Emily

She was the top of her class. She wasn't beautiful. But when she
walked into a room, everyone turned to watch her. She commanded
attention. She was liked by practically everyone. She could be a bit
arrogant sometimes. But she was valedictorian after all. All of her
relationships ended for the same reason - she was too commanding. And
left the men feeling anything but masculine. And she was always in
control.

It was hard not to like Emily. And at the same time, it was hard not
to hate her. She was energetic, friendly, smart? all the time. She was
never depressed. At least not in front of anyone. Not even her mother.
Her mother lived for her. She had Emily when she was 24. And Emily was
everything to her. Emily's father died when she was two. And she
embodied her father. The same big brown eyes. The same smile. Emily's
mother saw her late husband every time she looked at her.

Emily came back from college, with a 4.0 GPA and a baby growing inside
of her. She only told her mother about the 4.0 GPA. Emily graduated
with highest honours. But she didn't go to her graduation. Instead she
went to an abortion clinic. And was taunted by picketers on the way in
and on the way out.

The night she got pregnant, she said no. She counted the number of
times she said it? Because you always have strange thoughts when you're
panicking. She said no. Over and over. And he pretended not to hear. He
told himself, no meant yes. He told himself, she's just playing hard to
get. He told himself, she wants it? she just doesn't know it yet. And
she just kept saying no.

He forced her legs apart. And took for himself a part of her that he
was not meant to have. He took that one part of her that she had been
saving for the night of her wedding. And she tried to stop him. And all
the while, she was thinking; now I understand 'Me and a Gun'. And
wished that she didn't. She would give anything not to understand how
it felt to be that woman "far from sleep, up and driving?" To be that
woman who was raped.

And after, when he was finished. When he had left her lying cold and
bruised on her couch, she was plagued with the thought that she didn't
try hard enough to stop him. She was plagued with the thought that she
asked for it. That the way she dressed, the way she walked, the way she
smiled at him, provoked him. And that she deserved it. That by inviting
him into her apartment, she was inviting him into her body. Even though
everyone reassured her that she didn't do anything wrong.

She couldn't walk down the street without feeling like there was
someone following her. That there was someone lurking in the next
corner, waiting for her to walk past? so he could grab her, push her
into a shadowed corner? She couldn't sit on her own couch, without
feeling him push himself against her, smell his whiskeyed breath, feel
his stubbled chin grate against her cheek.

Eventually she learned to stand up in her therapy group and say, "My
name is Emily Williams and I was raped. The man who raped me, Jonathan
Hayes, was introduced to me by a friend." But it didn't make her feel
any better. So she stopped going. And life went on.

Eventually, Emily stopped having nightmares, re-enacting that night in
her sleep. The bruises faded. The marks that he had left across her
body, the map that he had carved out, slowly disappeared. But she
didn't stop looking over her shoulder.

A few years later, Emily, a married woman, with two children and a
steady job, while walking down the street, saw Jonathan Hayes. He was
across the street from her, talking to a woman. Emily couldn't move.
She stood there watching him. Barely able to breathe. She wanted to go
up to that woman. Tell her. Stay away from him. He raped me. Jonathan
Hayes is a rapist. But she couldn't move. The thought of standing close
to him, within his reach, terrified her. So she stood there, praying
that Jonathan wouldn't see her. But still her legs seemed to be
separate from the rest of her body, and refused to move.

She watched as Jonathan took the hand of the woman, as they walked away
in the other direction. That woman, Emily would later learn, was
Jonathan's wife. She had been seen at the hospital every now and then,
treated once for a concussion, another time for a broken bone. Always
bruised. And her explanation was always the same. "I tripped." "I
fell." "It was my fault." And there was nothing anyone could do about
it. A few months after Emily had seen them in the street, Jonathan's
wife tripped down the stairs. She lost her balance. Jonathan tried to
catch her. But he was too slow. At least that's what he told the
police. She was 2 months pregnant. And she died.

Emily went to the funeral. She stood at the back of the church and
listened as Jonathan tearfully eulogized his late wife, Carol. She
listened as he blamed himself. For not catching her before she fell.
For not moving fast enough. Emily waited until he had finished. And,
with a deep breath, she stood up, and walked shakily to the front of
the church. She walked past Jonathan, refusing to look him in the eye.
Refusing to admit to herself that she didn't have the courage to.

She stood where he had stood. Apologized for interrupting. And
proceeded to tell Jonathan's family and friends that, years ago, he had
raped her. She told them that Jonathan had violently attacked her. He
had beaten her. And raped her. She told them that he had probably
pushed his wife down the stairs, in a moment of blind anger. That she,
like Emily, had probably been too scared to speak up. And that Carol's
death had finally given Emily the courage to do just that. At that
point, she looked Jonathan straight in the eye, as she said, "My name
is Emily Williams. 4 years ago, I was raped by Jonathan Hayes," and
with that she stepped down from the podium, walked past Jonathan and
out of the church. And never looked over her shoulder again.