ZIG-ZAG by Surtsey Ana (surface ebook reader .TXT) 📕

Even though I was up early, I've been preoccupied all day, dwelling on my situation. For the record, I slept okay. I didn't have nightmares. A couple of Advil go some way to relieving my physical pain. I'm coming to terms with the gravity of what has transpired. I'm a private person, I don't want this to go to court and become a thing. There's no real upside. My friends will see me as a victim. Men will see me as damaged goods, or worse I'll be slut-shamed, branded as one of DC's, gold-digging whores. And I'm going into work tomorrow, what if people at my job find out?

I lay back on my couch to take another run at recalling Friday's events. The phone call angered him, and he took his frustrations out on me. I recalled my own anger management issues. I understood how a person can cross the threshold. It was my anger at a man that had caused me to leave Poughkeepsie and move to DC. When I found out what he'd done I was overcome with uncontrollable rage. I took a baseball bat first to his car, then his beloved motorcycle, and finally to Brett himself. After the incident I went back to my folk's for a couple of weeks. When I returned to the apartment he's gone, moved out, totally ghosted me. I haven't heard hide nor hair of him since. It happened. I'm over it. No charges were filed, and it's okay for me to reflect, feel a little shame from time to time. To periodically reflect and learn from that event, it makes me a better person. Even though I'm a lifelong democrat, the thought of my man carrying on with another man behind my back is beyond wrong – it's an abomination.

By Sunday night I'm done deliberating. Dominic didn't hit me. He didn't threaten me. I'd given him a clear signal – every time I say NO it's okay for him to go right on ahead and bulldoze through my flimsy, straw objections. I'll learn from this. I'll be better, stronger next time. So, I'm a little bashed-up and bruised. Some people like ruff sex. I afford myself a smile: Cindy and her boyfriend broke her bed last summer. Maybe this is sex in the age in which we live. It's not like you'll see any romantic love-making on youporn.com. At the end of the day what I experienced was just a bad date, a really horrific date. I want to put all of this behind me and move on with my life. I was feeling sorry myself like I was all of a sudden part of the #metoo sisterhood, but I'm not – I brought this on myself. They say that 93% of human communication is non-verbal. Sure, 7% of me told him no but what the hell was the rest of me telling him?

I take Detective Jansen's card from the coffee table. Confident in my decision, I dial her number. "I've been thinking. I want to forget this," I tell her. "It's not such a big deal. I think I want to retract my statement."

"Don't worry. We've got the bastard," she replies with glee. "Dominic Hunter is in custody as we speak. He's been charged with your rape."

"Wow!" I'm shocked. "Did he confess?"

"No not exactly. But he did confirm the number of drinks you consumed."

"What? How does that help?"

"It means –"

"Sorry, detective, but I just want to forget about it and move on with my life." I want to drop the charges," I tell her. "It was just a bad date."

"It's not up to you, or me," she replies. "As a staunch advocate for women's rights, ultimately the decision rests with the US Attorney for the District of Colombia, and she campaigned on justice for victims of sexual abuse – that is her agenda."

"I don't give a flying fuck about her agenda. I'm not a victim! Stop saying I'm a victim!" I scream. Surprised by the venom in my own rage, I take a moment to dial it back, compose myself before continuing in a calmer but still determined fashion. "Listen. . . It is up to me. I won't come to court," I tell her. "I don't want to. You won't have a case because you'll have no evidence."

"We already have all evidence we need," she replies. "According to your statement, and that of the taxi driver - you were clearly inebriated before the alleged assault, therefore you were unable to provide lawful consent."

"What now?"

"The law is clear, Miss Taylor, you were the victim of a crime."

"Sorry, but it's an open and shut case: Rape, second degree – Class A felony."

"Fuck you!" I say.

"Ma'am? This is good news."

"Fuck all of you. I am not a victim." I abruptly end the call.

Detective Jansen tries to call me back but I recognise the number and I choose ignore her. I can think of nothing she can say that I want to hear.

My phone's been blowing up for the last hour or more – she keeps calling. I'm standing here shaking, I don't know for how long. "I can't deal with this." Fuck off. I switch off my phone and cross to the kitchen to the place I find solace during times of distress – the refrigerator.

