Page 111 of Rage

For us.

But it seems she doesn’t intend to rest on her laurels about anything.

“C’mon. Get dressed.” She takes my arm, the strength in her grip not granting me permission to refuse.

“Where are we going?”

“To the station. Kath, you—we need to report this, darling.”

“To the cops? No way.” I’m horrified. I could barely tell Lara, my safe space; how can she expect me to recount itagain—and to the corrupt and misogynistic patriarchy of the police force, none the less?

But she won’t take no for an answer.

My breathing is shaky as she marches us up to the front desk, pure terrified adrenaline coursing through my veins in fight or flight.

I know my preferred option, but Lara still has a vise-like grip on my arm. She is all fight.

“We’re here to report a sexual assault.”

The words sound, the conversation continues to unfold before me, but all I hear is that single word.

Assault.Assault. Assault.

It doesn’t make sense. It resounds in my thoughts, clouding everything, the foreign syllables clanging, thumping, resonating in my head. I only realize we’ve been moved to an interview room when Lara’s voice sounds in my ear, her gentle urging the only thing that can seemingly cut through the turmoil of ensuing panic.

“Sit down, love.”

I do, my gaze drifting up from the wood topped table to be met with a burly gray-haired cop opposite me who sets all my instincts on edge. He doesn’t want to hear this, doesn’t want to listen to some whiny lesbian churning out some woe is me story for the #MeToo movement.

That hits me hard; I’m part of a statistic now, the 1 in 4 who can say that, thesurvivorswho walked away.

I don’t feel like I walked away.

I don’t feel like I’m surviving right now. Not really. I just feel… used.Abused. Wrong.

You’re asking for it, dressed like that…

I’ll show you what you’re missing out on…

Stop screaming! Brats get what they deserve…

Proof is in the pussy, bitch, you’re soaked for me…

“Kath.”

Lara takes hold of my hand, her touch bringing me out of my wide-eyed trance. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. Tell him what happened; what he did to you.”

The guy—Officer Larson, his name badge declares—has his pen out, a clean sheet of paper in front of him with my name on. “Start whenever you’re ready.”

I’m not though. I’m really not ready to tell it all again, to say the wordsout loudone more time to a stranger. My stomach heaves, a coppery tinged taste fills my mouth… I make it to the trash can just in time to empty my breakfast into it.

Lara’s there, rubbing my back, guiding me back to my chair. The big cop is still staring impassively, not a trace or shred of emotion in his gaze at my trembling, cowed, volatile shell.

He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care what happened to me on some cold, dark night. I’m just a woman—a gay woman at that. I hold no interest to him, so he holds no thought or space for me and mine.

Lara is insistent though, squeezing my hand tight but determined that I get my story told; that I spill my guts and my heart and my pain in some bleak bare room to this callous and dispassionate uniform.

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