We're Going to Need More Wine - Gabrielle Union Page 0,34

whole life flash before my eyes,” I can tell you that this didn’t happen to me. I didn’t see my life. I was just very much present at the scene, watching this man rape me with a gun to my head.

He turned me over to go for it doggy style. He put the gun down, placing it right next to me. I wasn’t looking at him, obviously, but staring at his gun.

“Can you hand me the gun?”

He said it just like that, as he ripped into me. He said it so very casually. “Can you hand me the gun?” It wasn’t even “Gimme the gun.” It wasn’t forceful or gruff. It was like he was asking for the salt.

“Can you hand me the gun?”

And in that moment, when he asked me to give him the gun, the me that was hovering above and the me getting raped became one. I was back in my body, and I grabbed that motherfucking gun.

I moved forward, turned, and landed on my back. And I shot at him.

I can go right back to that moment now. The sound of the gunshot reverberating in my ears, every muscle in my hurting body tensed, the smell of gunpowder filling the air.

And the realization that I missed. And that I was probably going to die very soon.

He jumped on me, trying to yank the gun out of my fist. He bashed my face as he turned the gun toward me with his other hand.

My finger was wedged between the trigger and the base of the gun. It felt like he was going to rip my finger off, but I wouldn’t let go. I flashed on scenes from movies, so I kept trying to pull the trigger seven times. I just thought that if I clicked it seven times, I would save myself. I was trying to turn the gun away from my face and holding on to it and trying to pull the trigger all at the same time.

I kept screaming for Goth to come out and help me. She didn’t come out.

Finally, he ripped the gun out of my hand. He pointed the barrel at my head as he stood over me.

“Now I’m gonna have to kill you, bitch.”

I looked down, begging, my face a mess of blood and tears. I clutched a gold-plated chain necklace my boyfriend Alex had given me.

“You can have this,” I sputtered. “Take it. It’s worth more than the money you got. Take it.”

He had already taken everything else from me. This necklace was all I had to offer for my life.

He didn’t take the necklace. I didn’t dare look at him. And as quickly as it all happened, he was calm. And again, he said, very casually.

“How do I get out of here?”

I pointed to the back exit, whimpering, snorting tears and the thick blood back into my nose.

He went out and I was left alone. I never saw him again.

I called for Goth. I didn’t ask why she hadn’t come out. I knew why. In those moments, you do what you need to do to stay alive, I guess. Self-preservation is a motherfucker.

I DON’T REMEMBER WHICH ONE OF US CALLED 911, BUT THE POLICE GOT there fast. I am grateful I was raped in an affluent neighborhood with an underworked police department. And an underutilized rape crisis center. And overly trained doctors and nurses and medical personnel. The fact that one can be grateful for such things is goddamn ridiculous.

Two cops arrived initially, and then there were more. Many more. If they had been writing a manual for police officers and medical personnel on how to handle a rape case with care and compassion, I would have been the perfect test case on procedure. They were wonderful. And I know this now because I have spent time lobbying Congress and state legislatures about the treatment of rape victims. I’ve seen the worst-case scenarios, and they are devastating. Now, I can appreciate the care with which I was handled. Now, I know it rarely happens that way. And it really rarely happens that way for black women. I am grateful I had the experience I did, wrapped up in the worst experience of my life. Now.

Then, I was hysterical. I’m not a hysterical person. I’m not even a weepy person. And I was hysterical. I looked up, and suddenly my dad and my older sister, Kelly, were just there at the store. Later, I would find out they were running