TWELVE MINUTES

by Kathryn Hewitt

  TWELVE MINUTES

  Kathryn Hewitt

  Copyright © 2021 Kathryn Hewitt

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN-13: 9781234567890

  ISBN-10: 1477123456

  Cover design by: SelfPubBookCovers.com/ BeeJavier

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309

  Printed in the United States of America

  ONE

  It was my sixteenth birthday when my parents told me that they were divorcing. I remember it like it was yesterday: every sharp inhale, every pleading glance, every thunderous thump of my heart. I tried everything within my arsenal. My first go-to was begging, but I quickly switched to imploring to their reason, relying heavily on the moral self and concluding that the greater good was more important than the happiness of the individual. None of these tactics worked, obviously, and from that day forward I realized that I would have two of everything, yet half of what I always felt mattered.

  It was my eighteenth birthday when I was forced face down into a leaf covered area of packed dirt, my cheek pressed to the textured concrete of a drainage culvert that ran along the path, my pants torn down. I was flipped at the last second because he wanted to see my, "Pretty face.” I remember it like it was yesterday: every sharp inhale, every pleading glance, every thunderous thump of my heart.

  Terrified, I realized that this was what everyone warned you about. This was the unspeakable, the unimaginable. This, which seeped into every facet of a young woman’s life; the preparations and warnings and precautions. The fear.

  And all of it be damned. No one could prepare you for the terror of this. And worse, there was no way to teach enough to guarantee an unscathed escape.

  Unscathed.

  I learned all of this and more during that 12 minutes, the duration of my “assault” that was the best that I could estimate, knowing how long it took me to get to this point in my run, and having taken fastidious note of the time when I’d left. That, in conjuction with a guestimate of the time it was when I finally felt slightly less blinded by an apparent short circuiting in my brain, was what resulted in the police and I assigning this arbitrary number to the least, and most, arbitrary event in my life.

  “Thank god it wasn’t longer,” my mom responded upon hearing this first step toward turning a life changing, indescribable, universe shattering phenomenon, into a categorically characterized classification. An unfortunate event.

  As if 12 minutes was so much better than 20, or god forbid 30…or even 14 minutes. Twelve minutes. And I felt every 720,000,000,000 Nanoseconds. And no, that is not hyperbole.

  Would we be rejoicing if it had been 11 minutes, Mother?

  Thankfully, the anti-anxiety and pain medication started to kick in just as I was starting to contemplate far too deeply everything that could happen in 12 minutes…

  TWO

  “Bye,” I hollered as I slammed the front door behind me, a habit that my mom hated, but there was something about the weight of the door, and the satisfaction that a good slam created, which made it impossible to stop doing. Sorry mom. I’ll make it up to you one day, I thought, as I started walking down my residential street. That, and all of those wet towels that I’d left on the floor. I needed to warm up a bit before I did my usual loop that cut through the park, so I always started out slowly as I headed toward my destination. I loved running past the sunbathers and along the treeline, and there was nothing as soothing as routine.

  There was this fountain, just inside the grove of trees that created a backdrop of greenery. It sounds lame, but I loved that fountain. It was a pretty pathetic replica of the Trevi Fountain, but still, I loved it. I had backpacked through Europe with my sister after she had graduated from college, and we were unlucky enough to have set off on this life changing adventure during what turned out to be a record setting heat wave. Needless to say, Rome was hot. As in, one night I literally had to take a cold shower in the middle of the night at the hostel that we were staying at, in order to bring my body temperature back down…and my hair had dried by the time I’d fallen back to sleep. Hot.

  Rome was also dusty, at a point in our trip where our spirits had been worn down past the this-is-an-adventure and into the I-would-sell-my-soul-for stage, and did I mention, HOT? I never knew I’d miss ice in my water so much. I’d had enough. I was far from home, hot and sweaty, and wearing a pair of underwear that I had washed in the sink for the fourth time the night before, and which had developed a distinct coarseness.

  I threatened to not toss a penny over my shoulder, going against what the old tradition suggests in order to guarantee your return to Rome. Like the child that I was, masquerading as a budding adult, I declared that I never wanted to return to this dusty old place that was hotter than a bitch. Did I mention that I was a tad grumpy? I announced this to my sister, at the base of the Trevi Fountain in Rome, Italy, being swarmed by people from all over the world, all with a story to tell. Like a child, I turned my back on that masterpiece.

  The same child that I felt like, the child that I was, during those 12 minutes.

  A two hundred and fifty year old work of art that had seen more joy and more atrocities than I could ever imagine, was not something that you disrespected. Perhaps it was also the child in me that succumbed to the lure of everything that fountain had borne witness to. Because despite my stubbornness and my heat exhaustion, I still grasped on some level the majesty that I was being blessed with experiencing, the honor that I was being given the gift of. Right hand over left shoulder, I tossed that darn penny into the fountain. Who was I to buck tradition? Well, at least, who was I not to believe in magic, to feel so inner-directed that I missed the splendor in front of me?

