"Just drop me off here," was the first thing I said. Tracy's house stood white and rich as the first on the road leading up to the hill.

"I could just drop you off at home...?"

Already I heard the blinker, softly sounded the braking of the car on the sand dusted pavement. I shook my head. Would Tracy even be home? I wondered if the blood that had spilled would leave a stain on the upholstery. Fortunately, it was leather and would be easy to clean. I didn't say goodbye when I got out of the car, avoiding the impulse to turn myself over due to the cramp between my legs, and walked seemingly confidently to the back door of the house, since I didn't feel like waking anyone up. The car drove away, at a normal pace, and as I stood still and listened to the sound of the tires quieting on the asphalt I realized that everything had changed. Lionel had talked a lot on the way home. I'm not quite sure if they were accusations or justifications of his actions, but all I heard in them was that he was sorry, because after he raped me I hadn't let out a word pointing out his sins. Rape, that filthy, dirty and degrading word, was the last thing on my mind, though, and the first time it took forms in my consciousness was when Tracy, sobered by the disheveled sight of me, knelt in front of me by the toilet and told me that what Lionel had done to me, was rape. What had Lionel been saying?

"You were asking for it, weren't you?"

"Did you like it, at least?"

"This is what happens, after nights like this. What did you expect?"

"I mean, fuck, I don't know what the hell you want. Do you even love me? I love you, I know that much. But you're always ahead of something, like, you make me feel like I'm not what you're looking for."

"Ever since- I'm just gonna say it, ever since you got that fucking job you seem like a whole different person."

I didn't knock, but snuck in through the back door - from the grand scullery I saw that a timid light was shining down from the stairwell opening. I prayed to God that it would be Tracy. Never in my life had I so hoped for a certain presence, I almost felt compelled to fall to my knees to beg for my friend's sweet appearance. It was impossible for me to go home. Not right now, to enter the innocence of my inner room in which everything indicated that I was living a perfectly good life, to crawl into the loneliness of my bed without an embrace of one or the other, for I would not be able to tell my mother, my sister or God help me my father in years yet - indeed, it would not be until four years later that I ever spoke of it to any of them, when the instigator of this evil once again came into our lives in a crude and nauseating way. I crept up the stairs, and there she was, because the bathroom door was open I saw how she was removing her makeup, she had probably just come home. Tracy just barely failed to squeal at the sudden sight of the ghost standing at the top of the stairs. Surprised, she greeted me, ran a comb through her hair while whispering softly to me about the course of the rest of the evening (no sex, Clark just walked her home and kissed her good night) but before she had finished two sentences she fell silent again, realizing that the person standing there was not the same as her friend from the beginning of the evening. She pulled me into the bathroom light somewhat harshly and briefly cast a glance of inspection upon me. I saw myself standing there like that, from her perspective. Trying hopelessly to hold up one of the straps of my dress, the creased lower half, my run-down makeup from kissing and drunkenness and my hair no longer the sleek strands they once were.

"Bethel..." she began incredulously, "what the fuck happened?"

The only answer Tracy would get that night was for me to burst into tears, but it was enough for her to understand what indeed had happened. Silently, she took me further into the bathroom, getting me a pajama set and clean underwear. She waited a moment, looked at me, probably testing me to see if I could undress myself, and when I gave no sign of willingness she did it herself. Remember, reader, when I said I knew Tracy could shovel shit like hell? That despite, no, thanks to her powerful and unmistakably stereotypical femininity she could bring about a limitless sense of unrewarded labor? Here she was again, as she stripped off my lingerie, turned the shower hot and prepared towels for me, all without saying a word. As I washed the filth off me and the blood flowed from my legs, I continued to cry. I tasted the salt on my lips and cried harder, almost shaking, crouching in pain I washed my body of the sin that had been committed against me. I cried, but didn't even know which of the myriad aspects I was supposed to be the saddest about, so with the turning of the knob, my crying fit had stopped as well. When I stepped out of the cabin, I noticed that my black dress was gone. I never saw it again. Years later, when Tracy and I found each other again almost by chance, I asked her. She had shrugged and said she had burned it, the very next night: far out into the meadow, she had started a fire in her sleeping clothes, her slippers dirty from the dew of the grass. In return, I told her she had saved my life that night.

