CHAPTER82
Jake makes an odd noise; I think it’s a grunt, a snort, maybe a moan. I don’t know, but it’s not a good noise; it’s a reaction to what I have said, and I talk fast to cover it.
“I mean, I don’t remember the physical pain; you should forget it too,” I say it so matter-of-factly, yet softly, trying to fix the point I was making. It makes me sick, in reality, and tears sting my eyes despite my shrugging it off.
“How can I forget it?” He looks at me as though I have two heads, and it pushes me into feeling overly sensitive and defensively emotional. Anytime we broach this subject, we fight. I don’t want that right now. I can’t handle this tonight.
“Same way I do,” I respond, “Push it out of your head. Ignore it. Lock it away deep down and don’t talk about what he did to me.” I try for a shrug but at this angle it’s more of a squirm, because it is upsetting me on some level.
“He raped you?” His voice is quiet and unsteady; he sounds different, afraid. I guess he has been trying to figure this out for a while: How far had Ray gone?
Oh, Jake, don’t sound that way. A lump forms in my throat and threatens to choke me.
“No, he didn’t. He tried; I fought back. My mom came home.” I stare at the ceiling of the car, listening to another version of Emma talking out loud, detached from the secrets she’s telling, and trying to quell the low pain building up inside. Killing me inside.
“Jesus, Emma.” His voice is breathy, talking as he exhales; he sounds relieved but also sad for me, and I don’t like it. I pull myself up and glare at him angrily, the spitfire in me igniting with his pity. I can’t take sympathy or being made to feel weak.
“Don’t do that!” I snap angrily, swirling emotions from deep down suddenly jumping out. He spins his head to look me in the eye, shocked, confused at my reaction.
“Don’t do what?” he frowns defensively.
“Don’t you dare feel sorry for me,” I spit, pulling myself up awkwardly while trying to force away the spinning sensation. “Don’t look at me in that way, like I’m some sort of damaged, broken glass who is too fragile for life.” My feet have been in his lap this whole time and I pull them away fast. Struggling up, I sway, and realize I’ve got a seatbelt clipped over my waist. Safety Jake! I unclip it and pull myself up to sit properly and face him.
“Emma, how can I not feel something when you tell me that asshole beat the shit out of you and tried to rape you?” He’s angry and it’s unexpected. I wasn’t prepared for pissed Jake, but maybe that’s better than sad, sorry Jake. I don’t want sad and sorry. I hate people looking that way at me.
“Well just don’t. I don’t need sympathy. I fought back, hard. He broke my bones for it, but you know what? He didn’t manage to rape me; he didn’t do what he wanted. I won!” I yell out loudly, not at Jake, but at the world in general. Anger spews out in every direction as I snap.
“And what if your mom hadn’t shown up, Emma? What if I hadn’t shown up in Chicago and he had come back?” he retorts. I don’t even know why he’s angry; I’m the one who has the right to be enraged. Not him!
“I would have kept fighting. I wouldn’t have let him do that to me. He wasn’t the first of her creep boyfriends to try.” My face is wet; I ignore it, barely noticing the tears running down my cheeks, oblivious until this second. I’m furious and I’m yelling, but I don’t even know why I’m yelling at Jake. He’s not the one who did it. Sleazy Ray is the one who did it, and my mom’s creepy-ass boyfriends and their wandering hands. I’m shaking with heartache; my body has betrayed me and I’m heaving with tears. My drunken stupor seems to have let all this mess out.
“Emma,” he breaths sharply. Jake hauls me toward him, trying to wrap his arms around me, but I don’t like it. I’m in memory mode, and the thoughts of men’s unwelcome touches fire through my brain. I don’t want him to see me cry over this, not over those memories and those men. Not over that shit or Ray Vanquis. My mind is a chaos of rage and trauma.
“Stop it … stop it …” I’m resisting him, but he’s stronger and faster, and I’m still drunk with slow reactions. The racking sobs make me weak and he’s determined to hold me.
“Shhh, shhhh, Emma. Shhh.” He captures me, cradling my head against his cheek, even though I’m still fighting, but I’m losing. I don’t like the noises coming from deep within me, like I’m spiraling out of control. I hate this. I’m not weak. I’m not vulnerable. The wails don’t sound like they’re coming from me, and I push his hands off me again and again, but he’s relentless and his grip tightens. He pulls me hard onto him so he can get better control of me.
I’m in his lap in a blink and he’s all around me, strong, tight arms and firm hands, trying to calm me, so I finally give in.
Ray wasn’t the first to try and touch me inappropriately, there had been many hands, and each one had met my fire and sheer fury. Ray hadn’t been the first man to hit me either, yet despite all of it, I never allowed myself to be a victim. I’m not a victim now. I’m stronger than all of them.
“You’ll never look at me the same way, will you?” I choke; it’s what I always fear about people knowing. It’s one of the reasons I left Chicago. I hated people knowing what happened, looking at me that way. I hated my friends knowing that my mother never protected me against the myriad of perverted fucks she brought home, just refused to acknowledge it instead. Why couldn’t she be stronger and protect me? Sarah never looked at me that way; she knew, even then, that I was made of stronger stuff. I look after Sarah now; it’s my way of proving I’m stronger, and also showing myself how my mother should have been for me.
“Emma, you don’t know how I look at you, even before this. This won’t change any of it.” His voice is sincere, but I’m confused; I don’t know what he means. I’m too distraught to think straight. The tears are still rolling down my face while his forehead rests against mine, his hand cupping my cheek and thumb trailing across my skin softly. His arms surround me so tightly, keeping me against his warm, strong body.
My eternal protector. He always brings these emotions out of me; they struggle to the surface somehow.
“I’m not broken. I’m not; I’m strong, and this means nothing.” I pull myself out of his embrace, off his lap, and move away; he doesn’t stop me. I have to show him that I don’t need him to feel sorry or sad for me, that my past doesn’t change who I am now. I have a fire inside of me.
“I know you’re not, Emma; is that what you think?” His voice is low and husky, as full of raw emotion as mine is.
“Do I think I’m broken?”"
