the 7th of december (and all the other days, too)

 

okay. 

✝

dear reader. good evening. would you like a cup of tea? i always ask you this before we begin. these things are important. settle in. get comfortable. this is a big one, darling reader, i apologise. this particular post has been years in the making. it's been written and rewritten and attempted before. on previous blogs (you can probably find if you search hard enough), on burned letters, in lyrics, in poems, in the space of my mind i seriously hate occupying. tom says it needs to be written- tom says i should do it for the others. he's right. of course he's right. so for the first time let me dedicate this post not to the dearest reader. it is for the others- the others like me. and i suppose this is the month to do it.

✝

i've been told i'm pretty good with remembering things. at work i can find a dress by it's code more often than not, and if you were to ask me to recite Shakespeare then i could certainly chuck you a verse or two. unfortunately, the brain apparently blocks out certain things that it deems need to be forgotten in order to survive. in an odd sort of way, it's quite beneficial on occasion. 

i was a freshly painted angel and i was ready at sixteen, many of you reading might've known me then. i was pretty annoying; peace signs up in pictures, baking to impress, singing around any boy and kissing any girl. i did well in my exams. i had friends. i was so self assured then, people would say how much they loved my confidence. i had control of situations and could predict the movements of those in the rooms i stumbled into. the worst and most frightening thing to me was getting home past curfew, and the best part of my day was the bus journey home from a new start at college. virgin.

the texture of the sofa- the hardwood floor. wearing a black jumper, black jogging bottoms. he was in yellow. perhaps he remembers better than i.

naturally, i've had many people (mainly women, i'll be honest) ask why i didn't go to the police, or even wondering if i wanted to. at sixteen, wow. what a thing. as time went on i realised how much the justice system fails women, how little belief there is, how little kindness. urged to just put it on the record, so then at least his name was there. god what a thing. 

December the 7th, the day that will live in infamy for me. sometimes it's hard to recollect. sometimes it's hard to believe. helpfully though, mother was my witness that evening as i explained it all in tears. helpfully though, college councillors were my witness that year as i explained it all in tears. helpfully though, by the waterside, he confessed to the crime and pleaded forgiveness in tears. and i had been taught to exercise forgiveness, even if it were not warranted.

the fishing rod nearby- the camping chair. wearing a brown jumper vest. he had his arms gripped tightly against my chest. perhaps he remembers my begging.

the funny thing about forgiveness is that it makes sense to give after an honest mistake. somebody disrespects you, perhaps it was unintentional. what's not so funny about the 7th of December is that that wasn't it. that wasn't all. of course, when i explained before to you dearest reader the goings on of that day, i was provided with the word "rape" as an explanation- this meant that the 7th was then a big deal. the other days, though? the other days, they happened too.

i spoke to my dad about it- the 7th. we discussed it at great length, when i was 17. we came to the conclusion that he was a kid, too. and he just got it wrong. only a year older, and hadn't been taught any better. and that perhaps could've been true. 

the valentines trip to the woods- the rocky cliff face. wearing a raincoat. he held an umbrella. it took about forty five minutes.

you wanna know why i never told the police? you wanna know why i never came forward? why i could never be as brave as the survivors i preached about? you want to know why, every year, it's not an anniversary for my FIRST TIME but a funeral for my fucking body and could never invoke genuine justice? i'll tell you why.

when he would leave, and i would be in that big beautiful dusty house alone in the attic, i would come downstairs and sit with his mother. and his father. and they showed me such a kindness. i was a puncture that they repaired, and i see them now and again. i couldn't do that to them. i couldn't have done it to them. the damage. how broken. her lovely happy smile. his belly laughter. they're great people they're really wonderful and i just couldn't do it to them i couldn't have done that to them.

the window out to sea- the spare bedroom. i don't remember what i was wearing. i said yes that time because it was so much easier. a tear escaping from my eye as i waited for it to be over.

how can i continue? how long can i keep this up? i've been reliving it all for years. 

i could make a deal perhaps- i relive it forever and never stop writing about it and in return he gets to live as a free man. and everybody doubts me just as much as they would if i did officially come forward. and i don't receive a horrific and terrifying backlash for just recounting a memory. instead, i have a new blog post.

i asked for a cup of tea. perhaps we could have a cup of tea first. could we just have a cup of tea. yes. yes we can do it after maybe can i just have some tea first. that hurts. can i just. that hurts.

i applaud the survivors who come forward. i bow to them. how strong must they be. how scared. how incredibly fucking frightened. i am. im shaking as i write this. is that something you can believe? many have named theirs. many have been that strong. many have fought incredibly hard. many have had the heart palpations im having now. i am weak.

isn't she over it by now? it was years ago. get over it. get over it. get over it. do you even remember it?

yes?

do you ever forget? will i ever forget? will he?

✝

sincerely, the caravan girl