Playing with Forever

Chapter 55: Fille Courageuse

I shuffled my feet.

"I just, I want you to know that if you're a victim, too, that there's hope. Let me be an example for you to speak out. Do it. It's scary, and I don't know what happens next, but don't suffer in silence. No one deserves to go through what I did. If you need a champion, I'll be that for you." I shuffled my feet again, and dropped my hands to my sides. "That's it."

And with that, I walked out of the gym.

---------------

Sam barreled out of the gym only seconds after I exited, just like I knew he would. He rushed to me and wrapped me up tight in his arms. "I am sorry," he whispered into my hair. "I am so, so sorry, Abigail."

"I know," I whispered back into his neck.

He continued to hug me tight. "That was so brave," he praised. "I am so proud of you."

"It was overly dramatic to say it in front of everyone," I said.

"It was brave," he corrected. "You brave, brave girl."

"Let's go home. We can talk there, okay?"

"Anything," he replied, pulling back. He didn't try to hide the glassiness of his eyes. My heart ached to see it, another pang in my already sore chest. Sam took my hand and we walked to the parking lot. We climbed into his car, where he took hold of my hand again to clutch as we drove. I was pretty sure he wouldn't be letting go of me for a very long time.

It was only midmorning when we got to my house, so the boys and Birdie were gone. We had the house to ourselves to talk about what Birdie already knew, and never wanted the kids to ever understand.

I led Sam to my bedroom where we collapsed onto the futon. I pulled the covers around me, feeling inexplicably cold and needing them for reassurance and snuggles. Sam turned and faced me. "I will not make you talk about it if you do not want to," he said gently.

"No," I replied, "it's okay now. Tell me what you want to know, and I'll tell you."

"It was him, your guardian, the whole time?"

"Yes, it was Eric."

"And he was your teacher, watching over you at school?"

"Yes," I said with a nod. "All my teachers just assumed he would take care of me, so they didn't look close into me or my home life."

His face crumpled with disgust. "That is so sick."

"Yeah."

"I just—I wish you told me earlier. Why all the lies and secrets, Abigail?"

"What do you mean, all the lies and secrets?" I asked, baffled. "I had sex with my teacher, Sam. Pardon me for not wanting to admit that to anyone."

"That was not sex," Sam replied fiercely. "That was rape. It was forced on you," he said. "It is nothing to be ashamed about."

"That's not true."

"Yes it is!"

I inhaled deeply, not wanting to fight. I counted to ten in my head, trying to calm myself by time I got there. "There isn't a whole lot to explain," I said, changing the subject. "I covered it at school. The basics, anyways."

"Do you want to tell me specifics?"

"Do you want to know?"

"If you want to tell me, yes. Anything you want to say, tell me. I can handle it."

I thought about where to start. Instead of speaking, however, I went and grabbed my sketchbook, the one I had defended so violently the first time he came over. "You can see this now," I said, holding it tight to my chest.

He watched me with concerned wariness as he held out his hands, and I took a deep breath before handing it over. He opened it up and stared at the first page, turning to stone as he took the drawing in.

The sketchbook had been an assignment from the therapist I saw at the insistence of my case worker after I went to live in the foster home. I had a hard time talking about what had happened to me, so the therapist gave me the sketchbook and recommended I draw it instead. "Focus on the emotions you feel, not the actual actions if you get stuck," she'd said. 

Reluctantly, at least at first, I started drawing it out. It was filled with angry sketches of the things Eric had done to me, the things he had forced me to do. It wasn't full images, but small details here and there, surrounded with visual representations of my emotions, just like the therapist requested. Angry scribbles, dark clouds and whirlwinds, and those words, always those words: useless, unlovable. It all combined into a mishmash that expressed what I couldn't say out loud.

Sam stopped after the third page, bringing his hand up to cover his face, glassy eyes and all. I knew he was trying to be strong for me. He took a deep, cleansing breath then returned to the drawings. I said nothing. I knew it was a lot. But he wanted to know, and it was the only way I could talk about it.

When he finished, he put it aside and put his hands to his face and cried. He wanted to be strong, but it was too much. I knew it was, and didn't fault him for the sob that climbed out of his chest.

A few minutes later, he calmed. I told him, "I found an inpatient recovery center for women like me. I'll live there for a couple months as I go through the program and hopefully start healing. I don't think this is something you ever completely recover from," I said. "But I'd like to try."

"Of course, anything."

"It's in Colorado."

He nodded. "I will take you there."

"And I was hoping that you could help me pay for it." It was time to ask for help.

"Anything," he repeated, meaning it. He brushed my stray hair behind my ear. "It is so brave of you to go."

"I can't live like this anymore," I admitted. "I have to do something, or I'm going to drown in it."

"I will do whatever I can to support you. I do not..." he hesitated. "I do not exactly know what to do, so you will need to tell me."

"Just knowing I have your support is enough for now. You can hold me, though." I leaned towards him, and he pulled me into his chest, wrapping his arms tight around me. A relived sigh escaped me, and I relaxed into him, letting my body melt into his. He caressed my arm, running his hand over my skin soothingly again and again.

"Fille courageuse," he whispered. "C'est une fille courageuse."

"Yeah," I agreed. "I am."