I woke in a hospital — surprised, but not — to be alive. Panic gripped me, as it always seemed to in emergency rooms. My nose had been taped and there were little pieces of cotton in each nostril. My forehead and cheek were bandaged and burned with pain, but when I reached my hand to touch, everything felt numb. My wrist was throbbing and swollen. I tried to find a part of me that wasn’t screaming in searing pain to focus on. I was sure the hurt was slightly muted thanks to the cocktail of dope they had been pumping into me through various tubes and a needle taped to my hand, but it wasn’t enough. I tried to reach for the button that would call a nurse, but couldn’t find it. My mouth was missing teeth in the front, and I couldn’t seem to stop manipulating my tongue through the gaps. I wanted to get up and get the hell out before the cops came. I couldn’t remember getting to the hospital, but when I closed my eyes I remembered exactly where it was I had run from. I could see the street that was just on the other side of the hedges, and trees that I had run through barefoot. That last look back was seared into my memory, right down to the odd-looking roofline of the house.
A nurse pushed past the curtain, accompanied by another woman who introduced herself as Karen and asked if there was anyone she could call for me. I gave her my sister’s name and number before I could stop myself. I wanted to tell the social worker what had happened to me but I couldn’t. She said it was okay and that she could come back later. I shook my head back and forth, started to hyperventilate, and sputtered out that I didn’t know who did this and I didn’t want to talk about it. The nurse intervened and said I needed to be left alone for the time being. She adjusted the IV and administered a shot of something into it, and asked me to just try and breathe deeply. Before the social worker left she promised to call my sister right away and left her card on the makeshift bedside table. She said if I wanted to speak to her or wanted her present when the police spoke to me that one of the nurses would page her and she would come back.
Sometime later I woke to another nurse who had come in to change the bandages on my face. She said, “It took a lot of stitches to sew you up; it is going to be extremely important to keep these clean and dry so they don’t get infected.”
I stared at her in a detached sort of way. She was saying something else about needing plastic surgery, and something about cigarette smoking preventing proper healing of scars. And then I heard her say that the police had been there and had taken photographs of my injuries, and that they needed to ask me some questions. Photographs? No. When the fuck did they do that, and didn’t they need my permission for that? I convinced the nurse there was no way, that I was not ready to give a statement, and started to cry without control. She said they absolutely needed to speak with me and would be back in the morning, which in my mind meant I had time to make my way out and home — if I still had a home, that is. I was terrified to fall asleep and tried with everything I had in me to fight the fatigue that was threatening, making my eyes so very heavy. But I lost and fell into the drug-induced sleep without consent.
The look of fear that was registered on the face of my sister when I woke to find her beside me was unbearable. She was crying, her eyes were puffy and swollen, and her fair skin was blotchy from the emotion.
“Rebecca, my God. What happened to you? Who did this to you; where have you been? I went to the place where you had been living and they said they hadn’t seen you in a while. I should have found you sooner; I’ve been trying to find you for weeks and this is not how I wanted to find you. Oh my God … what happened to you … what the hell happened?” she demanded, “Who did this? Who the fuck did this, WHO?”
I was still a bit startled, even shocked that she had said the word “fuck” and hadn’t choked. I tried to hold her stern gaze, but had to look away lest she see fragments of the truth reflected in my eyes that I was not willing to offer up, now or possibly ever. I started to weep without warning; I was so relieved that she had come. She dealt with crisis differently than I did; she always had and this was no different.
“The police want to talk to you, and the nurse said you are being difficult about it. Becca, they say the injuries you have are very similar to another woman who was found … was found … they found her dead, dead! So you have to remember, you just have to, Becca.”
“What? Who? Who did they find dead — what was her name? What was her name?”
“I don’t know. I’m sorry; I didn’t think to ask them. But you just have to remember anything at all, Becca, please.”
I closed my eyes and saw the roofline of the house clearly. “I don’t remember anything, Winney; I don’t want to remember. I don’t want to fucking talk about it anymore, okay?” and I started to weep again with deep and unstoppable sobs. My sister stayed beside me, afraid to hurt me by hugging, so she stood instead and held my hand and told me everything was going to be okay. She was taking me home and was going to look after me. Home; I wanted to go home. Far away from the streets that had been my home for too many years; to really go home. I wanted to see my parents, especially my dad. I wanted him to read to me; I wanted to feel protected, safe, and secure, and to remember what love felt like.