I tried hard to get on with things at school; exams were looming up ahead of me, uninvitingly. The past two years of hard work didn’t seem to have been paying off. I was continuously winding myself up about them, thinking through all the possible consequences. I didn’t know what I was going to do if I didn’t pass them. Expectations from my parents were unrealistic and even I was beginning to doubt myself.
The rain started at the precise moment the invigilator -Miss Taylor- glanced at the clock and announced, with a theatrical pause before the final word:
“You have two hours. Turn over your papers and begin…now!” Instantly the hall became home to the sound of rustling papers, squeaking chairs and throats being nervously cleared, before it settled down to the kind of expectantly charged silence familiar to dentist’s waiting rooms.
I gave a resigned sigh and rubbed my eyes - trying to get the visions of the hall out of my mind. I turned over my paper and spent an extensive amount of time opening my pencil case. Carefully I laid out my pen, spare pen (mum says you never can be too careful about the reliability of these things), pencil, spare pencil (yet another of mum’s ideas, loosely based on the fact that I couldn’t locate my pencil sharpener), spare ink cartridge (no explanation needed!), ruler and rubber (again, mum lacked confidence in my ability to write too).
I took one look at the questions and immediately felt lost; I couldn’t answer any of them. Glancing around I saw the rest of the History students eagerly scribbling away, thoughtful expressions, eyes concentrating on the educational hurdle before them.
Being one of the first in the register, I had landed myself a place at the back of the hall next to the window. Outside the rain was crawling down the pane in pitiful rivulets. Hopelessly, I took to drawing a rudimentary face in the condensation -a circle, two dots for eyes, down-turned mouth and a speech bubble containing the single word “Help!” This occupied me for the whole of two minutes.
I could feel the penetrating eyes of Miss Taylor staring down on me authoritatively through the rows of diligently bent heads. I started to write, random words at first with absolutely no relation to any of the six strategically worded questions.
I remember reading back through my work; the countless words conveyed the feelings of the mounting hurt and fear which had been present for so long in my head. I felt my eyes starting to prickle with tears and before I realised it I was savagely unzipping my pencil case and furiously thrusting my regimentally laid out belongings into its void.
Then I pushed my chair back; two of its rubber feet were missing, and the metal legs scraped across the polished parquet floor with a squeal that resembled that of a pig being tortured, causing every eye in the hall to turn in my direction.
"What?" I demanded. "What's your problem? Not the same as mine, I bet!"
The sea of scandalized, upturned faces seemed to follow me out of the exam hall, that and the booming voice of Miss Taylor, everything seemed to merge into one; the faces, the noise, the words, the determination.
Bursting through the double doors and along the corridor, determination driving me, I paused, only to rip off my clinging, poorly tailored blazer. With grim satisfaction I pushed it forcefully into a tall, metal rubbish bin, pressing it down hard amongst the dirty tissues, empty crisp packets and apple cores.
By the time my head had caught up with my body, it had already made its way thoughtlessly out of the school, straight through the main entrance - strictly forbidden to pupils, apart from those sanctified beings in the sixth form- through the staff car park and onto the road. The rain was lashing down hard as I strode proudly down the desolate street. My thin cotton blouse became sodden in seconds, turning my carefully brushed hair into dripping blonde rat's tails. I was soaked to the skin and beginning to feel the cold, but I was out of the nightmare. I had only just begun and I knew it. The world was waiting for me and I was about to reach out and grab it firmly with both hands.
“Get off me,” I kept screaming, willing the malevolent hands to untwine themselves from around my delicate body. Kicking and screaming I struggled against the over-powering force pinning me to the wall. I felt a surging pain jolt through my body, my stomach caved in and I narrowly avoided another blow. I didn’t know what was happening. It was wrong, it was all wrong. I felt someone trying to pull down my skirt. I remember him touching me; it felt familiar yet more vigorous. Everything began to merge into one. I couldn’t focus on anything. I felt my head hitting the cold, damp of the pavement, the rain had stopped. His mumblings echoed through my head repetitively.
“Be still, I’m not going to hurt you, this is for your own good, don’t be scared.”
“Mandy, oh Mandy, what has happened to you?” Softly those familiar fingers caressed me, running slowly across my forehead. I tried to speak but couldn’t find the energy to make more than a weak moan. I flinched as my elbow was dragged along the gritty side alley. I tried to scream out, but there were no words. I could taste blood, stagnant, half dried blood forming a crust around my mouth. My hair felt plastered to my aching head. I was scared, even more so that the enshrouding fears facing me at school every day. Half-conscious I was carried along the streets, I felt something wrong. My whole body was throbbing, yet I distinctly remember another sort of pain, almost soreness around my vagina. Slumped in his arms, I was powerless.
“I must have finally passed out at that point; I had been slipping in and out of consciousness, but had finally lost the fight. The next thing I remembered was the pink walls, the pink bed, the pink teddy, my pink teddy. I was home, in my room; I was safe at last. I was lost. I didn’t know what to say. I felt degraded, embarrassed even. The overly enthusiastic police officer kept looking into my eyes, willing me to talk, but I didn’t say much, I couldn’t.
Later that day I was examined for internal injuries and infections. My clothes were taken to be analysed. It wasn’t real, it couldn’t be. I didn’t understand why everyone wanted me to talk. I wanted to forget about it, put it behind me, and I didn’t want to talk, to think back to that dreadful night, that hideous day. I wanted to move on.
Jason was arrested and charged. I had been raped. It all seemed so insignificant; everything had changed over the last two months. Exam results were out and on everyone’s mind. I failed History, but got A and A* in the others. Things were okay again; I was okay.
I can cope, I thought. I can. You’ve got no say in a lot of the things life throws at you – but you do have a say in how you deal with those things: how you let them affect you; how you let them change you, inside.
