Shhhh! Rape: a taboo subject in my family,
never once talked about; my rape never reported. The year was 1969 and the
place was downtown San Antonio, 300 miles south of my hometown of Fort Worth,
Texas. I was barely 14 years old, a troubled runaway youth, and my attacker was
a stranger, a corporal in the U.S. Army.
I fight him with every ounce of
my being, but am no match for his brute strength. When he is done he releases my bound wrists, and I bolt out of the room, grabbing my clothes off the floor
as I leave. I scurry down the hall and dart into the deserted stairwell, stopping
only long enough to pull on my jeans and t-shirt. My heart is in my throat as I imagine he has dressed and is on
his way to find me. My head is
throbbing, each passing second marked by a loud boom ringing in my ears, as if
from a bass drum. My hands shake
so much I can’t zip and button my jeans and I’ve dropped my t-shirt twice
trying to get it over my head. Where are my shoes? Damn. I left them in the
room. What do shoes matter when one is running for their life?
The stairwell is the only way
down to the first floor; I must hurry before I am caught. I race down the
stairs and pause for just a moment to listen for noises to know if I am being
followed. I hear nothing but my own labored breathing. I slip through the door
and into the dimly lit motel lobby, passing the disinterested clerk, who is
laughing at some sitcom he is watching on a small black-and-white television behind
the counter. Holding my breath I make my way silently on bare feet the short
distance to the front door, not wanting to be seen and leaving behind only a
trail of tears.
As soon as I make it out the
front doors I begin to run away as fast as I can, to nowhere in particular in
an unfamiliar city, my escape covered only by a thick fog. Three blocks away I
find a park bench on which to sit and catch my breath in the city's famous downtown
River-walk area, which is mostly deserted due to the late hour. I don’t dare
stay too long in one place, for fear my attacker will be in pursuit. Moments
later, a couple walking arm-in-arm passing nearby notice me crying and stop to
ask if I’m okay. I open my mouth
but no words come out. I don’t know who to trust or what to say. The man’s gaze
lowers and I see him stare at the abrasions on my wrists, which are starting to
burn. I jump up from the bench and begin walking quickly away, hearing the
couple call after me but not understanding what they are saying.
I feel so disoriented, my
thoughts spinning around in my head. I feel weak and my legs shake, and, I am
cold in the night air but I cannot stop until I reach somewhere safe. I wonder
what safety will look like and how much farther I will have to go to reach it.
My body is running on nothing but adrenalin, fueled by an overwhelming sense of
terror. I have come to the mind-numbing realization that it is safer for my
attacker to hunt me down and kill me, rather than run the risk I will report
him, an active-duty soldier, for rape.
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