Comforting eating has never been my thing but I swing the door open because I like to look at the food and revisit the tastes – comfort eating without the calories.  I let the cool breeze wash over my face as I study the contents of the shelves. Eventually I do what I always do, select a bottle of spring water.

 It takes me a few moments but I identify the origins of my hostility and anger. On Friday night that animal, that wolf dressed as a sheep, he violated me, took my power, my dignity, my rights. What happened wasn't up to me. The situation got out of my control. I had no say. Detective Jansen was no better than Mr Armani. She'd just done the very same thing, taken away my choice – commandeered my options.

Fuck them.

There's nobody here but me. I'm relieved to be able to briefly dispense with the long-held façade of strength and courage. I'm just a girl with serious problems that doesn't know what to do. I return to the couch to wallow and cry but my eyes are drawn to the bottle of Jack Daniels on the shelf across the room, a shot or two would calm me. I could take the time to re-focus, re-centre, and rebalance – gain some perspective. But the doctor's words ring loud in my head: "You must take this within the next 24 hours. You don't have a choice."

I check the time on my phone. No alcohol for me.

I guess it's time for me to take my prescription. The solitary pill on the table is an ironic reflection of me, my life. It is white, single and lonely. It is the antidote to the symptoms of my affliction. I set the bottle cap down on the table as I pause for further thought. This experience has no doubt damaged me but damage can be fixed. Time will tell, but I fear that I may be beyond damaged. I may be broken. Broken cannot be fixed, not really. What is broken can never be the same again. I may lack the ability or will to thrive. From breakage there can only be salvage from the wreckage. This is the one thing I still have control over, a decision they haven't taken away yet. I am still strong. I still have my power. I still have my right to choose.

I absently place a hand on my gut as I ponder:  zig or zag?

2.0 ALL HAIL THE NEW CHIEF

Monday morning. My cell-phone sings and buzzes as an unprecedented number of texts bombard my inbox. Afraid of the content of the messages I shut the phone away inside the nightstand drawer and hide beneath my duvet. I can hear my heart pounding in my ears. Did that gossiping two-faced bitch Cindy tell everybody what happened to me? Is everybody talking about me? Are people sending commiserative messages full of thoughts and prayers? I know it's ridiculously early because birds are chirping outside. My mind once again attempts to examine and relitigate the weekend's events but inevitably draws the same conclusions as all previous litigation: get over it, move on with your life – once again proving Einstein's theory of insanity to be gospel.

If I did fall asleep it was only for a second. I'm fully awake now, and I'm lying here thinking: I don't believe that anybody of substance, influence, or consequence is actually born in the District of Columbia. The place is like a western, political Mecca. We all came here seeking something. There are only three places where the American dream can be truly realised: those seeking money, power, and the associated trimmings, migrate to the District of Columbia. Another group, seeking fame, money, power, and trimmings together with some inoculation against scandal end up in sunny California, the closer to Hollywood – the better. Then, there's a third group, the secret shakers and movers, those who seek power and influence without the spotlight – they, invariably, all end up in New York. Nobody cares about the minions living in the other 48 states. The American people are so star-spangled stupid; they believe they live in world's greatest democracy. In reality, they select from the choices we offer them. The words none of the above have never appeared on any congressional ballot-sheet.

I don't know too much about California or New York, even though I was born and raised in Poughkeepsie, but I'm well-versed with all things pertaining to DC life. Everybody here wants a title, a position, to be "official". And you have to be vigilant. To your face everybody is friendly and supportive. I've tried to play it cool. But it's a crazy dog-eat-dog world. When you try to make it in life, rise above your perceived station, the consensus, the swamp monsters will rise up and try to bring you down

Despite being sexually abused, violated, and traumatised the night before, surprisingly, under the circumstances, Saturday night I slept well, like a baby - an expression that I don't fully understand. Millions of mothers will testify that babies are the bane of their lives; the teething, the crying, the needing to be fed every two hours. I slept ten hours straight, babies don't do that – then again, babies don't drink Jack Daniels. Like, life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness – what does that even mean?

Still awake. Still in my bed, remarkably chilled, wondering why I don't have a hangover. I'm thinking deep thoughts: there's no real meaning to life beyond the biblical explanation – go forth and multiply. Sure, we all need to give live life deeper meaning but it's all a crock. The fact that we're