Falsify Me

2- Interrogation

           "You know we can't stay silent forever. It's better to speak up, please understand. It's been three days. Three wasted hours. You keep coming back but you have nothing to say..." I finally acknowledge the woman in the room, I didn't know how long it had been that we sat there in silence. She sits staring at me with a disgusted concern.

          "Have you...spoken to anyone else about this?" She asked, her tone shrinking with politeness, trying to force the story out of me with this kindness.

But I had told someone else. Of course, it was mandatory. What they call a forensic interview. And the reminder brought my mind to a rampage, remembering every detail about the police and about the woman with the clipboard.

How is it that the people in charge of enforcing laws can be so insensitive to victims of a broken one?

How is it that I haven't spoke of you, or what happened, for weeks...yet they expect me to sit in a still room, speaking to a stranger in front of me about everything?

"We need to know, It's important that we understand," I get it. I understand, I am no fool. But how harsh can this get when they think it's just another everyday item for me? That I tell everyone I see, all the details, all the horrors?

Recalling this is not easy, but she forces it on me. How she sits with a pencil in hand, piercing eyes staring me down. If it's not an answer she likes, she keeps asking the question.

But their intention was not to understand...I'd expect them to be more sensitive. They don't even hide the fact that my words don't get through unless they reveal themselves as valid evidence.

I considered telling and explaining the whole situation to my sister, the one who would talk to me about everything. But with a situation like this, every movement, every statement, every thing she said- it failed to give me the confidence I needed. I couldn't trust her reaction would be one I wanted to see.

And the same went for my sister. And my mother. And my father.

When they called me a slut, such a vigorous, passionate hate behind every sound- I know they mean it. 

The moment they told me I needed to learn to keep my knees together. When they told me they couldn't believe how desperate I was, going to a hotel room with a stranger. The moment they told me I didn't really love him...

I never forgot that. I want to convince them I'm not what they think, but I can't bring myself to speak of it. I can't bring myself to leak. All of what they said, it stole from me the ability to tell them anything. To this day, I wish I could reveal the truth: tell them I'm not a slut, I didn't want what happened, I froze, I couldn't react, I was so scared, I AM so scared!

But...

I couldn't tell them. The woman with the clipboard and the police on the other side of the door...they didn't care, I had to tell this selfishly naive woman about everything so she could record it, not even comprehending it all.

Getting names wrong, getting places wrong, I doubt she even listened. I didn't tell her how I felt, I told her the facts. Unfortunately, I didn't tell her the worst parts, because my mind had buried them far beneath and didn't want them revealed.

A lady with a clipboard, police listening in, a recording that would go to court. All my words had such impact, and I was afraid more than anything of that. Because my words alone would tear you apart for your heinous actions, and if- when- you fell, I would be the one that pushed you down.

You-the man that I had fallen in love with...I was tearing you into bloody pieces, with tears in my eyes.

Does anyone remember seeing me so pallid, eyes sunken and dreadfully dim? I had thrown up repeatedly at the thought of you touching me, what you made me do to you. No one saw it. 

 I couldn't sleep because you kept me up all night, the texts, or the calls, or your hands on my body, eyes searching for a weakness. I was sick, so sick. 

But no one saw it.

How long did it take for you to suck the life out of me? When I stopped smiling, stopped laughing, started crying more and more each day? Why did it take me so little effort to hide my pain? Why would I cry so quietly, when all I EVER wanted to do was scream and scream until my ears bled and my lungs gave out?!

I need exaltation, and the smallest of it is in the form of silent crying in the shower, or as I type these very pages. It's not enough, it's not.

When people begin to open their eyes to what is plainly in front of them, then I will have the confidence I need in this world. But until then, how horridly selfish they all are, making me go through this and giving me no reinforcements. I know people say this is a hard time and your family should be supporting you But that is NOT the case.

 That can never be the case as long as no one understands.

No one here can give me sympathy in the slightest, because they were not there for the incident. I am not only suffering from a broken heart or a broken spirit, but a broken mind. I wish they could see that. But why do I suffer? What happened to bring me this pain, the wipe away the job of the life I had before?

But I don't have to think of the answer, not very much...

It was you. You drowned me, pushing me underwater with a smile on your face.

Then the world sees me sinking and wonders why I can't breathe...