Becoming a Statistic

I have become a statistic.

I sat on the bed in the hospital cublicle, my face and powder-pink dress encrusted with blood, talking to a cherubic young junior doctor. ‘I suppose that statistic was right.’

‘What? The one that states that one in four women will be the victim of an assault by someone she knows in her lifetime?’

I nodded. ‘Indeed’.

Something I never believed would happen to me has happened – I was physically attacked by someone I thought was a friend. Andy, a person I only ever tried to help. Andy, a person who just a few months ago said I was one of his most faithful companions (I dread to imagine how he treats those he considers unfaithful).

I remember very little of what happened. I’d merely visited his flat for a cup of tea and a chat, just as people do every day without consequence. (One thing I will concede – Andy is/was a damned good conversationalist – something I shall miss). Then some male friends of his arrived and some more and soon the room was filled with the stench of testosterone. I recall flirting with a rather handsome blond guy called David. ‘I’ve always fancied you,’ he said.

The next thing I knew I was being slammed against the wall by Andy. He was hoving his palm into my face. Apparently he was punching and kicking me but I felt no pain – the mind is an amazing thing, they say. I think what I was experiencing is called primary shock. I then remember being pulled out of the flat and dragged upstairs to my own flat by David.

Then there was a long, yawning gap in time.

I awoke in the middle of the night in hospital. I was dressed in one of those nightgowns with a flap at the back. (Oh, how they appear to love humiliating their patients). I stumbled, half-blind, to the bathroom. I stared into the mirror. I looked quite hideous – like something from another world. My hair was fluffed around my pale face – drained of all colour. Blood dripped from my nose. My upper lip was blue as though it was stained with ink. I tried to rub it off before realizing it was a bruise.

I stumbled back to my cubicle and slipped beneath the single sheet. It was like sleeping in an ice box so I slipped beneath what seemed to be another sheet. It was an undersheet. It added little warmth. My mind was still protecting me. I shuddered and fell into a restless sleep.

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One Response to “Becoming a Statistic”

  1. Repeat Offenders « So Sick of Drowning Says:

    […] spoke gibberish for a few minutes and then turned and descended the stairs.  I heard him address Andy. He had, amazingly, remastered the English […]

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