Chapter Eight
Annika
Pippa. It’s such a strange name for a woman in the United States to have. Especially a woman in her late twenties or early thirties.
I find myself wondering, where did her parents come up with the name Pippa? Does she have a sister named Catherine who lives in Buckingham Palace?
I stifle back a giggle. Not really a giggle. More like a hysterical laugh. I’m trying hard to keep my mind off the click, click, click of the camera between my legs.
I’m thinking about anything and everything to keep from hearing the murmurs of Dr. Thompson as he spouts off medical things that Stacy needs to document in my file. I’m trying desperately not to remember everything that has happened tonight, because I will be damned if I’m going to cry in front of these people again.
There is not one square inch of my body they haven’t seen naked.
There is not one part of my nude body that hasn’t been photographed.
They have swabbed the inside of my cheek.
They have gathered skin cells from underneath my fingernails.
They have scraped my cervix.
And now I lie here with a camera between my naked, spread legs as they take pictures of my most private areas—parts of me I don’t share with just anyone—looking for potential damage that was done by the assault.
An assault I don’t remember. But I sure as hell will remember this.
Yes, I have consented to everything that is happening to me right now. But that doesn’t mean I want to go through it. That doesn’t mean the reason for my consent isn’t for the sole purpose of taking this guy down someday. Because in the forefront of my mind, while I’m feeling shame and humiliation and degradation, I’m also feeling anger. And I can’t help but pray that someday God will allow this Ron guy to feel the same kind of humiliation I’m feeling now. That someday he’ll be forced to have an anal cavity search. That someday he’ll be in prison and be made someone else’s bitch and be raped over and over while dozens of people he’s never met stare at his naked body.
I can’t help the way I feel, and I won’t apologize for it.
Instead, I’ll think about the name Pippa.
Does she have a sister named Catherine somewhere? Maybe she’s married to a prince.
Were her parent’s hippies and they were trying to name her after Pippi Longstocking and got the name spelled wrong?
Where did a name like Pippa even come from in the first place?
“Two-centimeter laceration on the left side inner labia.”
Dr. Thompson’s words jerk me out of my own thoughts.
A two-centimeter laceration of my labia. Not the outer labia. The inner labia. Which means something was inside me.
“What does that mean happened?” I croak out, praying I can refocus my thoughts on the name Pippa again, but knowing it’s a losing battle at this point.
Stacy has been good to me. She’s been sitting here the whole time holding my hand when I’ve needed it. She’s talked me gently through some of the procedures. She’s been kind. I’m glad she’s here. And I hope I never, ever see her again. Especially when she humors me and answers my question.
“It could mean a whole lot of things. It could be as simple as nicking yourself with your fingernail while wiping.”
I look down at my fingernails. My fingernails that they had a hard time scraping because they’re so short. Fingernails that I keep super short because I don’t like the way they feel when they get too long. I hate that feeling so much, I religiously clip them at least once a week.
I know there is no way I cut myself wiping. She knows there’s no way I cut myself. Everyone in this room knows there is no way I cut myself. Which means the only way it happened was because this Ron guy was inside me.
Was it his penis? Was it his finger? Was it an object?
I don’t have any way of knowing.
Do they have any way of knowing? I have no idea. I don’t even know if I care. All I know is that another wave of disgust flows through me as the realization hits that he was inside. me.
Pippa. Pippa. Pippa. Maybe her parents were drunk.
Pippa. Pippa. Pippa. Maybe she was an old British nanny Pippa’s mom had years ago.
Pippa. Pippa. Pippa.
“Okay, you can sit up now. We’re done.”
Stacy quickly covers my lower half with a sheet as Dr. Thompson moves the camera out of the way.
They’ve promised me that these pictures go straight into an evidence locker and no one will ever see them unless absolutely necessary, but I know how that goes. Any detective who works on this case, and detectives rotate frequently, will have access to my records. They’ll have access to naked pictures of me. Sure, they’ll be looking at them as evidence, but will they? Will they always? Will some weird, depraved power-hungry cop be the one to take over my case? Will he look at the naked pictures of my body just for fun? Will I ever know if someone who has been on this case is walking down the street, sees me, recognizes me, and knows what I look like underneath my clothes? Will a jury see them? Hundreds of people may see these pictures of me. But they try to reassure me by saying it’s “evidence” that’s going to be “safely stored” in a locker.
I don’t believe it for a second. I pray that somehow, some way, these pictures are treated with respect. That I’m treated with respect, because I won’t ever know every single person who will see these pictures. I can never know. And that fuels my anger even more.
“Can I please use the bathroom now?” I ask, not sure who exactly I’m asking while I wait for them to finally be done inflicting this nightmare on me.
“Absolutely,” Stacy answers and moves closer to my side.
“I put some clean scrubs on the counter in the bathroom,” Pippa interjects. “You’re welcome to use them. And if you’d like to shower, you can.”
I nod, but there is no way I’m showering in this strange place. No way I am taking my clothes off with these people in this room again. Never.
