Watch Me Soar

On any other occasion, I might have missed the little black book. Might have registered it in my mind as discarded trash – one of many pieces that glittered the park with the candor of human fallibility. It was the $100 dollar bill sticking out, writhing in the wind trying to escape its black prison that caught my eye as I bent down to tie my shoe.

I stretched to extricate the notebook from under the bench and pulled out the $100 bill before opening the book with curious fingers, wondering who might be so flippant with one hundred dollars, looking for a way to track the owner.

The name on the inside cover pulled at me, like I had forgotten to do something important, but whatever it was danced tantalizing out of my mind’s reach.

I flipped through, looking for a way to return the book to its rightful owner, but the words on the page drew me like a coyote to a kill, written in a slanted cursive with purpose and poise. The first entry was dated June 8, but my mind stopped at an entry from October 14:

I feel so hollow and empty, like I knew I would, like I tried to argue when I didn’t want to take the blood money. But I was too tired to fight. Now I am tired and dead inside – how is that any better?

The scattered doodles on the page were hard and angry, certainly not done by a day dreamer without a care in the world, sketching mindlessly while on the phone. The words chilled me, were a familiar refrain – like your drunken party mate who should have left hours ago, but keeps coming back for that one last slurred story that only he finds entertaining. Dead inside. I had felt that acutely, and although I had clawed my way out as best as I knew how, sometimes the demons would rear up with a vengeance, breathing their putrid breath in my ear as they whispered words of worthlessness and self loathing, feeding on my fear and preying on my vulnerabilities. I flipped through the pages, reading parts as they jumped out at me.

November 1, I thought I might get closure if I took the money, because at least I could move on. At least I wouldn’t have people look at me like I was a temptress, on a mission to ruin his life for the sheer pleasure of it. But I sold my soul, and the souls of countless other victims in doing so. How will things ever change if we don’t stand up for what is right? The system isn’t made for change. They want us to be good, quiet girls who do as we’re told, dress so that society finds us desirable, yet blame us for that very thing when we are attacked. They want us to go away quietly when “lives and livelihoods are on the line.” But whose life are we talking about here? His life was hardly on the line, but mine sure is. Everyday I fight to stay alive.

I read on.

Nov 9, They actually said to me, “It is so damaging when you accuse a young man of assault. You could ruin his life.” They made me feel bad, ashamed. But what about me? My life was ruined when he decided to take what didn’t belong to him.

I turned back to the begging as the pieces fall into place.

I don’t want to think about what happened, but I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s been a week, and judging by their texts and calls, my friends are worried about me, but I can’t bring myself to leave my room. Sarah is so wrapped up in her own life that I think she hardly notices. How we got to be paired together as roommates, I will never know. I should at least let Leslie know.

My mom gave me this journal before she died, a blank slate just waiting for me to make it my own – full of possibilities, of wonder and discovery. She had been journaling for years, even before she got sick and claims it saved her. I guess her journal’s heroism had an expiration date. I never saw the appeal, but now I need saving so I’ll give it a shot. The black cover seems fitting now – bleak and burned, a wasteland, just like me. The blank pages staring at me are as empty as I am. But no more – I’ve sullied it with words, deflowered it with ink, without a thought or care as to whether this is what the notebook wanted or not.

I turn the pages. Her wounds are my scars. Halfway through the notebook, I’m met with an unexpected sight. I look around guiltily, like a child caught taking a cookie before dinner. The pages had a rectangle carved neatly out of the center, which had glued poured haphazardly along the inside edges, likely to ensure the pages stayed together, for the contents inside needed to be kept safe and secure.

I clutched the black book to my chest like a drowning man to driftwood and practically ran home, fear and dread my constant companions – not unlike those early days after my own attack, of which this personal window into a stranger’s soul was bringing into all-to-sharp focus. It felt like a bomb drop, when I had worked so hard to put it behind me.

I got home, locked the door, and engaged the deadbolt. Not because of what was in my hands, but because old habits die hard.

I sat down, regained my composure and reopened the book. I pulled out a tall stack of crisp, clean one-hundred-dollar-bills and started counting: nineteen of them. With the forgotten $100 in my pocket that started all of this, that made $20,000 even. Who on earth is walking around with this kind of money? And why?

I looked for more clues, determined to return this lost fortune, while the namesake in the front of the book was trying to claw its way out of my subconscious. I read an entry dated October 2:

Day one of my “windfall.” How pompous and pretentious for them to think that giving me $30,000 hush money can be referred to as a windfall. To a family that wealthy, this is just another day at the office, but it bristled me that they made it seem like they were doing me a favor. We both know I was doing them a favor, but we both knew I didn’t really have a choice in the matter. Not with their fancy lawyers, fancier jargon and not so fancy good old-fashioned bullying. When you buy someone off, it is a large admission of guilt.

