knife out of the kitchen drawer. Went into the bathroom. I hated myself so much for what I’d let happen to me—for being stupid enough to even go with strangers to that party, for flirting and pretending to be a big girl—that I cut down into my left wrist.”
I suck in a startled breath before grabbing on to her wrist, twisting it so I could see. I had seen it before, I realized. My thumb grazes over the small, inch-long scar that cuts at an inward angle. It’s thin and red with a slightly raised and bumpy edge, but it’s so small I never would have connected it with a desire to end one’s life.
“I didn’t try hard enough,” she whispers, and I raise my eyes to hers. “I pressed down, and the minute it punched through my skin, I regretted it. There was a lot of blood, but it wasn’t a large cut and I didn’t hit a vein. I was still high as a kite and I fell to the floor, I think more wigged out over what I’d just done than anything. It woke my parents and they found me quickly. Called an ambulance.”
“Christ,” I mutter, looking back down at the scar.
She’s silent, giving me a moment to collect myself. I consider everything she’s told me. A brutal gang rape, the loss of her innocence, and a brief, desperate moment where she thought to end the pain forever. But the strength she must have had, to pull herself back from the brink before she could do irrevocable harm.
“No one realized I was raped until the doctor examined me. My parents were freaking out I had tried to kill myself, not having a clue about what really happened. They obviously tended to the wrist first, but once they realized what had happened to me, they used a rape kit. The police came and I was interviewed for what seemed like forever. They found Rohypnol in my system, which is why I don’t remember much.”
Still holding her wrist, stroking the scar, I ask, “I don’t understand. This was ten years ago. Why wasn’t JT arrested?”
“Because I didn’t know who he was. Couldn’t even remember much about my attackers other than vague features. Color of hair, maybe an idea of how tall they were. I didn’t even know where the mansion was located. They tried to investigate as best they could. Contacted local cab companies to see if they could find who drove me to my house, but they couldn’t come up with anything.”
“Then how did you know it was JT?” I ask, not in a disbelieving way, because I trust fully that Sela knows he was involved.
Sela’s hands move, dislodging my own so she can lace our fingers together. “I was hospitalized involuntarily because of my suicide attempt. It was a pitiful attempt, but it was enough to hold me. It was the first of three hospitalizations that happened over the next few years. I drove myself crazy trying to remember details. Drove myself to absolute breakdowns fueled by guilt and self-loathing for even putting myself in that situation. I barely graduated high school. Lost all my friends because I couldn’t stand to have them looking at me, wondering what was going on inside my deranged mind. I became paranoid, worried I’d get attacked again, so I hardly ever went anywhere. My parents circled in closer, became almost obsessive in their protection of me. I tried counseling and group therapy, but none of it helped. It’s like I kept filling up with all of these horrible feelings compounded with helplessness at not having resolution, until I’d just snap and get committed again, although I never tried to kill myself after that first attempt.”
“How did you survive?” I ask her pleadingly, because I need her to get to the part where she tells me she pulled through.
She gives a shrug and a light laugh. “I just . . . gave up trying to figure it all out. Also, I took some really good antidepressants, but eventually I just had to move on. It helped when I enrolled in college, gave me a new focus.”
“But there came a point when you figured it was JT?” I prompt her.
“Yes,” she says with serious eyes. “A little over six months ago. I was watching an entertainment news show, and JT was on it. They were doing a piece about The Sugar Bowl.”