this happened but with the anger and rage, he took it too far and now I won’t concern myself with it.
I curl up and cry, realizing my once innocent first love ended like this. Ugly. Tainted. No contact desired ever again.
Then I get three texts from high school friends. They are milder than Harrison’s but still full of the same outrage. How could I do that? What was my game? When had I turned into such a bitch?
I browse through social media. It turns my stomach into knots. There are posts on every social media venue about me. All with the general gist that I was trying to cause problems for Harrison, Jamie, and Bobby. I’m the villain. What happened and how I reacted spread like wild fire and I am shocked at the outcry towards me.
I feel abandoned by most of our friends in Ellensburg, since they were joint friends. Taking several calls over the next few days from both sexes, I admit to what I did to Harrison. I try to contradict stories that keep coming up about how I first left him at the altar and humiliated him before going crazy and calling the cops on him. After a few unappreciated explanations, I give up and stop taking any more calls. What I did in this town won’t be forgotten or forgiven anytime soon.
I’m officially the town pariah for kids my age. My peers, the ones that I know anyway, hate me.
At first it makes me want to stay hidden in my room. Another week of the shit storm portrays the three men as victims of me. Which is crap because nothing happened to them. They got warnings to leave me alone. Wow. Call the National Guard out to protect them from me. I mean shit! I can’t quite explain how half the entire young people of town have decided I’m to blame. My parents don’t fully comprehend how big the backlash towards me is. They don’t do much social media and I sure as hell am not going to point it out to them.
Feeling hurt and frustrated, I look for ways to channel it. One night lying in bed after scrolling through some nasty private messages from various sources, I flip my phone around in my hands and stare up at it. I start filming myself. I’m lying in bed, the lighting is bad, yet I start talking. I don’t think about what I’m going to say nor do I care. It’s private, but I just start expressing what I would usually write.
“I dared to say no to a boy and now most every person my age hates me,” I start off saying. Then it flows from me like a great purge. I explain what I did, brutally honest to the pain I caused Harrison. But also, what he is doing to me and why I went to the police. I click the video off, and for the first time since this happened I feel relief. Validated. Yet nothing has changed.
It’s days before I watch the video and something strikes me. It’s honest. There is a rawness to how I speak that comes across with the purity of what I said and felt. It’s better than any of the formal reports and interviews I’d worked on in school where I’d studied journalism. I hadn’t appeared to have a talent for the thought-out stuff. But this? It was moving. Like it or hate it, what I said felt like it would have an effect on someone listening.
It stuck with me. It lingered. Confused as to why it helped, I made three more videos about it. And then I stuck them on my own YouTube channel and I smirked, figuring if I got a dozen views I’d be doing well. There was nothing to accomplish. I wasn’t going to advertise it. I just… I don’t know. It made me feel better. Was it symbolic? Yes. I think it might have been symbolic. I was saying something. I was resisting. I was speaking out, even if the medium I used wasn’t going to be heard by anyone. I heard it. And perhaps that was reason enough. To vindicate and validate myself.
Still the isolation hurts. Having nasty comments on display about me by people I knew and once socialized with, stings more than I’d ever dreamed. I’d never been bullied or ostracized before. I didn’t know how fast it could happen, or how deep inside one’s brain it could dig in. Or how it could take a normally well-centered and confident person and make them doubt everything about themselves as I’ve started to do.
Hollow feeling.
I need a friend in my life. The only one I feel like I could have left is Ramiro. Ramiro has no connection to Harrison or the community that is now so angry at me. I think I need a friend. I think I need him.
Chapter Seven
~Ramiro~
After six weeks, I hear a knock and when I answer the door, there she stands. Out of absolutely nowhere on a Saturday afternoon at four o’clock, there she is. Emily Hendricks. She looks so different from when I met her. Fitted clothes, and her hair neatly pulled back in a braid that twists around the side of her head. She smiles when she spots me through the small peephole of the door. I pull it open.
“Emily Hendricks?” I say her name with a smirk and a grandiose tone of voice. “Long time, no see.”
She starts to smile, but it doesn’t take. Her entire face crumples up and tears enter her eyes. Shocked I open the door more. She shakes her head, dropping her face down and wiping her eyes. She smiles again, obviously embarrassed. “Sorry. It’s just nice to have someone sound happy to see me.”
Odd
-assed statement. “Who wouldn’t want to see you, snowflake?” I ask in a flirting tone.
Her smile is tremulous. “You’d be surprised. Am I interrupting anything?”
“Just got home from rototilling an old lady’s yard before I install a sprinkler system.” I open the door wider and step back.
“You never gave me your number, so I couldn’t call you.”
“Well, I didn’t think there was much point in that.”
She shrugs and walks around, touching a magazine, then a half-dead plant leaf as if she’s inspecting the place. Eventually, she flops down on a seat.
“So what happened? What made you finally come see me again? Why the tears? Well, let me guess, this goes back to Harrison.”
“Yes. Harrison.” She sighs and shakes her head. Staring at her clasped fingers in her lap she says, “I managed to humiliate myself and inflame Harrison and every other person we were ever friends with.”
My smile fades. “Maybe you need new friends then.”
“I do. I actually need friends. Up for it?” Her eyebrows rise with her voice. “I think that’s why I’m here.”
My sarcastic tone is gone. “Are you for real? You really lost friends from ditching the nuptials?”
“Yeah. Had to report some of his friends to the police. That ended in half the town hating me. I think that’s why I’m here. I wanted someone on my side, besides my family. So I guess I came here for—”
“Police? What do you mean?” My tone is alarmed. God, I suck at revenge. I should feel some kind of secret pleasure from hearing any Hendricks problem or trouble, but no, not when it concerns her. She’s such a decent person that it’s hard for me to wish her ill.
