The Power of Testimony

The Crime
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My rapist was obviously enjoying himself, grunting repeatedly.
“That’s good, that’s good.”
I spent most of my energy trying not to think, but the slightly
metallic scent of blood invaded my mind. Everything felt slick. I
willed myself to float up, to hover in the air over the bed instead of
having to lie in it.
The rapist paused in the act, as if to prolong it, to savor it. The
pause seemed particularly inhuman. I wanted it to be done so I
could let out my breath and resume living. But I could only wait.
I continued to hold my breath, but it didn’t stop me from crying.
“Why you cryin’?”
I ignored him.
He stopped altogether and awkwardly wiped the tears from my
cheeks. I couldn’t help but notice the pinkish underside of his hand.
His strangely tender gesture intensified my tears, adding confusion to
my anger and pain. Why was he doing this? Was I a person to him or
not? I hated him. I wanted to feel nothing but hatred. I didn’t want to
smell his sweat mingled with my blood. I couldn’t bear the vulnerable
pink of his palm. I didn’t want him to be a person. To have a soul.
I concentrated on the gun beside my head, lying on the pillow.
Could I feel it, cold and metallic beside my temple? Yes, I could. I
focused on that bit of steel, that immediate bit of metal just outside
my body, and stopped crying. Everything slowly stopped spinning.
It turned out that the fear of dying, not just in the abstract, but in
an immediate, proximate way, focused my mind.
I might die. I might cease to exist.
These weren’t logical thoughts that my mind laid end to end.
They were heartbeats, and each one held in itself the possibility of
cessation. This one, right now, might be my final heartbeat.
I breathed in and out so I wouldn’t float completely away from
my heart.
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