Baggage

She sat down with her brand new journal and a glass of wine. It was not the first glass she had consumed that night. Thirty minutes later she drained the last from that glass and refilled it, then she opened the book, pen poised. Still the first page remained blank. She stared at it, knowing full well this needed to happen before anything would get better.

Get better. Now there was a novel concept. Could spilling her guts onto the page actually make this better? Or was it just going to open a door to a dark and scary place she had spent the last 20 years at best ignoring and at worst actively leaning against in an effort to keep it shut. She really didn't want to go there. Not ever. And yet, the nightmares were getting worse. Why now, she did not know. Maybe it was the stress of everything else she was going through. Only so much room at the Inn of Fragility before it burst open and spewed its contents over the footpath and into the gutter, leaving her in pain and nursing an emotional hangover to rival the heaviest of drinking sessions.

She sipped at her wine.

The paper beckoned her, virginal in its stark bond whiteness and pale blue lines. She felt a sense of betrayal as eventually, hesitatingly, she began.

The scariest bits are the bits I can’t remember. It scares me, what I can’t remember. What if it’s worse than the bits I do know? It must be. Why else would I blank it out? What if what happened is so bad that remembering it would kill me? And yet...not remembering is its own brand of poison, eating away at me too.

It was late summer, 1981. I know it was Phil’s and somebody else’s house-warming party. It was mostly people from work – a few other blow-ins I guess. I do remember there seemed to be a lot of people. I know I went with Jill and Mick. I know it was dark...so it must have been quite late. It was a warm night. I could hear the piercing chorus of the cicadas having a party of their own in the nearby gum trees. The earth was dry and dusty beneath our feet; what little grass there was had browned off and given up. We were outside; a ramshackle collection of borrowed chairs and tables scattered the backyard.

There were eskies lined up with the beer and ice and the odd bottle of cheap bubbles; bottles of local red adorned the tables along with bowls of Twisties and chips – salt and vinegar if I remember rightly. The odd half eaten platter of cheese and cabana, sweaty and oily from the afternoon’s heat was now largely ignored like an unwelcome guest. The barbeque was over; the lingering smell of lamb chops, sausages, onions, and tomato sauce mingled with Aerogard and mosquito coils.

The laughter was getting louder as the contents of the eskies diminished.  Someone kicked a football and knocked over an esky. The icy slurry spilled onto the grass. Someone else picked up a handful and through it in the general direction of the footballer. It was on; an ice fight in the time honoured tradition of hot summers and boozy barbeques. Of course, in the time honoured tradition of my family I joined in.

Mick had been behaving like a real prick; surly, monosyllabic, with the look of someone who did not want to be there and we were all going to pay.  Really, nothing new there; none of us could see what Jill saw in this guy. This night in particular he seemed to be going out of his way to show Jill up in front of her work mates. I guess part of me wanted to teach him a lesson; big tough man. Part of me was just a little drunk and a lot mischievous.  In some ways it amounted to the same thing.

I picked up an esky was a bit of ice slurry in it and threw it over him. That’s went it all went wrong. There was more in it than I realised. As he spun around and glared at me I knew I was in trouble. He snapped. He was so angry. Everyone was laughing, me included at that stage.

“You fucking bitch!” he yelled at me.  Grabbing a beer bottle out of an esky he started to chase me. I was half laughing, half pleading.

“Sorry Mick. Shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t realise there was that much in it.” All the usual stuff.

I ran, tripped backwards, was on the ground. Next thing I remember was him on top of me, straddling me, sitting on me hard, knocking the wind out of me.

I remember the weight of him on me, crushing, making it hard to breathe. I remember struggling – a lot – but it making no earthly difference. I don’t remember seeing the beer bottle at that point. He had me pinned down, holding me arms, hard. It was hurting. I was struggling, fighting back. I did try. I know I did.

Trapped; like a yabby. Did you know that? There’s a spot on the human body that, once pinned down, no amount of thrashing about will set you free,

I wasn't laughing now; neither was Jill. She was trying to stop him. Everyone else though, they still thought it was funny. I guess it was dark. They couldn't see what I could see, that this guy was out of control.

“Think it’s funny now, bitch?”

