by Sandra Block
“Do you want me to help you find it?” he asks.
• • •
It doesn’t take him long.
James heard the video was hosted by some men’s rights website, with a mission statement of “reasserting the natural order of white male primacy.” Reportedly, Steve, the asshole, was researching the site for a sexual harassment case and came across my video. And as per the natural order of white male primacy, he decided to show his friends instead of telling me about it.
“You sure you want to do this?” he asks.
“Yes,” I answer. And he hands my phone back to me.
The phone trembles in my hands. As the picture pops into motion, I have an odd sense of being above myself in the hospital bed, watching me watching myself on the phone. The same feeling I used to have right after I was raped. Sometimes, my brain would slyly and unpredictably leave my body, slipping away and floating up to the ceiling. And I am there again now, both in myself and hovering over myself.
The video goes on for eight minutes.
It is grainy and shadowy, taken off a phone probably. I assume the attack went on longer, but I don’t know for sure. It is an odd scene, grisly in a strangely, anodyne way. Students mill about in the corner, like it’s no big deal that someone is getting repeatedly raped on a mattress in the corner of the room. Another kid is doing a bong in a recliner. There is some laughter and high-fives, as you might expect, but also an animated discussion about a math problem somewhere in the background. A brief but loud debate about the hockey team in minute three.
And lying on a mattress is a girl being raped, repeatedly. She is twisted in odd ways, like a rag doll. She is spun over several times. Her head hits the floor once, with a maneuvering. The girl is silent at times, moaning at others. Sometimes she cries.
And I can’t get my head around the idea that the girl is me.
Three people rape her, on camera at least. I recognize only one of the perpetrators. Terry, from my Civ Ed class. I can’t remember his last name. He asked me out once, and I turned him down. Nicely, I thought. But I guess not nicely enough. Terry is the first, then two others, then the third rapist says, “Dude, quit filming. It’s your turn.”
The scene sways and then goes black.
I assume he raped the girl too, the cameraman. But I can’t see him.
I put the phone down on the bed. I hear James’s ragged breath next to me. I hear my roommate arguing with her boyfriend again, about balloons this time.
And then I come down. The hazy, gauzy feeling is stripped off and I am me, in the bed again, the cell phone askew on the blanket with only the baseball cap of the fourth rapist showing. I am her. I am the girl in the video. The girl who woke up with brush burns on her face and time ripped out of her life.
A hand reaches over and holds on to my elbow. An anchoring hand, that keeps me from disappearing into the ceiling again.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
And I nod. And I try not to, but I can’t help it. I lie back in the bed and I cry.
• • •
At some point, I must have fallen asleep.
A brisk knock wakes me up, and when I glance at the clock, I can’t believe it’s only been fifteen minutes. James is still sitting next to me when Eli saunters in.
“A hummus wrap, m’lady?” He sees James, then my puffy face. “Is everything okay here?”
“Yeah,” I say and sit up a bit. “James is keeping me company.”
Eli takes in the flowers and nods. He walks in to place the hummus wrap on the table, along with some perfume-y magazines. He walks toward me, then stands there a second, appearing to be debating something. Then abruptly, he says, “Well, I better be off. You seem like you’re in good hands here.” He zips up his leather coat.
“You don’t have to…” James says. “Because of me.”
“No, no. I have to get some stuff done before work anyway.” He leans over and kisses me on the forehead, in a way that declares friendship, not ownership. “Call me when you get home,” he whispers, then straightens back up and waves goodbye to James.
After Eli leaves, we don’t talk for a while, the air charged between us.
“Sodium oxybate,” James says out of nowhere. “I would bet my life on it.”
“What’s that?”
“Date rape drug. Potent enough to erase your memory. Kill you even.” He swallows. “That’s what they would have used. You didn’t stand a chance.”
“Yeah, well, they screwed up the tox screen so…guess we’ll never know.” I shift in the bed, tugging on my IV. “And I was drunk. And pretty fucking high.”
“All the better for them,” he says. “They knew exactly what they were doing.”
This gives me pause. I’d never thought of it that way before. Of course they knew what they were doing. Plausible deniability. She was drunk and high—the get-out-of-jail-free card. And oh, we might have just drugged her to seal the deal.
“Who would do that?” I ask with a certain disbelief. “What kind of human being does that?”
He shakes his head. “Monsters.”
“No. That’s the thing. It’s not monsters,” I stress. “Just normal guys at a party, having a good time. It meant nothing to them. Plowing some drunk girl like she’s some piece of…meat. Like she’s just part of the entertainment.” The tape around my IV itches, and I scratch fiercely at it. “Who would do that?” I repeat. My heart races, triggering an alarm on the monitor. I find myself gritting my teeth, my jaw clenching so hard that it aches.
“I want to fucking kill them,” I say. “Each and every one of them.”
His lips tighten into a line. “I’m sorry, Dahlia.”
“To make them hurt, you know?”
“I know.”
“Hurt. Like they hurt me.”
James is bent over in the chair, his elbows on his knees, his long fingers interlaced. “I wish I could solve this.”
“You can’t,” I say, shaking my head. “There is no solution. It’s done. It’s over.”