What had happened seemed to me an inevitable signal of my break with my past. As I sat on the porch about two weeks later, drinking ice-tea that my mother always made in summer time, I felt that my soul had been ripped away from me, it had flown away on that terrible May night, and I prayed and hoped that I would find it again in New York. I felt a deep-rooted hatred beginning to brew within me, which I mistook for a loathing for the village and everything that chained me to it - even the sweet taste of the drink seemed bitter to me. No one suspected a thing: I had always been quiet and my reclusiveness could be reasoned to be nervousness for my departure. For two weeks I walked sheltered under a heavy yoke, I abhorred the prospect of wearing it. Even though no one knew of what had happened except Tracy and Lionel himself, I felt a deep shame, even though I didn't quite know what for. In any case, July, the month in which I would forever depart, couldn't come soon enough. As I sat on a rocking chair and looked at my hands and legs, I felt disgusted with myself, and thinking back to rare moments in which I relished in my beauty, I now saw it as vain sin, and that I ever had the boldness to indulge in self-love repulsed me. At the same time, as I write this down, I am seized with the frustration of not being able to put it all into words - this feeling of shame is all-encompassing and can only be experienced by victims of this terrible crime. Therefore, I cannot begin to describe what it did to me when I saw a familiar car drive into the yard, which began at quite a distance from the porch. Through the gap in the trees I saw the black Rolls Royce drive up the path, it stopped too early, so the passenger would have to walk some distance before reaching us.

"That would be Michael. I'll get another glass."

It had become so normal by now for him to stop by our house (it wasn't strange either, he liked familiar people around him and he always drove right past our house when coming from L.A.), that our family was no longer shocked when we saw a familiar black fedora hobbling past the big windows. And there he was, walking, raising a hand to me and he could have greeted me, since we were only about ten feet apart. But even if he had, I wouldn't have been able to answer him, because I felt my throat give out. A heavy force pulled me back into my rocking chair, and I hoped it would swallow me up. He walked onto the porch, the steps creaking under his weight, and he smiled at me, "Hello, Bethel, how are you?" and thank goodness Mother came out and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.

"You're just back from L.A? How are you, Michael? Here, have some. I hope you like it sweet."

And with ease they struck up a conversation, and still I hadn't said anything. I heard Michael speak about what he had been doing, and it seemed to be something about thinking about music video ideas and his new album, and even though my mother didn't understand anything of this world she was interested, and in turn she told him about the quiet life of our village. The reason my mother was so kind, besides being so by nature, was because Michael had recently suffered losses: his grandmother, a close friend in the music industry and Ryan White, had all died in only a short amount of time. I hated that in a moment like this, when he was clearly seeking comfort in familiar faces and our rustic daily existence, I was staring sulkily ahead because I was physically incapable of anything else. I wanted, much to my surprise, to kiss away the worrisome wrinkles around his eyes. A chair had been pushed up for Michael, but instead of taking advantage of it, he leaned against the banister. Despite the heat, he was wearing a red long-sleeved blouse, his curls looked longer than ever, and I thought I was going to die. As Michael drank the last of his iced tea, Mother looked at me penetratingly, but more questioning than condemning.

"You're not getting ill, are you?"

Oh, mother, if only you knew! How sick I was! Sick with shame and even sicker with feverish love for the man who stood there so casually studying the vast fields, his dark eyes searching mine but briefly to find what the answer would be to that question, Bethel, are you indeed ill? And now everything was ruined, for Lionel had taken me in his car and I would never be the same.

"No, I'm all right, thank you."

It seemed to reassure her enough and her gaze sought Michael again.

"I hope you'll stay for dinner? I have to run to the store, real quick."

He nodded politely, took a seat in a chair next to me, and I winced at the prospect of having to be alone with him. I heard Mother rummaging around the house, grabbing her bags, and then her elated voice because she had found something on the edge of the piano, "Oh, Michael, you just have to see these!"

My heart stood still.

"Pictures from Bethel's prom night. She looks like a star."

She walked through the open door toward us again, laid the stack of Polaroids on the side table and pulled the shopping bags around her shoulder.

"I'll take a look at them," Michael smiled and bade her goodbye, and as we watched her car drive out of the yard, and I continued to stare sternly at the edge of the road, I sensed how his gaze tried to find mine inquisitively. I felt myself getting physically sick. He hadn't said anything yet. I saw from the corner of my eyes how he picked up the stack of photos and I heard his soft laugh, more as an indication that he was looking at them now. He would see me standing there, half drunk and happy, he would see how Lionel had proudly locked his arm around my waist. I could see in my imagination how he was appraising my figure, as any man would, and I unconsciously slapped my hand in front of my mouth. When he said, "You guys look great together," I ran inside, leaving a dazed Michael behind, and threw up in the sink.