 Shit. I remember struggling so hard; my head and legs the only things free. I remember pleading, but quietly, not wanting to make a scene. I saw faces; drunken leering faces, not realising the seriousness of it all. Me, not game to ask for help, to scream. Why didn't I scream? I was embarrassed. In danger, scared, panicky, but embarrassed. Hoping no one had noticed.

He was heavy, very heavy. He was a roofing tiler; not very tall but very strong, with big broad shoulders and legs and arms to match. He stayed sitting on me. It seemed to go on forever. Somehow I’d ended up next to a bench as I’d thrashed around in the dark and the dust. I think it was an old church pew but there was nothing holy happening here; no saving of souls, just my own kind of hell. There were faces leering at me from under that bench. And they were laughing. Whooping and hollering like it was the best fun they’d had in ages. One of them was my house-mate  a gentle, articulate individual in ordinary circumstances. Not now. Now he was just like the rest of them. They were drunk, really pissed...but even so. Still, I didn't scream; I didn't call out for help. I was still trying to reason with him, calm him.

“Please Mick, no. Stop...please. I'm sorry – ok? Please...”

I remember the look on his face. Even in the dim light I could see his face so clearly. Then I heard screaming. It wasn't me though. It was Jill. She was trying. At least she was trying. She yelled at him to get off. She pulled at him, hit him. It was ineffectual though, the impact that it made. It was as if she wasn't there. He just shrugged her off, mildly distracted, annoyed. Then I remember the beer bottle. I remember him holding it above me. He was going to hit me. I pulled up, away, thrashing, squirming. I hit my head on the pew which was almost above me now. I hit it hard; almost saw stars. I remember turning to one side. The faces were still right there, right in front of me. They were laughing. They were still bloody laughing.

I think it was about then that he grabbed at my shirt and ripped it open, completely open. I've only just remembered that. I’d blocked it out for all these years....

She stopped; pen poised just above what she had just written and stared at the words in disbelief. It was as if she hadn't known it until she wrote it. Her hand shook and she felt a wave of panic rise up within. Her heart felt like it stopped, but she could hear it hammering hard in her head, could feel it fighting to get out of her chest. Her free hand instinctively grabbed at her blouse and pulled it tightly together at her throat, as if trying to repair the damage from back then. She closed her eyes for a moment and immediately regretted it as the scene on the page gained legs in her imagination. She took a sip of wine, then another. She had to go on.

He seemed to have more than two hands at that point. Was somebody helping him? Were there hands belonging to the laughing faces helping him? It was an olive green shirt; polished cotton  short sleeves. I liked that shirt. At least I did...until then. Jill screamed louder.

“For godsake Mick stop it! No!”

That was it. I think a part of me died, right about then. Shirt torn open; exposed, trapped, helpless and unhelped. I died a little, retreated, right then. I stopped fighting. It was no use. I smelled his breath – I can still smell it. Rum and bloody Coke. Bundy rum; that’s why I can’t stand the smell of the stuff. Shit. Now it makes sense.

I don’t remember whether my bra stayed put. I’m thankful my memory spares me that sort of detail – at least for now - although I've got a horrible feeling, no. I honestly don’t or can’t remember. Maybe just the straps slipped down. Doesn't really matter; I still felt naked.  I felt his hands upon my skin. They were rough, calloused. Labourer’s hands; I once would have called them honest working man’s hands, hands like my father’s. Not now though. Not now. They seemed to be everywhere. I think he had his hands around my throat briefly. No. I know he did. I couldn't breathe. I saw the beer bottle. He held it high above his head, as if he meant to smash me with it. He was growling like an animal. Jill cried out again.

“No! For godsake Mick stop!”

She was on his back, pulling at him, screaming at him. He shrugged her off again; she was no more than an annoying insect. I was too frightened to cry, to do anything. This was the end. He let go of me to open the bottle with a flourish - must have been one of the first twist tops, although maybe not...he was insanely strong. I didn't move; I couldn't  He threw the top at me, hard. It hit my face. I felt the sting of a cut on my cheek. Then he spun the bottle in his hand and let the contents tip all over me. It poured over my face, my breasts, my hair; all over me.

All of a sudden he was up and off me; discarded like a piece of rubbish. Not worth anything anymore. Not worth the trouble. He seemed satisfied with that. I have vague recollections of some of those who’d been laughing sobering up a little. Finally one of the blokes mumbled something about “Fair go mate. That'll do. That’s enough.” You know, like, what a waste of good beer. I think I even remember one of them saying that. I remember trying to cover myself up quickly. Maybe no one had noticed. Of course they had.