He frowns. “It isn’t over for you though. Just like it isn’t over for me. With Ramona.” He looks glumly at my blanket. “It will never be.”
I don’t have an answer to this. And there doesn’t seem to be a reason to pursue this line of reasoning, which will do nothing but depress us further. James sits there silently brooding, and I lick my chapped lips. I’m getting tired and trying to think of a nice way to ask him to leave.
But he looks up at me. “We could do something, you know.”
I shift in the bed. “What?”
“Hurt them,” he says. When I don’t answer, his face flashes doubt, but he does not look away.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Hurt them,” he repeats.
I stare at him, to make sure he is serious. “What, you mean…”
“We have the tape now. We’ve seen them all. We could—”
“I’m not going to the police,” I say, before he goes any further.
“I didn’t say anything about the police,” he answers, carefully. “Just…however. We could come up with something. To hurt them back.” He swallows. “The way they hurt you.”
I don’t say anything for a minute, just stare at the clock on the wall, the seconds ticking by.
Hurt them. My jaw loosens for an instant. Could I do that?
“I mean,” he hedges. “We don’t have to.” He slumps an inch in the chair. “It’s probably a stupid idea.”
I am still staring at the wall, when I realize that I don’t have the energy to think about this right now. I am so, so tired. And the truth is, I want to be left alone. My eyes start to close again.
“Hey,” he whispers, and my eyelids flutter open. “I’m going to get going, okay?”
“Thanks for coming, James.” I slur the words out, almost asleep.
And as I hear his footsteps tap out of the room, the idea worms its way into my mind, half dreaming already. Hurt them.
Hurt them, like they hurt you.
And I feel something flitting around the corners of my mind. Not quite getting in, but trying to worm its way through. Something unfamiliar.
Something like hope, maybe.
Chapter Fourteen
James
I hate hospitals.
Walking outside of the automatic doors, I take in a cold breath that hurts my lungs. I’ve only been to a hospital twice. Once when I broke my arm and the other time for Ramona. When I came to see Dahlia, I had a sick feeling on the elevator, not just because of the cologne from the man in the business suit. Just being there brought it all back. The chime of the elevator, the squeak of the floors, the ammonia. Ramona was lying in the bed, her face swollen to twice its size, lip split, nose pushed to the side. She looked like a cartoon character of herself. My father paced around the room while my mother stared straight ahead, like she couldn’t see anything.
But when I got to see Dahlia, she looked okay. She looked like Dahlia.
She told me about her seizures, and I know all about seizures because a kid from my high school had them. He was the closest I had to a friend—probably because he got shunned by everyone else. I don’t know what they’re all so afraid of, I told him. It’s an electrical problem with your brain. Just faulty wiring is all. But he looked like someone else when he was having them, drooling and his body in spasm. I could see why the other kids were scared.
Dahlia looked like herself, but tired. And we watched the video.
A car honks at me as I cross the street, and I notice that the signal has turned. That happens to me sometimes. My thoughts get so strong that they take over the real world, and I don’t see things right in front of me. Walking down the street, I count my steps. When I get to seventeen, my nerves start to settle down. The counting thing is weird, but it works. Another thing Jamal taught me.
But then, I think about the video and start counting again.
The video. There’s no word for it. If there were a bad things file in my head, it would be locked away in there. I would cordon it off like the worst virus ever made and kill it dead.
Sitting with Dahlia on the hospital bed, I had a flashback to Ramona that night.
What can I do? I asked my sister. I remember feeling guilty, like I should have helped her, protected her. Let me help, I said. But Ramona didn’t want my help. She said, Don’t worry about it. It’s not worth it. They’re just a bunch of stupid townies. Tears ran down her purple-blue, swollen cheeks. I couldn’t help but wonder if that’s what Rob would have said. But Rob wasn’t there. So I asked her again to be sure, and she said, Forget about it, James. That’s what I want you to do. Forget about it. For the first time in her entire life, she looked tired of me.
I was going to do it too, anyway. I was going to hunt every one of them down, even if I had to go to jail. But then, she died. And it wasn’t worth it anymore. There was no point. So I tried to do what Ramona asked me to do, forget about it. But I couldn’t.
And maybe Dahlia wants the same thing, just to forget about it. But I don’t think so. I could tell by the way she was looking at the wall. Thinking about it. And maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. But I wanted to help somehow. I remember having nightmares after Ramona died. That somehow I was programming the video game she was in. And I couldn’t stop building the bridge that she jumped off. I kept trying to make it lower, or create a trampoline underneath her, but I wouldn’t stop coding the damn bridge. It was awful.
But this is different. We actually have a chance. We could work on the code together this time and change the game. So Dahlia wins. Dahlia stands victorious with her purple hair and all her tattoos, and the villains in the video lose. They lose badly.
We make them hurt.
I’ve stopped counting my footsteps by the time I get to the T station. As I’m walking down the stairs, someone bumps into me. I feel in my pocket for my wallet, which is still there. That happened on the subway once when I first went to MIT, and they took everything. My parents had to help me get my driver’s license and credit cards back. Another reason I hate the T.
