Forget Me Not

My heart pounded as we entered the church. We staggered it so it wouldn’t be so obvious that we’d come together. Some of the others had attended for a few weeks prior so people wouldn’t be suspicious about the mass turn out. I hadn’t been worried though - religious types were always blind to the truth as long as it fit their narrative.

We took our seats, spread out across the whole span of the various pews. As I looked around the old building, I felt a wave of nausea, the smell of the cold, damp bricks filling me with the worst kind of nostalgia. It brought me equal amounts of comfort and disgust to see we made up nearly half of the audience.

As everyone settled into their seats, the organ began playing and the usual dramatics began. He walked in last and took his place at the podium by the alter at the front. We waited. We’d already waited for so long, what was a few more minutes? The sermon began and a smile crept across my face at the irony.

He stood preaching about love. About acceptance. About kindness. I wondered if he believed the words he spoke. I held in my rage, knowing I’d ruin the carefully calculated sequence of events if I broke too soon. Finally, he paused and asked the question we knew he would, as predictable as he’d always been.

“Does anyone have anything they wish to share?” He asked the crowd. I braced myself.

She stood up just as we’d rehearsed from her perfectly placed seat in the middle of the church.

“I do.” She offered. “In the spirit of good hearted Christian honesty, I’d like to share my truth. The truth that you raped me at Sunday school when I was eight years old.”

The crowd gasped and fell deadly silent. She wasn’t finished.

“In fact, I’m not the only one that wants to share this particular truth. I’m just the first that will dare to speak my name. You raped me. You raped Chloe Swan.”

The routine fell into motion. One by one they stood up and stated their name with a ferocity that could be felt in every pew. Jessica Turney. Erica Brown. Tamara Fletcher. Holly Walker. Sarah Blunt. Kate Coker. Stephanie Bowman. Millie Hunter. Felicity Wright. Erin Baldwin. Jane Fielding. Hannah Black.

My heart thudded so loudly, I could hear it pounding in my ears. It was my turn. My voice nearly broke as I shouted with furious conviction... “Lucy Wellington.”

It felt so good to be free. In just saying my name, I felt liberated of the years of silence. As I continued listening to the remaining thirty-seven women proudly state theirs, I realised for the first time, I really wasn’t alone anymore. No longer burdened to hold this secret as if the weight was mine alone to carry. It would be his now.

As the final woman spoke her name, the crowd stayed completely silent. I looked at him intensely to see what he did. A master manipulator, I was prepared for the lies he would try to spin. But he didn’t. He just stood there, blank, panic-stricken and sweaty. That was his legacy, the way they’d remember him in this moment. Sweaty and pathetic.

The silence remained so vividly that he realised there was no way out of this situation with a desired outcome. His only option was to run. He began to move backwards from the podium, staring at the ground.  As he stepped away, pale and bowed, he suddenly looked up, sweeping his gaze over the congregation. In the sea of appalled faces, he saw me. Our eyes locked and his blazed with sudden recognition.

“Lucy Wellington”, I mouthed to him. He wouldn’t forget us. He wouldn’t forget what he’d done. We wouldn’t let him.