Crash Into Me_ A Survivor's Search for Justice - Liz Seccuro [19]
I scrabbled on the floor in the sheet, like a desperate animal, looking for my clothing. By now, the full realization of what had happened was crashing into me. There was my skirt, there, my bra. Farther down the room, almost under the bed, was my sweater. Hastily, I put these things on. My hands flew to my neck and ears; my earrings and necklace were still on my body. I couldn’t find my underpants, but I didn’t want to stay to hunt for them any longer. Going to the closet, I grabbed a large denim jacket to wear outside. Then I found a piece of paper and a golf pencil on top of a desk. I wanted this animal to know that I knew what he had done. I would write a note and leave it on the bed, which was covered with bloodstains.
“If you ever want this jacket back, you can come to get it at Gwathmey, room 222. I won’t be alone, so don’t even think about trying to hurt me again.” I had no idea why I was giving him my personal information, but I couldn’t find the words I wanted, to match the gravity of the situation. I wanted to let him know by this note that I was not going to let him off the hook. I had no idea what else to do. I was disoriented and mortified, but I knew what had happened to me, and that it was serious.
I limped into the filthy, green-tiled bathroom, where there were three toilets in a row with no seats on them. Bright yellow urine stains spattered the rims of each one and the tile floor was also spotted with dried urine. One toilet was filled with unflushed feces. There was crusted vomit in a small plastic trash can under one of the sinks. I desperately had to go to the bathroom, but there was no toilet paper. I tried to squat, but my shaky legs gave out and I sat on the seatless toilet. When the flow finally came, it burned like fire as I let out an audible yelp and put my head in between my legs to keep from fainting. Standing up, my own urine dripped down my leg as I went to one of the sinks and turned on the cold spigot. As I looked up into the dirty mirror, I noticed blood on my lip and a small, lurid bruise forming on my cheekbone. I picked up a filthy hand towel, running it under the cold water. It reeked of mold, but I did not care as I ran the damp towel up and down my legs and thighs, scrubbing off the dried blood and urine. I even used it on my mouth, although the stench of the fetid thing overwhelmed me.
With my shoes in my hand, I ran out into the hall and leaned over the railing, looking down the dizzying spiral staircase. It occurred to me then that there was not one person in the entire house. It reeked of alcohol, sweat, and smoke, but I could hear nothing. This seemed odd in the early-morning hours after a large rush party. Where was everyone? Were they hiding? Lying in wait for me? My heart pounded so hard I could actually see my sweater moving. The doors to all of the rooms were shut, except for the room Hud had been locked in. There was no Hud, and my Bermuda bag was on the chair, right where I had left it. Where had he gone? The whole scene was eerie. I had to get out of there. I knew I had to do something to help myself, that I had to tell someone what had happened to me.
Because what happened to me had a name. An ugly name. It was called rape.
CHAPTER 4
Sweeping It Under the Rug
I hobbled silently down the staircase of Phi Kappa Psi. I went out to the front porch and down the wedding-cake steps onto Madison Lane. I blinked at the sun and automatically turned right, toward Rugby Road and my dorm. But then something in my brain whirred and clicked like a shutter of a camera lens and I turned around and went left instead, propelled on numb, sticky legs as I walked over to University