The Similarities Between You and Daddy's Gun

Trigger Warning: rape

I tend to romanticize my life. It sounds ludacris when you say it out loud, but I guarantee every person reading this romanticizes their life. It’s easier to believe you’re the main character than just another bland face in a crowd of other faces. There are moments, though. Moments that feel so much like there isn't enough oxygen in the room. Those are the moments we don't see ourselves as the most important person. One would argue it’s when we see the truth, however ugly.

I suppose all of those things are the reason I'm standing here. The romanticising. The lack of oxygen. The realization. People keep asking me what I feel and how I am. I don't know. I dont think I'm feeling anything. Maybe a little stupid. A little like a fraud. Like there's a lot of fuss over nothing. Or something. I don't know anymore, not really.

“Sadie,” my mother whispers at me, “honey, you’re up”

By “up” she means It's my turn to put my right hand on the bible and swear that I’m telling the truth about everything. The truth is relative.

I don't even look at the judge. My heels click up to the witness stand. Dead silence greets my anxiety. My attorney tries to give me a comforting look, but I refuse to see it that way. I cant allow myself comfort, not right now. 

A stab in my lower back tells me he’s looking at me. My eyes refuse to meet his. Echos past my ears and I know I’m supposed to be hearing something that someone said, but I can’t. Everyone is looking at me. They all know. They all know and I can't take that back. A heavy weight sits in my stomach and I force myself to listen to the judge.

“This is a court session regaurding the alleged rape of one Sadie Marshall…”

Alleged rape. Alleged. He doesn't believe me. He doesn't believe what happened. The rape kit was inconclussive at best. God knows why. I shouldn’t have waited so long. Was it rape? I thought I loved him. 

My attorney speaks, “Sadie, I know this is difficult, but can you read the judge your original statement from the police report?”

Jesus. I want to say no. I actually think I’m shaking my head to indicate so for a moment, but I’m not. I’m reaching for the paper she’s sliding me and letting my eyes scan the pages. I wrote three whole pages in that station on that night. November 3rd. My personal hell.

I clear my voice which has so clearly not spoken in days.

“It’s November 3rd right now. Sheriff Stacey told me to write about my history with him so they could understand some more about the situation. He also told me to write about the specific instance that led me here tonight. 

I met this guy a couple years ago but the story doesn't start until a couple months ago. He asked me out. He’s 44. I’m 19. I don’t remember the exact moment I thought it was normal for this to happen, but I just loved telling myself everyone was in love with me. So I said yes. Why the hell not. He was “hot” as I would say. He didn’t have money, so if you thought that was a motive behind my actions, it wasn't. He gave me some old sob story about how he lost his wife to cancer before they could have children and he was just now opening up to love again. Because of me. I don't know what to say for myself really. I wasn't known for my morality and he wasn't known to my friends or family, so really what was the harm in dating an “older man”. It wasn't fair to him. Weird because he raped me. He didn't know I would just wake up repulsed one day. Or maybe he did. We went on one date before we had sex. I slept with him on the first date. He was good. I was happy. For some reason I had convinced myself that it was okay to be happy, even in this situation. It wasn't. And I wasn't really happy. He was a little bit forceful, but “that’s what I like”. To clarify, I’m putting quotes because that's what he told me I liked and I didn’t argue. 

We carried on. It was a week ago I woke up in his bed with bruises on my thigh and tears stains running down my face. No recollection of the night before. Blood. I went back to my dorm, obviously wrecked. My roommates asked what was wrong, but I showered and winked at them telling some story about a frat boy. The next morning I woke up in a pool of sweat. I hadn't gotten a single text from him. But it was okay because I loved him. I showered. No, actually, that’s a lie. I sat at the bottom of the shower and cried because something was wrong and I didn’t know what. I was repulsed with myself. I hated myself. So goddamn much. And for the life of my naive self I couldn't see why. I looked at myself in the mirror for hours and cried at the bruises getting darker than the day before. I couldn't bring myself to use mascara because what if it ran down my cheeks again. He texted me that day. “Crazy night, babe. You were an animal.” I vomited into the toilet. I couldn't eat. But I responded. “Oh yeah. Couldn't handle me?” “I love you so much.” He said he loved me. It’s fine. I told myself that if he loved me it was okay because if he loved me he wouldn't hurt me. SO if I was feeling this way it was clearly MY problem. It was in MY head. And as a result I could fix it. I just needed time. It took two more days for me to regress into nothing. I couldn't go to class. I couldn't eat. I couldn't sleep. I just sat in my bed and tried desperately to remember why he would love me and still hurt me. I’d bounce back between ‘he would never’ and ‘I hate myself for letting him’. My roommate called my mother and she came. I never told her what happened, but somehow I’m here.”

I stopped reading. My cheeks were wet recounting my epic love story. I loved him. I realize that. So maybe this is a form of betrayal, to bring him here and accuse him of something he undoubtedly did, but maybe did with love. 

“Sadie, you don't have to keep going,” my attorney nods towards me. 

My voice cracks as I address the Judge, “Your Honor, if I could ask you to read the rest yourself? There are 3 pages. The 1st is how it happened. All of the rest is what happened.”

I see my mom inhale slowly. The judge himself shudders a little bit, but takes the papers. It’s “evidence”.

I waited in agony for him to acknowledge what he’s reading, but if it shocked him, he didn’t show it. 

It’s not my turn anymore. It's time for the results, you could say. I walk back to my seat and shuffle into where my mother is guiding me. There are minutes that pass where my vision blurs. I jump when the judge finally speaks. 

“This will be followed up in a greater capacity, but I will rule now, what I believe. Peter Griffin Johnson, you will be held in Asher Community Jail until the herring of a formal trial. As it is presently you will be charged with the rape of Sadie Marshall.”

I didn’t need to hear anything else. Peter turned in his seat and looked me in the eyes. I did the wrong thing. He did love me. 

-Calypso Kay