Stacy tucks the paper sheet around my hips and helps me climb off the bed. I’m still a little weak and groggy from the drug so it takes a second. But then I plod off to the bathroom, determined to do it by myself. And maybe even more determined to be alone for a few minutes.
Once the door is closed behind me, I get my first good look in the mirror and see my face.
Damn. I look like I had a really, really rough night. My eye makeup is smeared like I’ve been ugly crying, and my hair looks like I stuck it in a blender. My body is dirty.
I try to use my fingers to comb through my hair to put it into a messy bun, but I get caught on… what is that? Is that a stick? In my hair?
I start pulling random bits of debris out of my knotted locks. I have no idea what this stuff is or where it even came from. It’s disgusting. I can’t wait to get back to the dorm to clean this filth off of me.
Finally, my hair is on top of my head and out of my face. Maybe instead of washing it, I’ll just head to a salon and get it cut or colored. Maybe I’ll get a blonde pixie cut. Something that’s totally different. Something that makes me unrecognizable to the people who are going to see my naked pictures.
I pull the hospital gown off me so I can get dressed and take a quick assessment of my body. My hips and chest look okay. My breasts look okay, my stomach…
I run my hand through the curls of my pubic hair and… Oh god. What is that? Is that liquid? What the hell?
Some kind of sticky fluid is stuck on my fingers, and I’m revolted, I just want to throw up. But I won’t do it here. I refuse to do it here.
Instead, I use the baby wipes that are on the counter to clean away as much filth as possible until I can get home and take a nice hot shower. I use at least a dozen on my genital area alone to get the nasty, sticky fluid off my curls and my hand before quickly throwing the clean clothes on. The last thing I want is to wear part of the hospital home with me as a reminder of this night, but it’s not like I have any choice.
Again.
My body, my choice seems to be a giant lie all the way around tonight.
And then I move away from the mirror. I can’t look at myself anymore. I disgust myself. I revolt myself. I need that pixie cut so I don’t recognize myself.
Shuffling back into the bedroom, I see Dr. Thompson is gone. The only ones here are Stacy and Pippa. They both smile at me when I come out of the bathroom, like there’s anything to smile about.
“You look better,” Pippa remarks. “Feeling a little better now?”
“Well, I’m not naked, and no one is taking pictures of my vagina,” I snap back.
Their faces both fall, and I sigh.
“I’m sorry.” I know my anger is misplaced as much as they do. “This is not your fault.”
“Never be sorry for the way you feel,” Pippa demands. “Therapy 101. You’ve been through an extremely traumatic event. You have a right to lash out at us. And it’s okay that you never want to see us again.”
That makes me almost laugh out loud, like she can read my thoughts. But I guess she’s heard it all before.
“Um, I was thinking about something. The guy who found me.” Pippa nods. “Who is he?”
“Are you sure you want to know all this?”
I think for a second and then nod. I know I’m not going to like everything I hear, but I want to face this head-on. I don’t hide from my problems. I prefer to power through them.
“Okay.” She moves closer to the bed as I get settled on the fresh sheets they must have put on while I was changing. “He’s a college student at the university like you. He works at the bar and was taking the trash out when he found you. He tackled the guy to the ground, and they threw a few punches, which actually works to our advantage because the police were able to collect some blood evidence from him. That gives us an eye witness to the crime, not just DNA evidence.”
My eyes widen. “He fought him?”
“He did.” Pippa nods.
“Is he okay?”
“Yeah. He probably has a little bit of survivor’s guilt. But that’s to be expected. I’m referring him to a counselor at the university, just like I’m referring you.”
I furrow my brow at the pointed look she’s giving me. I didn’t realize she was going to be sending me to therapy. I suppose it’s a normal part of her job, but I don’t know that I want to go.
Suddenly, I feel like a truck has run over me. Dr. Thompson wasn’t kidding when he said the drugs were going to make me tired for a while.
“Will I get to meet him?” I ask with a yawn. “I’d really like to thank him.”
Pippa gets a strange look on her face, as Stacy looks at her, eyebrows raised.
“I wasn’t sure how you’d feel about this, but since you said it,” she sighs, “he’s in the waiting room.”
I sit straight up, the groggy feeling completely forgotten. “What do you mean he’s in the waiting room? Has he been here all night?”
“He has.” Pippa nods. “We’ve tried to get him to leave several times to rest, but he keeps saying until he knows someone is here to take care of you, he’s not going anywhere.”
I think about that for a minute and realize he’s right. No one has come looking for me yet. Not Lauren. Not Kiersten. Not my parents. No one realizes I’m gone.
And yet, this boy stayed. This boy I never met. This boy who may have saved my life. He stayed.
A strange feeling of warmth runs through me.
“If it’s okay with the police,” I say, my mind made up, “I’d really like to meet him.”
Pippa pauses but then nods. “I can go get him.”
“Yeah,” I say again, “I’d really like to meet him.”
Just knowing he’s coming makes my whole body relax, like having him close by makes me safe.