  That was why that rinky-dink rendition in our park held such a special place in my heart. It reminded me that even at your lowest point, you could still be surprised by the grandness of life. And that it was worth it to appreciate. Every time I took that route, I slowed at that fountain, tossing a penny over my shoulder and into it. I had it on good authority, or at least a lot of unsuccessful googling and the eventual befriending of the Park Plant Manager, Ralph, that the spare change was collected from the fountain and donated to the local food kitchen. I felt good contributing to that, regardless of how small my donation.

  I always closed my eyes when I stopped to toss my penny.

  I always closed my eyes and took a moment, breathed, reflected.

  I always closed my eyes.

  Did he know that I always closed my eyes?

  He ruined my special place. He ruined so much, but I hated him for making me despise that fountain, want to spit into it instead of tossing in a penny, made me shudder when I simply saw the exact vibrant shade of green that grove of trees turned at that time of year. Green was my favorite color. Was.

  The funny thing was that I was so immersed in what had become the spiritual and meditative moment of my run, that even as I felt the arm wrap around my shoulder and spin me, my eyes were still closed. The impact of the swivel was just forceful enough to be deliberate and with intent, but gentle enough that my sense of alarm was tricked for a moment. Before I could even contemplate this, my eyes popped open and I saw that I was being walked rapidly toward the wood, realized that the gentle arm around my shoulder had now slid tightly over my collarbone and against my throat, applying enough pressure that when I went to scream,
and I definitely tried to scream, my windpipe was compressed and no sound came out. I silently screamed and that arm just tightened. Tightened.

  All the while my legs were propelling me forward, and the force had managed to wrap itself…Himself my subconscious screamed…almost entirely around me. This was when we hit enough cover that I was suddenly swept up and over His shoulder in one effortless swoop. The maneuver was so well orchestrated that I was practically impressed by the gracefulness of the act.

  Reality was catching up, and so was my brain. As inconceivable as it was, as incomprehensible, I somehow came to the understanding that someone, someone strong enough to move me without my will and toss me over their shoulder, had taken me. Taken. I’d been taken? Brushing that aside, I forced myself to focus. Man. Definitely a man, despite the fact that he hadn’t spoken, and had manipulated me in such a way as to not allow me even a glimpse of his face. Had to be a man, because this particular one was pretty huge.

  The ground disappeared beneath my eyes as he sped up, and despite the blood rushing to my head, I continued to flounder. He had a death grip across the backs of my thighs, and had grasped my upper right arm painfully tight, with his other arm wrapped behind his own back. I was conclusively and effectively pinned. And I was pretty sure that my arm wasn’t supposed to bend that way.

  So I started to scream. And scream I did.

  I grew up in a household where screaming was not allowed; we were taught that screaming indicates that someone is in trouble so that you shouldn’t scream unless you actually needed help. Consequently, I never knew how powerfully I could scream. Apparently, I can scream. Loudly. And somehow, in my attempt at the worm as I fought to escape my captor, combined with my newly discovered symphonics, I managed to scream right into said captor’s ear.

  Loud. Dog loud.

  I’d barely formed the thought that this had been a stroke of luck when it was dramatically obliterated along with my right orbital bone. The force of his blow astounded me; how had he struck me so hard while still maintaining his vise-like grip? Then the pain radiated, and suddenly every step we took was torture as I was jostled, hanging like a rag doll.

  And then he spoke.

  He’d either reduced his pace, or such tangible proof of this unknown assailant who had already visited on me far worse than my imagination had ever reached, but it brought about some kind of clarity. Suddenly it was like the world had slowed and come sharply into focus. Sadly, so did the throbbing pain in my cheek and my already swelling eye.

  “Why’d you have to do that?” he asked. He delivered his question with complete sincerity, as if I had astounded and wounded him. I didn’t answer because despite his tone, I still couldn’t believe that it was anything but a rhetorical question. Also, I now had a broken face (face!) as my only indication of his reaction to my making a sound. I got that it was an extreme sound, but this was kind of an extreme situation, and uncharted to say the least.

  He still hadn’t put me down but the sun suddenly disappeared, followed by my internal organs, as the dark washed over me. I realized that as the evil swallowed us up, I’d run out of time. I still had no idea what was going on, but I’d been warned and educated enough to have a few good guesses.

  Draw from that, I instructed myself. You are in an unfamiliar situation, use your resources. My newly enlightened state led me to a startling, yet saturated with resignation, realization: my only goal was to get away before he could kill me.

  I understood the step before Murder. There was a logical progression. I had to stop the cycle at the crucial point.

  I had to stay alive.

  I'd never thought that I had such an amazing life, nothing too spectacular or predictive of human race saving potential, but it was mine and I liked it.

  It was mine.

  Mine.

  I was making my bargain. I was giving away a piece of myself, that which was mine, that which was the most sacred and self-defining element of a woman. By making my agreement with myself, I was owning the loss of this part of me. I was bargaining for the long game, on my terms; I needed to be willing to sacrifice. It scared me how clear this began to be, how crystalline this symbolic handshake had morphed to become.

  Don’t misinterpret; I was not giving up. If I could avoid any more losses than I had sustained up to this point, I would be happier. I would fight. I would lose, but I would fight. I did fight.

