Prairie

 

“I was eighteen, nearing the end of my freshman year in college,” I begin. “I was on a scholarship and I worked my ass off all year,” I add with a small laugh. “One Friday night, I was on my way to the library when two men pulled me into a back alley.”

I take a minute to gather my thoughts and look around the room at the mostly familiar faces. Women, men, survivors of rape and sexual abuse. Out of habit, I reach up to my neck and feel for the charm that rests against my skin, beneath my shirt. My fingertips feel the outline and I breathe a little easier.

“They took turns,” I tell them. “They stole my virginity that night, on the damp, cold ground of that same back alley. Behind a dumpster. As soon as they were done with me they took off. I phoned the police and waited on the street corner. I was in shock. It was like it didn’t really happen to me, it was like I just watched a movie,” I say. “The two officers that came took me to the hospital, took my statement and arranged for a rape kit. I never told anyone. Not my roommate, not my mom…no one knew. The men who raped me were never caught.”

I clear my throat and swallow the ever-present lump that lingers in my throat whenever I share my story, no matter how far past it I think I am.

“I moved to Fortune a little over four years ago. I had to start over and say goodbye to my old life, to the old me. Because I wasn’t the same girl I was before the assault, and I probably never will be. I found this group three years ago,” I say, looking at Holly. “And that’s when I was finally able to begin to heal. For the longest time after I was attacked, I was convinced that if I ever talked about it, it would just make it worse. That I would be giving some kind of power and control to the men who did this to me, who took something from me that I can never get back,” I explain. “But I was wrong. Sharing my story with you makes me stronger, because it reminds me that I survived.”

I exhale a breath and pull my shoulders back. “I still have bad days. Sometimes I have nightmares. I haven’t been in a relationship that’s lasted longer than a date or two and a simple kiss goodnight in the last four and a half years. There are days when the memories of that night hit me like a freight train and I feel ashamed, dirty, and used up all over again. But regardless of my struggles, I am getting better,” I say. “My name is Prairie Bennett, and I’m a survivor of sexual assault.”

Holly stands and begins to clap as I take my seat. “Thank you, Prairie,” she says. “Would anyone else like to share tonight?”

For the next hour, I listen as some of my fellow group members share their stories. Some retelling the same series of events that brought them here in the first place, and some simply talking about the steps they’ve taken forward in their healing and even the steps that have taken then backwards. There’s no judgement, no magical cure. Just the option to share your story with people who know what it feels like to be in your shoes. When the meeting is over, everyone breaks off and begins to casually visit, sipping on coffee and tea. I pour myself a cup of hot water and drop in a tea bag when Holly comes to stand beside me. She gives me a light pat on the shoulder.

“How’s work going?” she asks.

“Good,” I say.

“And the gym, you’re still going?”

“Of course.”

“Good girl,” she says. “I’m going to check in with Bryce. Don’t disappear, I’ll give you a lift home.”

I watch as she approaches the middle-aged man who joined our group three months ago. He’d spent the majority of his childhood being abused by his stepfather and didn’t tell a soul until just a few weeks ago when he shared his story here for the first time.

I met Holly just over three years ago. She was pinning up fliers on the bulletin board at the grocery store where I was shopping. I still remember what it said, probably because I stood there after she left, staring at the piece of yellow paper like it could magically fix me.

 

Survivors of sexual abuse and assault support group

We meet every Tuesday night in the church basement on 45th

No judgement, no obligation to share, anonymity always an option

Refreshments served afterwards

7 p.m. sharp

 

 

It took me two weeks to build up the nerve to show up. I’ve been coming at least once a month, sometimes more, ever since. Holly has become not only a shoulder to lean on but a good friend as well. She’s in her mid-thirties and at my first meeting she told the story of how her younger sister, Katherine, had been raped at a frat party and later committed suicide, unable to cope with the aftermath. That was seven years ago. Holly started these meetings as a tribute to her sister and has played an active role between victim services and those who attend, ever since. She also set me up with one on one counseling sessions shortly after my first group meeting. I don’t know where I’d be now if I hadn’t met her.

I knew after spending my first summer out of school with my mom in Edison that I wouldn’t go back to college. I couldn’t. I hate looking back now and realizing how much worry I must have caused her. I was a mess. I tried to put a smile on my face but I just couldn’t. She tried to get me to open up but I could never get the truth past my lips. I eventually told her that I couldn’t go back, that college just wasn’t for me. I know she wasn’t happy about it but she supported my decision and in the fall, I packed up my belongings and moved to Fortune. A new place, a new start. Even so, that first year after I was raped was the hardest. I was lost, angry and slowly becoming unrecognizable, even to myself. I didn’t know what to do with everything that I felt. Holly hanging up those fliers saved me.

After she drops me off, I climb the creaking stairs to my small one-bedroom apartment. I unlock the door and set my purse and keys on the counter before I reach into the cupboard for a glass and flip on the faucet. I let the water run cold before I fill it to the top and drink it back.

After setting my empty glass in the sink, I walk over to my small balcony, looking out the patio doors at the twinkling lights of the skyscrapers against the darkness. When I arrived in Fortune, all I had were three suitcases and the keys to my modest apartment that I’d only seen once the week before. Luckily it came half furnished and I’ve managed to turn it into a decent home for myself over the years.

