The first time I was naked in front of Michel after the rape, I thought: He’s seeing the whole truth on my body. Now he knows, my body can’t hide what I didn’t tell him. I covered myself, he put his arms around me, told me to be patient, because with time everything would fall back into place. We’re not in a hurry, he said.

The second time I was naked in front of Michel, I thought the same thing. I took longer to cover myself, but I did. The third time, the fourth, the fifth, always the same feeling, and Michel always telling me that he wasn’t in a hurry. But not me, and I slowly trained myself, forcing myself to give more and more, thinking: One day it will pass, one day I’ll take off my clothes and I won’t think that he can see I was violated.

I’m not bothered about the scar from the c-section. The crooked line and the keloid don’t change my idea of perfection, but that Tuesday in the forest is not only riveted in my soul, as I thought would happen. It’s also stamped across my body. Everything is written on my skin, I know it is, everything that happened, even the details I said I’d told the police but didn’t tell them because you can never tell it all, there’s always something missing.

That Tuesday impacted my physical appearance as if my body could never again be the same body for which I was willing to run up to Vista Chinesa and down again. There are days when I think it will pass, I won’t feel the same discomfort in front of the mirror, I’ll be attractive again, I’ll enjoy showing my body again, because, as your father said, it’s a matter of patience after all.

The artist held out the sketch. I took a step back, sat on the sofa, breathless. Dulcineia brought me a glass of water, I began to breathe again, I took the paper, the finished sketch, the man, the stranger in front of me, yes, it was him, very similar, almost the same, maybe the face was a little rounder than his, maybe the mouth was a little thinner, but, yes, it was him, after hours of answering the artist’s questions, finally there was the sketch, in front of me, there was the man, the stranger, except on paper. It’ll be easier with this, said Dulcineia, we’ll catch him. It’d be better if you hadn’t showered, but a well-drawn identikit sketch is a big help. We’ll catch the guy, trust me, you’ll see him behind bars, she said, the desire for revenge leaping out of her eyes. And there’s more: my men went back to the forest, they found your necklace, it’s been sent off for analysis, we’re hoping to find a clue that will lead us to your attacker, I’ll keep you posted. My grandma’s necklace, I exclaimed, caught between the relief of knowing they’d found it and the distress of knowing it wasn’t there, that it had been sent to the police station without my consent.

The identikit sketch was published in the newspaper the next day with a summary of the story. They didn’t print my name, but they did say that the victim was working on a project for the 2016 Rio Olympics. I stared at the picture until the image blurred, lost its contours, and dissipated. It was a game I used to play at the time: I’d half-close my eyes and concentrate on any old object until it dissolved. I did it with the man, the stranger, and he became little white balls scattered in the air.