from work one day, my car broke down. I was walking to a gas station when I was abducted at gunpoint by a man. He rented me to a small group of bikers for the weekend. That was what he did for a living. They took me to a - well, it was an old shack out in the fields, somewhere in rural Tennessee." The fine trembling began, the nearly imperceptible shivering that I could feel all the way to the soles of my feet. "There were about five of them, five men, and one or two women. I was blindfolded, so I never saw them. They chained me to a bed. They raped me, and they cut patterns on my chest and stomach with knives. When they were leaving, one of them gave me a gun. He was mad at the guy who'd rented me to them, I can't remember why." That wasn't true, but I didn't want to explain further. "So the gun had one bullet. I could have killed myself. I was a real mess by then. It was real hot out there." My fists were clenched, and I was struggling to keep my breathing even. "But when the man who'd kidnapped me came back - I shot him. And he died."
It was so quiet in the room that I could hear my own breathing.
I waited for Tamsin to say something. But they were waiting on me. Janet said, "Tell us how it ended."
"Ah, well, a farmer, it was his land, he came by and found me. So, he called the police, and they took me to the hospital." The condensed version.
"How long?" Tamsin asked.
"How long did they keep me? Well, let's see." The shivering increased in intensity. I knew it must be visible by now. "Friday afternoon and Friday night, and all day Saturday, and part of Sunday? I think."
"How long before the farmer got there?"
"Oh! Oh, sorry. That was the rest of Sunday, and Monday, and most of Tuesday. Quite a while," I said. I sat up straighter, made my fists unclench. Tried to force myself to be still.
"I remember that," Melanie said. "I was just a kid, then. But I remember when it was in all the papers. I remember wishing you had had a chance to shoot them all."
I flicked a glance at her, surprised.
"I remember thinking that you were asking for it, walking after your car had broken down," Firella said. We all looked at her. "That was before I found out that women had a right to walk anywhere they wanted, with no one bothering 'em."
"That's right, Firella," Tamsin said firmly. "What's the rule, people?"
We all waited.
"Don't blame the victim for the crime," she said, almost chanting.
"Don't blame the victim for the crime," we chorused raggedly. I thought some of us got the idea better than others, judging by their expressions.
"Baby-sitter accepts a ride home with the father of the kids, he rapes her. Is she at fault?" Tamsin asked us fiercely.
"Don't blame the victim for the crime!" we said. I have to admit this was an effort for me. I was about to decide Jack owed me big time when I remembered the blood running out of his nose.
"A woman's walking on a street alone at night, she gets grabbed and raped," Tamsin said. "Is it her fault?"
"Don't blame the victim for the crime!" we said firmly.
"A woman's wearing a tight skirt and no bra, goes to a bar in a bad part of town, gets drunk, takes a ride with a stranger, gets raped. Is it her fault?"
The chorus died out. This required more thought.
"What do you think, Lily?" Tamsin asked me directly.
"I think wanting to look attractive, even provocative, doesn't mean you deserve to get raped. I think even the stupidity of getting drunk with people you don't know doesn't merit the punishment of being raped. At the same time, women should be responsible for their own safety. ..." I trailed off.
"And what does being responsible for your own safety mean?"
That was something I could answer. "It means learning to fight," I said with certainty. "It means being cautious. It means taking care of your car so it won't break down, making sure your doors are locked, and evaluating the scene around you for danger."
Some of the women looked dubious when I mentioned fighting, but the rest of my measures met with approval.
"How responsible for your own safety were you before you got raped?" the therapist asked. Her