Chapter 26
Call it the product of a guilty mind. But a hideous bruise to the face could easily be mistaken for a host of different things, when judged from afar – depending on the lighting, one might even be able to mistake it for a birthmark.
Why am I telling you this? Because it's important.
And because Liz Johnson was currently seated across from me, trying to hide a welting black eye from beneath her hoodie.
"Ladies, this is a safe space," the school counsellor continued, looking around the room, making eye contact with the faces that peered back up at her. "And I've gathered us to this safe space today because there are some important issues to address. This has been a tough few months for us all. The school recognizes that these are trying times, and we want each of you to know that it's okay to not be okay right now. Do you all understand?"
There were some murmurs in agreement. The Ladies Space was a new initiative by the school counsellor – it gathered female students from the cohort every week to sit in a circle and voice their feelings – the anxiety of never uncovering what had happened to Jenny and Rob, the looming threat of danger that their disappearance implied. The grief of losing a dear, dear friend with no explanation.
The counsellor, Ms. Hargreaves, continued. "Today's session is going to center around gender-based violence. Now, let me just premise here that if you don't feel comfortable talking about a certain topic in this space, you will never, ever be forced to. This may be a triggering subject for some – if you'd like to leave now and call this session a day, that's totally fine. I'm just warning you now."
Silence. We nervously looked around at our peers, waiting for someone to stand up and decide to walk out. Liz Johnson kept her head down, avoiding scrutiny. Pretending to be invisible. Yet she remained seated.
I couldn't help but keep my attention squarely on her, burning with curiosity. What had happened to her face?
Ms. Hargreaves gathered some laminated sheets, hiding what they contained from us and keeping them close to her chest. She stood in the middle of our makeshift circle.
"This might be a bit confronting, so I apologize in advance. I've been given permission to show these images to you all." She revealed the first image – a girl deep in coma, with blood matted into her hair and cuts covering her face. We all collectively gasped. Ms. Hargreaves' expressed was grave.
"This young woman was the victim of abuse. She and her boyfriend had gotten into an altercation at a bar. She was only nineteen and underage – she had fallen out with her family, and been living with him at the time. When she spoke to me, she revealed feeling like she had nowhere else to sleep but in the same bed as her abuser."
She then revealed a second image, one that was as confronting and graphic as the other. A bloody, lacerated face. "This woman was in her late thirties – much older than the first, yet that didn't stop her from being assaulted. Her husband of eleven years had brutally beaten her, in front of her own children, and in the comfort of their home. By the time she was found, she had nearly been close to death." She quietly gauged our collective reactions, seeing the feelings of shock and horror and nausea written on our faces.
"I won't show you anymore, I think – you get the picture. These were every day women, who went to school and worked and had very normal lives. But their abusers hadn't been strangers – their abusers had been people whom they loved and trusted, people whom they had known for years. It's now a well-established fact that most patterns of assault happen between people who know each other well, as opposed to largely being random and unpredictable. Though instances like that also still occur."
Liz Johnson flinched away from the photos, away from Ms. Hargreaves' words. Then she turned away entirely, using her hair to hide her face.
It had felt like a slap in my own face. I couldn't help it – I started imagining how those same brutalities could have also happened to Liz. Or how they could have happened to Jenny. It terrified me to the core, that we lived in a world where girls like myself could suffer a similar fate such as that.
She continued, "I want you ladies to know that this could happen to anyone – that it could be happening to your friends and family, your classmates, the people you pass on the street. This type of violence happens disproportionately to women, who are often marginalized and not in positions of power, and who feel that they have too few resources to take action. Which is why it's important to check up on the women in your life, to make sure that they're okay and safe."
"And if things are happening in your private life that are deeply troubling you, that you'd like to talk to somebody about," Ms. Hargreaves spoke, coming from a place of authority, "I have an open-door policy in my office. Come by whenever you want. What you say will be kept strictly confidential. Though in the event that I may feel that your life is in immediate danger, am I obligated to report to the authorities."
A warning bell. The school was cracking down on violence – except their preventative efforts were all in vain. It was far too late.
Imagine that you are Jennifer Hockley. A beautiful, vibrant teenage girl with lots of friends. A beautiful house, and a guaranteed beautiful future. With lots and lots of money.
Picture having the world at your feet, at such a young age – a world that you could only share with those select few who could ever understand. The Ericsons and Lincolns and Blights of the world. A close, tight-knit circle of other rich, beautiful people, with whom you could cultivate a hidden version of yourself behind the prying eyes of the public. Those who weren't so rich, who weren't nearly as perfect, who couldn't possibly understand the microcosm of the elite.
Try to imagine the feelings of boredom, of loneliness, brought about by this extreme individualism. The feeling that you are the only person in the world – to have ever suffered, to have ever felt pain and loss. The only person whom you could trust to share the burden of your existence with was somebody who was just as royally fucked up as you were.
Queue Noah Lincoln – and thus, nearly half a decade of an intense, tumultuous, violent torrent of a relationship. Think of it as something that keeps the boredom at bay, a way to justify your mutual spiteful tendencies, to feel vindicated in your awfulness. This relationship is what molds you, what shapes you into the human being you would one day become. Both you and he, on top of the world. And when you're on top – when you're untouchable – actions have no consequences.
After all of that, imagine trying to move on. Cleaning up your act and moving forward, coming to the understanding that only by associating with the right people, would you be able to unlock the places you needed to go next. You start dating another rich kid with rich parents, aware of what those rich connections could unlock. Of the heights you could soar, the conquerable terrains you could unearth, with the right type of person by your side.
And yet you're not allowed to move on – no, this new little rich boy doesn't know you like Noah does. Only Noah knows the wicked foulness that lies deep within your being. Only Noah can give you what you really need, what you ultimately desire – a numbing escape from it all, the pleasures needed to take the edge off of your perfect life. Your perfect disguise.
You spend one night giving in, briefly, to your most base desires. With the one person who knows you, who sees you best. With the despicable person whom you still love, who can't leave you alone – who would kill every living person who tried to stand in the way of owning you.
And then you disappear. Then you are never found again.
What happens next?
"Lizzy!" Nathan had been waiting by the door for the Ladies Space session to wrap up – anxious, tense. Except he hadn't been waiting for me.
I hunched my shoulders down and tried to hide my disappointment, cowed that his attention hadn't been mine. I knew it was wrong, but I couldn't help myself – I lingered long enough to catch their interaction as it unfolded.
"What do you want, Nate?" Lizzy's usually loud, confident voice was abnormally subdued. Hesitant. Fearful.
"I keep hearing all these rumors – hey, are you okay? What happened to you?"
"I'm fine. Go away."
"Did he do that to you?" Nate whispered tersely, trying to keep their conversation hidden from listening ears. "Is this my fault? You can tell me."
She pushed him away. "Fuck you. I shouldn't have – I wouldn't have let you see all those old screen shots if I knew it would make him mad. Somebody told him."
"Fucker!" he swore. "Where is he? Is he here?"
"He's fucked off, Nate," she cried, sniffling into her sleeve. "He cornered me in my car this morning, then he drove off. Just please don't ask me for anything anymore. I don't wanna help you."
"Liz, I'm so sorry–"
She extracted herself away from him, walking briskly and turning left until she was out of sight. Still crying. Putting as much distance between Nathan and herself as physically possible.