Soon, my car will be fixed, and I won’t have to worry about all this, standing there in the gray, damp tunnel, waiting for the train and calculating how many minutes I’m wasting. But I hardly even think about that now.
I couldn’t help my sister, but maybe I can help Dahlia.
Chapter Fifteen
HAWK CLUB CHAT ROOM
Bruinsblow: Okay, guys. Vihaan and I called the meeting because we got a situation here.
Joe225: Wait. Before we go any further, no one can hack into here, right?
Holts: Yeah, Vihaan. We’re using names etc. You sure this is secure?
Desiforever: Yes, for the hundredth time. It’s secure. It’s got like 10 firewalls. This isn’t a fucking Facebook group.
Holts: Fine. Chill. I just want to be sure.
PorscheD: What’s up?
Bruinsblow: Someone posted a video of one of the parties.
Taxman: WHAT??
Bruinsblow: Stevie-O saw it. On some dumb-ass men’s rights website.
Mollysdad: Vaguely remember Stevie-O. He was outgoing President when I punched.
Joe225: Yeah, he’s a solid guy.
Bruinsblow: He’s at a law firm in Boston. Researching some case and he found it.
Taxman: Which party was it?
Bruinsblow: I didn’t remember but Stevie-O said her name was Dahlia.
Mollysdad: No recollection. But we were pretty wasted.
PorscheD: I remember a Daisy? Never got partied though.
Creoletransplant: No. Daisy was the hot one. Blond.
Joe225: I remember Dahlia. She was in Civ Ed with me and Cary Graham. Total stuck-up bitch.
Holts: I do too. She was pretty smart though, bro.
PorscheD: Not that smart, lol
Bruinsblow: Here’s the problem, some of us are on that clip, and she saw it.
Creoletransplant: She SAW it???
Taxman: Who’s on there?
Desiforever: Don’t know. The link Stevie-O sent didn’t work. He’s trying again, but Graham called me totally freaking out. Guess he’s on it front and center.
Mollysdad: Oooh snap. Not good.
Holts: Who cares? She was so messed up. She probably doesn’t remember a thing. It’s not like she was putting up a fight or something.
Bruinsblow: Yeah, but what if she goes to the police?
Desiforever: Supposedly she had some kind of seizure after she saw it. Doubt she’s going to the police.
Holts: No way. She’d get crucified.
Mollysdad: Who put it on the website though?
PorscheD: *crickets*
Mollysdad: No one on here obviously
Desiforever: I think it’s good we all know about it. Don’t think it requires action though.
Taxman: Agreed.
Bruinsblow: You sure about that?
Desiforever: Absolutely. Just wanted to let people know.
Bruinsblow: Fine. All in favor then? Do nothing?
Creoletransplant: Aye, aye.
Holts: Second.
Bruinsblow: Okay then. Agreed. We watch and wait.
Desiforever: For now.
Chapter Sixteen
Five Years Ago
For some reason, I keep staring at his hood.
The thick, gray faux fur stitched onto the hood of the campus policeman’s coat. I never really paid attention to them at all before, much less their hoods. They were just “security guys” who were neither here nor there.
Right now, Security Guy is standing next to the “real” police, in a starchy blue uniform that pouches at the bel
ly. Officer Morris, his name tag says. He is in his thirties with oily skin and ginger, balding hair.
“So you claim you were raped?” he asks.
Daisy answers for me. “She doesn’t claim anything. Look at her.”
He does, then looks back at his notebook. “And when did you say this occurred?”
“I don’t know.”
Now he looks my way again, eyebrows raised. “You don’t know?”
“I was pretty out of it. Last night sometime.”
“Uh-huh.” The phrase is fairly dripping with disdain.
“Jesus,” Daisy breaks in. “She was obviously drugged or something. She barely remembers anything.”
“Did you have anything to drink last night?” he asks me.
I nod.
“How much?”
There is a pause, while Security Guy slurps coffee.
“How much?” Officer Morris repeats, with less patience.
“I don’t know. Four…five.”
“Aren’t you going to take pictures or anything?” Daisy asks.
“How about drugs?” Morris asks, ignoring her. “Did you have any of those? Uppers? Pot?”
I avoid Daisy’s eyes. Even I’m not stupid enough to fall for this one. “No,” I lie.
“So you were at a party,” Morris says, pronouncing it in the Boston way, “pah-ty.” He scratches an incipient mustache. “And what, you were kissing and things got a little rough?”
“Pick a scenario,” Daisy mutters. “Any scenario.”
“No,” I say. “I was raped.” I look down at my hands, more scratch marks. “I don’t remember how I got there. But there was a mattress. More than one guy.”
Security Guy starts writing. “Where was this?” Morris asks.
“I don’t know.”
“Not the actual address,” Morris explains. “Just the place.”
“I don’t know,” I repeat, feeling like an idiot.
He shrugs at Security Guy. “That’s not much to go on, hon.”
I don’t answer. I want them to go away. I need them to go away.
“This may be kind of tough,” Morris says, using a fake, caring tone that he probably learned in a sensitivity class. “But you say you were raped. Can you tell me exactly what they did to you?”