More compassionate and embarrassed voices spoke to me in the darkness; one in particular.

“Geez, are you ok? What a dickhead. Come on. I'll get a dry shirt for you.”

Jill had vanished into the shadows, following him. I guess trying to make sense of what had just happened, embarrassed herself.

And me? What did I do? I helped all of them out of their awkwardness, out of their shame. Somehow I got to my feet, covered myself with my beer-sodden shirt. I should have been angry, should have screamed at him, at all of them.

But I didn't.

“Oh it’s ok. Don’t worry about it. I'm fine. Never mind.”

Never mind? Never mind? What bullshit. What utter bullshit. I should have screamed at them til I was hoarse, standing there, complicit in their silence. I should have demanded something of them. 

“How dare you stand by and let him humiliate me like that?!  He could have done anything to me and you all just laughed!”

But I didn't.

I understand how people in armed robberies feel now. Just having the gun pointed at you and thinking you might get shot is damaging in itself. Yes, he hurt me a little; he humiliated me a lot, but it’s the thought of what he could have done that still gives me nightmares. In my dreams it’s worse, so much worse. And still nobody stops him. Did I say that to anyone? Did I say what was in my mind from the minute he pinned me down and ripped open my shirt and looked at me the way he did? Did I mention then or later that I was so scared he wouldn't stop, that he could have raped me and no one could have stopped him or indeed that no one seemed to want to? No. I was just happy to get a clean dry shirt and away from the spotlight. White corduroy it was by the way. I've always loved corduroy. It was warm, comforting. It smelt of Phil. I’d had a bit of a crush on him. Where was he when all this went on though eh? He was one of them. And yet, here he was offering me a shirt and a mumbled “You ok?”

“Of course I am. I'm fine. Really.” I muttered back, looking anywhere but at him, clutching his shirt to my bare chest, trying to look casual, calm. I let him off the hook. What would have happened if I had broken down, sobbing.

“No. No, it’s not ok. I'm not ok.” I wonder where life would've led me then?

My head hurt. My eye felt like it was closing. I was acutely aware of it. Felt like it was a beacon. In reality it wasn't that swollen but it felt huge. The cut on my cheek felt like the Grand Canyon. Both tell-tale signs of what we all wanted so desperately to forget. I could still feel his hands around my arms, around my throat.

I would indeed have bruising on my arms and neck for the next few days as a result of those hands. I had to wear long sleeved high necked shirts in the height of summer to hide them. And sunglasses. My eye, you see. It was a bit bruised and swollen where I banged it on the pew. I didn't want to rub everyone’s noses in what went on that night. Become invisible. Forget it ever happened. Couldn't go home to my parents. Couldn't visit anyone at all. Too many questions from those who weren't there; not enough from those who were.

I had to go back outside after Phil gave me his shirt, although I would have far preferred staying locked in his room. I came back outside, out of the light, back into the shadows. It was like I was on a little island, all by myself. I don’t remember any of the other girls from work coming near me, except for Jill. They must have still been there; Annie, and – God. I can’t even remember their names. I've buried so much away. They were mostly married. I could feel their disapproval. I still can. After all, I’d started it – with the ice fight that is. So much for the sisterhood. I could feel people staring, whispering, but I can’t see them. My mind’s eye is failing me. They’re all faceless. Except him.

His name was Michael Matuc and he was strong and he scared me and I'm angry.

Angry that all these years later it’s having such an effect on me.

Angry that I allowed him to get away with it and that here I am still paying the price.

Angry that nobody else helped me.

Oh, I did I mention that I had to get a lift home with Jill and that bastard? A silent, uncomfortable ten minute trip that seemed to last a lifetime. Nobody seemed to think there was anything strange about that, going home with them that is.

If it was so bad, why did I go with them? Dunno. I guess it was shock. I guess I was still covering up for him, not wanting to make Jill feel any worse than she did. Came with them, went home with them, so that made everything alright, didn't it? Couldn't have been too bad, what happened then...could it?

The bottle of wine was empty. She closed the book with trembling hands, unaware of the tears that tumbled freely down her cheeks, and wished she could hold the young woman trapped within those pages. Wished she had been there for her and protected her and stood up for her all those years ago...