  And I did lose.

  12 minutes.

  12 minutes of loss.

  …of confusion

  …of darkness

  …of reality

  …of pain

  I fought. I tried to scream; I clawed, I writhed and bucked, and with each blow to my face, I felt a renewed need to know that I had done what I could.

  I will always know that I did what I could. Because no matter the outcome, no matter the circumstance, regardless of a victims’ actions during an attack, it is all that they could have done. And that is enough.

  I was vaguely aware of the weight pressing down on my back, the hot breath exhaling harshly, raggedly blasting my turned and injured cheek with moist warmth. I’d won by not being forced to lay my head on my broken side. I was aware of the stinging in my face, my throbbing cheek, and I abstractly wondered how I’d been able to be so precise in my counter attack with only being able to see out of one eye.

  It amazed me that a sports bra that took me 5 minutes to get on and adjusted, could be removed in less than 2 seconds. As his rough fingers mapped my breasts, I did what many would not have. I committed this tactile experience to memory. The sensation of the calluses catching on delicate skin, the coarse way in which each touch was executed both clumsily and with reverence. I didn’t need to close my eyes. I only had one as it was, and I would see what was transpiring regardless.

  Every time his stubble grazed my wounded cheek, I whimpered and reinforced my resolve. I would survive. I might never be the same, but I would survive and one day I would find myself again. This I knew. And each thrust seemed to punctuate this thought.

  Oddly, his breath wasn’t unpleasant, something I noted and wondered the relevance of. Did it matter if your rapist was good with his oral hygiene? The exhalation wasn’t minty, but cinnamon-y, as if he’d chewed Big Red gum somewhat recently, or brushed with that Natural Cinnamon toothpaste…and then huff puff puffed it into my face.

  I hate cinnamon. Always have.

  Always will.

  He’d done something to my torso, after he’d wrestled me down to the ground. I distinctly remember the crunch that I heard when he’d kicked me, which resulted in my immediate incapacitation as the fireball of pain radiated from my side. Convenient for him. I remember fleetingly hoping that whatever ribs he had broken hadn’t pierced any internal organs.

  Fleetingly.

  12 minutes. Everything was fleeting during that time, except for the incessant fear. And the incessant rhythm.

  When he abruptly flipped me, making my injured side scream with agony, he allowed me to truly grasp the term brutality. I’m still not sure if this was when my arm broke, or if it had happened earlier and the injury was now exacerbated, but a moment of clarity flashed through me as my arm felt like it was on fire. I could only hope that we were nearing the end when he grunted harshly and huffed out the words, “That’s better. I want to see your pretty face.” My pretty face, which he had shattered. My pretty face, that despite expensive reconstructive surgery and a natural symmetry, would Never look the same to me.

  But I would see things others didn’t.

  As he stared me straight in the face, failing to see the malleable mess he’d made of it, I realized that I couldn’t see my attacker. I couldn’t see him. Closing my eye, I decided that it didn’t matter any longer if I could see.

  THREE

  I didn’t think about the consequences, the unreal reality which would now be mine. I thought about how he’d left my shoes on, so he clearly doubted that I could escape. I thought about how my mom was going to be so
upset, how my hips hurt from how his vice-like fingers had gripped them for leverage, his thumbs imbedded in the soft tissue of my lower abdomen.

  I thought about how I’d do anything to be sweating and thirsty and grumpy in dusty old Rome. Really.

  You’d think I would have been focused on the sex. The reality was, it was nearly impossible to focus on Anything. Sure, the Rape was happening, I was being violated in the worst possible way, aggressively, but it was like I was playing connect the dots in my head and the picture was a Magic Eye.

  It was like I was trying to map the course of a fly that was performing Blue Angels formations. Maybe this was a blessing.

  12 minutes is such a transient amount of time.

  12 minutes is an eternity.

  An eternity of my right leg being twisted at an odd angle, pinned by his weight. An eternity of rocking, like a dingy trying to navigate a storm, never quite able to predict the seemingly chaotic rhythm of the ocean. Rhythm comes in all forms.

  An eternity of internal pain, as my body fought with me, trying to prevent this intimate intrusion. Then more pain as my body lost the fight and my attacker completed his end of our arrangement. I absently thought that this was a good thing, he’d gotten what he wanted and now I was due what was mine. My Life.

  During these12 minutes, I managed to escape.

  There’s this lovely city in Switzerland, actually a rather large city, called Bern. After a Long night of partying in Lucerne, heavy on the alcohol and fraternizing with the male Americans in our Hostel, my sister and I checked out and left hurriedly, trying to avoid awkward morning-afters with guys we’d never even speak to, if we were at home in our real lives. Or sober.

  On the train, nursing massive hangovers, mortifying hickies, and lamenting our inability to decipher the language and having accidentally purchased something atrocious that was masquerading as yogurt and granola, my sister and I felt low. Throbbing headache and empty stomach low. Don’t get me started on the self-flagellation that accompanied the reality of the fact that we had made out with losers, the knowledge of which we would both take to our graves.