Page 104 of The Games We Play

NAOMI

The high I felt leaving the prison has completely faded and is now replaced with nothing but fear and dread. Trying to control the emotional roller coaster I’ve been on in the last thirty-six hours would be like trying to herd a Tasmanian Devil.

I take a mental note to Google Tasmanian Devils and find out if they are actually anything like the Looney Tunes version, because something tells me that’s not the case.

My mind wanders as I stare at the over-sized oak doors that lead into the courtroom.

It’s the same goddamn courtroom.

The same courtroom I spent weeks in while they sorted through evidence of what happened to me.

Where they dissected every single moment of that night.

Where they showed everyone the photos of my beaten body.

Where Nathan sat, staring at me like he would kill me if I testified for myself.

Where his attorneys called me a slut, a tease, and vehemently claimed I wanted it.

Not only did they say I wanted it, but I asked for it rough,and egged him on. Like I was intentionally plotting this situation because of who Nathan is, because of his family name.

The anxiety I felt as an eighteen-year-old girl, who felt like she lost everything, cowered with their words.

I never testified for myself. I never stood up for myself. I never allowed my voice to be the defense I needed, or the therapy I clearly needed to speak out.

At the end, we still got something, but it was only because someone else I didn’t know stood up for me when I couldn’t stand up for myself.

Our attorney located a teacher at his high school who reported multiple situations where Nathan had sexually assaulted other girls. Apparently it was reported, but nothing was done and the teacher was eventually fired by the same principal she reported it to.

Turns out that the principal was somehow related to Nathan Simmons' father, and the teacher was related to Nathan Simmons’ mother. So, when the teacher showed up in the courtroom, there was a major outburst from his mother that caused a chain reaction, and Nathan jumped over the table in an attempt to attack her.

His attorney was able to pull him back before any physical harm was done and claimed he was just trying to stand up for his mother, but it still worked in our favor.

That teacher was brave for walking into the courtroom. She held her chin high and knew she was doing the right thing for a greater good.

If she hadn’t testified against him—against her own family—my attorney said he may have just gotten charged as a minor, claiming it was alcohol induced on both our parts since that was another one of their claims. They brought out every lie possible and made me look horrible to the public to better his own image.

But because of that teacher, because of her bravery, Nathan was charged as an adult and my voice was heard, even though itwasn't my own. Nathan was sentenced, although it was shorter than it should have been, it was still something.

Fifteen years with the possibility of parole in ten.

It’s funny how your view on time changes as you age.

At eighteen, fifteen years was colossal.Fifteen years?That was a lifetime through my naïve eyes at that time, and a part of me almost felt bad he was going to jail for that long.

Now, fifteen years is a blip. And my eyes are wide open to the fact that Nathan will never be right for this world.

Holding my chin high as I take a deep breath, I allow the air to expel out through my partially parted lips, feeling lighter than I’ve felt in my entire life.

“Are you ready?” Rocco asks. He stands calm beside me in jeans and a t-shirt, making him look like any other bystander. But his shoulders are tight, his stance is stiff, and his hands that are folded over each other in front of his body gives his identity away like it’s written on a damn billboard.

Although it’s not the same man who’s brought me the comfort and security I need, I know Seamus is doing what he needs to do, not only for me, but for himself.

Plus, I’ve realized Rocco is even more fun to banter with because he’s even more rigid than Seamus, if that’s even possible.

“Yes, I’m ready, but are you, Tin Man?” I ask as my eyebrows lift to question his dense body language. “Relax.”

He looks down, confused, then looks back up to me, still just as confused.

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