So I sit here, $30,000 richer – all in crisp, new one hundred dollar bills, because hush money should be off the record – but with no dignity left, no job, nowhere to go and no motivation to care. And he gets off free and clear, thanks to mommy and daddy’s money. I can’t bear the thought of stepping foot into that school, yet he is partying with his friends, celebrating the close call he had with that dumb bitch from biology. He actually said this. I know it because Leslie overheard him at a party last weekend, the day I signed away my scruples.

Her heartbreaking words jumped off the page. I needed to find this girl, to hold her and let her know she wasn’t alone and that she would be alright. I kept reading.

Dec 18, It’s official - Leslie kicked me out. I can’t blame her, really. I have no defence for the things she screamed at me, because they are all true: I drink too much, I sleep all day, I never get off the couch, I never clean up after myself. I was hoping the money I gave her would alleviate all my shortcomings, but even cash is no substitute for a black hole living on your couch.

It’s cold out, and I’m thankful that even though I am, I don’t look homeless. I have the luxury of warming up in the coffee shop, hoping that nobody will bother me as I bend my head over my notebook, my constant and only companion, scared of my shadow and scared to be carrying around so much cash.

I need to be careful not to burn through my money, but when the weather is this cold, I need to find a cheap hotel. I slept o the park bench before Leslie took pity on me, and that wasn’t pleasant in the warmer weather, I can’t imagine how awful it would be now.

Some of the other homeless women sleep with strangers in exchange for a couch, but the thought of letting someone put their hands all over my body again makes me throw up in my mouth and nearly sends me into a panic attack.

There was so much pain in this book, and I felt powerless.

August 8. My cousin called again. I feel bad about ghosting him, I know he’s worried, especially as he is all I have left. But how do I tell him something so painful and intimate, something that “his kind” did to me? How can I face him?

I remember clearly the aftermath of my assault. I don’t know what I would have done with nobody to support me, without Meemaw to hold me and comfort me. When the tears started flowing she held me, whispered, “We have tears and time, my darling – the two necessary ingredients to start healing – and I’m gonna make time to hold you until the tears run out.”

She told me of her own assault, in a time where it wasn’t every talked about. She suffered in silence but she, too, lived and survived, if not thrived.

Even with her support, I can trace back a lot of things in my life to that fateful day: my failed marriage, my floundering career (or lack thereof), my inability to trust and love.

I forgave him, I really did. I had to. I couldn’t give him any more of me. I found him when he wouldn’t return my calls months after the attack. It was the scariest thing I’ve done, facing him – cornering him, really. I told him I wasn’t going to let him win. Told him in torrid detail the last several months I’d endured since he robbed me of my dignity. I told him I knew I was going to make it, shattered but pieced brokenly back together, barely intact but fighting my demons every day. It was hard, but I had won, not him.

I was strong when speaking to him, afraid that if I cried I would fall into myself and never come out. I didn’t cry. But he did. He begged forgiveness, and I granted him. He had taken enough of me, and I was done giving him anymore.

Jan 14, I am burning through my money too quickly. I’ve been living in hotels and self medicating most of the winter. I am down to $22,000, but I don’t think it’s going to matter much longer.

I was nearing the end of her entries. There were only a few blank pages before the hollowed out section. I wondered if that was a coincidence.

Feb 16. Today is the last day of the rest of my life. I have been flirting with death for a while, and I think it's my best option. I can’t wait to be pain free. I’m going to stash my notebook with the rest of my money. It seems right now that I have almost exactly $20,000 left. Maybe it will go to someone who could use it. But really, I don’t care who finds it. The bridge is calling to me. Watch me soar.

It was then that last clues came sharply into focus, and the name in the front of the book broke free of my mind and danced in victory. Hers was a highly publicized story of he said/she said, of privilege vs. powerless – his family crying foul play, while she was vilified at every turn. And then, nothing. A public spectacle of a trial was predicted, but the whole thing seemed to have disappeared overnight. I had forgotten about it, as many other gawkers must have. I guess hush money has that effect.

The story was brought to light again about ten days ago, when her body washed up on shore, two days after someone was seen jumping from the bridge. The fall alone would have killed her; the frigid waters made certain of any lingering doubt.

After finding the notebook, I couldn’t shake her from me – static cling that wins no matter how much you fight. One day, I awoke with clarity. I knew what to do with the money. It would a bit of legwork.

After hoops and hurdles, I found myself at the bank. “Hello, I’d like to make a deposit for a newly registered charity to help victims of sexual violence get back on their feet. It’s called Watch Me Soar.”