Pics or It Didn't Happen

Often, there is no justice for survivors. We simply have to move forward.

"What were you wearing?"

It took me longer to process that question. It didn't sound real. I’ve heard it asked in TV shows. I’ve seen art exhibits centered around the silliness of the question. I wasn’t prepared to answer it myself.

"I don't know, probably pajamas."

"Pajamas? Like a set?"

"No, like a big T shirt and shorts"

"Short shorts?"

I felt a twinge of shame that wasn't there before. "Yes."

"What color was your shirt?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"No, I don't."

The police officer put her pencil down. "Look. All this "I don't know" stuff isn't gonna fly with the prosecutor. If you don't know these details we can't do anything with your report."

"But I was intoxicated. I have a lot of big shirts. I don't remember which one."

"I'm just telling you, if you don't have a straight answer to all these questions it's not gonna hold up in court."

My whole body shifted. I was tense when I entered the interview room. I felt scared, anxious, but I was holding onto a little hope. With those words, it left me. I felt something drop into my gut. I slouched and sunk deeper into my chair. I was defeated before I could even finish telling my story.

"This feels pointless now." I stared at the table and hugged my arms, bracing myself.

"It's not pointless, alright? Let's just go back and get through this.”

"Okay."

"So the shorts - do you think you wearing them made him think you wanted it?"