August 12, 2012 17 Comments
I had to do research on rohypnol or “the date-rape drug” for Splinters and it was really not fun. Just imagining someone so sick as to make another person completely helpless and then use them while they can’t do anything to save themselves absolutely hurt my heart. Trying to be in the head of someone that was done to, even though it’s fiction here, was just as painful to imagine. This, though, is part of the result of that imagining.
I start reading about rohypnol and how much more effective it is when administered with alcohol. Something called anterograde amnesia, victims under the effects for hours, victims acting drunk, the potential for victims to die if administered too much of the drug. Then I scroll down, reading the reference links and…“Oh, Christ.”
“There are…” Half—more than half—of the links are to rape crisis resources. The seriousness of this slams into me like a fist to my chest.
“What is it, Al?”
I can’t quite take a deep breath. I’m shaking. “Links.”
He takes his phone, looks, and then says, “Goddamn,” like he’s as distraught as I feel. “Do you think…? That is, can you tell if you were…? If someone…?”
I shake my head because I’d definitely know, and I don’t feel like I was fucked last night. Raped. I wasn’t raped last night. “I wasn’t, but…”
He squats down in front of me. “Tell me,” he whispers and rests a hand on my knee.
It’s the whispering that does it. I swallow hard, catch a stuttering breath, and have to just take a moment to get a grip while I look into those whiskey eyes and all the concern in them.
“I don’t remember. I don’t remember anything.” I am so not going to fucking cry now. Not. Now. I manage to whisper, “I know I wasn’t…raped, but I don’t have any idea what was done to me besides what you saw. They could’ve done anything to me. Was I unconscious the whole time? Was I a little bit there? Could I talk? Did I try to stop them? I don’t know!” My voice cracks, and I clench my jaw.
He nods and gets up to sit on the bed beside me. A second later, he’s tugged me around and into his chest. One solid arm is around my back, and his other hand cups my head like he wants to protect me. I cling. I have to. The comfort, the solidness of him, the warmth and sense of safety… I have to hold on to all of it.
“We’ll find out what happened,” he says into the stubble of my hair. “We’ll figure it out and I’ll make sure nothin’ happens to you while you’re here. Nothin’ bad while you’re here with me, Al. Nothin’.”
I nod into his shoulder and add leaning to my clinging. He can save me, protect me, mother and smother me. I hope he’s one of those armed-to-the-teeth, don’t-you-worry-‘bout-a-thing-little-darlin’ Texans who’s a light sleeper, prays to the NRA, and has a hair-trigger. That’s what I need right now.