I continue to watch the blinking skyline and begin to think about Logan. It’s been over five years since I last saw him. Some days I wonder if this feeling inside of me, like I gave something away that I can never get back, is just part of who I am now or if it can ever be fixed. I like to believe that my tender seventeen year old heart knew back then what love is. But maybe it didn’t. Maybe I was a foolish child and this hollowness I carry in my chest is something else entirely.

After the attack, I was so angry. Angry at him for not being there, angry at him for giving up. I suppose it was then that I realized for certain that nothing was going to be the way I thought it would be. For that first year after his arrest, I still had hope, deep down that he would find his way back to me. That I would check the mail one day and there would be a letter from him. But there never was.

I tuck my hair behind my ear and wonder if I’ll ever feel it again. The things I felt when I was with him. I’ve dated, I’ve let men kiss me, but it never feels the way I think it should. The way I remember it.

Maybe it never will.

I leave my memories for now and turn off the kitchen light, triple checking that I’ve locked and dead bolted the door before I head down the hallway to the bathroom. I wash my face and brush my teeth before I strip off my T-shirt, bra and jeans and reach for the pink cotton nightgown hanging on the back of the door. I pull it over my head and run a brush through my shoulder length hair. I stare at the tarnished gold chain around my neck.

I’ll never take it off, I promise.

Maybe I’m a glutton for punishment. Maybe there’s something wrong with me. I should let go. I should forget the way we were together…the plans we were going to make, how it felt when he held me. I should accept the reality. That as fiercely as I loved him, in the end…it wasn’t enough.

 

*

 

I use my key card and sneak in through the side door of Fortune Financial at two minutes to nine. Smoothing down my black pencil skirt, I make sure my green blouse is still properly tucked in as I quickly make my way to the staffroom in the back, my black heels clicking along the tile floor as I go. I place my things in my locker and head straight to the vault to get my cash float. I’m never late, but after two nights of restless sleep, I woke up thirty minutes late this morning. I manage to dodge Anne, my supervisor and slip into my wicket before the clock chimes and Lawrence, our security guard unlocks the large glass doors. I boot up my computer and take a quick look around, but it seems as though no one has noticed me yet.

I’ve been working here for the last four years, and I enjoy it for the most part. The customers keep it interesting and dealing with money and numbers all day makes me feel like I’m actually using my brain for something. I’ve thought about taking the company courses to get into lending and investments but I like the fact that when I leave at five, my day ends. There’s no dinner meetings, no conference calls, and I can leave on time. Being a bank teller isn’t the most glamorous job but it keeps me busy and it pays the bills.

There’s eight of us altogether on the front line but I’d only consider Brooke, who sits at the wicket beside me, a friend. Just as I begin to wonder where she is, she plops down into her chair and slams her coffee cup onto the counter top.

“Did Anne notice?” she asks, gathering her long blonde hair and pulling it into a ponytail.

“Nope, you’re safe,” I reply.

“What a relief,” she mumbles.

Brooke hates her job. Like me, she moved to Fortune from a small dot on the map. She was fresh out of high school and spent four years studying acting and theatre only to find that instant stardom wasn’t in her immediate future. Refusing to head home with her tail between her legs, she was forced to take the first job she could find. She’s been working here for the last six months.

We don’t have much time to chat before customers begin to trickle in and a line forms. The morning passes by in a blur and before I know it, it’s lunchtime.

“Come on,” Brooke says. “I switched with Debbie so we could have lunch together, let’s get the hell out of here.”

We head to the café around the corner and take a seat along the back wall once we’ve ordered. I take a bite of my turkey sandwich while Brooke checks her phone for any call backs from her last audition.

“Anything?” I ask.

“Ugh, no,” she says.

“I’m sorry.”

“Whatever,” she sighs. “It’s fine. I’ve got another audition lined up next week.”

“You should come with me tonight,” I suggest. “Get some of that frustration out.”

“I love you girl, but I’m gonna leave the sweating and grunting to you,” she winks. “I’ll be fine.”

“If you’re sure,” I say. “But it feels good…real good.”

“Lord, I think I’m finally rubbing off on you,” she snorts, taking a sip of my soda.

 

*

 

I head straight to the gym after work. It’s only a couple blocks away, so I forego the subway and walk instead. I reach the small brick building and walk through the front door, the smell of sweat and vinyl hitting my nose as I set my shoes on the metal rack to my left and head back to the locker room. I’ve been coming to Pete’s Gym several days a week for the last year. It started with a self defense class that Holly recommended and now I come for regular kickboxing classes. I spot the owner, Jamal, finishing up his current class and wave as I walk by. Hardly anything in the gym is brand new, there’s no fancy equipment and no coddling. The building is ancient by most standards and every floorboard groans with age as you walk along the scuffed-up floor. But if you’re in Jamal Turner’s gym, you’re here to work and none of that other stuff matters.

I open my locker and strip out of my work clothes, pulling on a black tank top and a pair of purple leggings. I lace up my shoes and look in the dingy mirror above the sink, tying my hair back into a ponytail. Since I’ve been taking classes with Jamal, my body has changed. I’ve managed to hang onto some of my curves but I’m leaner now than I was before and I’ve got definition in my arms and legs. I feel strong. I feel like I can take care of myself.

I look at my reflection and know that being here is as much a part of my healing as the group meetings. I need to feel powerful. I need to know that I’m not helpless.