A few weeks after my appointment with Vanessa, I sat, shrunk down behind the steering wheel in my car, parked about a block from the station house where Tyler worked. It was almost five a.m. on a mid-October morning, an hour before I would need to get to the gym to meet my first client, but I didn’t want to leave until I saw exactly what time Tyler’s truck would leave the station’s parking lot. I’d been watching him for the last two weeks, trying to pin down his normal schedule, but the timing of his shifts varied—some nights he was off just after midnight, others, not until dawn—and I had discovered this was a more difficult task than I’d thought it would be. I figured if I stuck it out long enough, I could figure out a pattern and pinpoint the best time to approach him.
I wasn’t exactly sure what I was doing, or how I would do it. I just knew that, after seeing Tyler with that woman at the bar, likely about to do to her what he’d done to me, I’d gone online and researched women who had taken revenge on their rapists. I was stunned by the level of violence the victims were capable of when carrying out their plans. I’d already heard of Lorena Bobbitt, of course—the woman who famously cut off the tip of her husband’s penis after he’d come home drunk and raped her. But I also read about a woman whose little girl was raped by a man, and then, seven years later, when he saw her on the street and called out, “How’s your daughter?” the mother followed him into a crowded bar, doused him with gasoline, and lit him on fire. There were stories of women in India cutting off their attackers’ heads, of a Turkish woman who stabbed and shot her assailant in his groin, and then cut off his head, too. There was an American woman who lured her rapist into her house, tied him up, beat him with a baseball bat, and then tattooed the word “rapist” on his penis.
As I read these women’s stories, as violent as they were, part of me couldn’t help but cheer for them. I understood the desperation they felt, the reasons why they did what they did, even if I didn’t think that mutilation or murder would be on my particular agenda when it came to holding Tyler accountable. What I wanted was much more subtle than that. Less final. I wanted him to suffer, yes, but in a way that would haunt him, the same way that I was haunted. I wanted him to ache with despair; I wanted him to wake up, breathing hard, worried that his heart might explode inside his chest. I wanted him to look in the mirror and be struck with self-loathing; I wanted his life to change forever, to have everything and everyone he loved be tainted—forever altered—by the ugliness of what he’d done. I wanted him to question everything about who he was, to hate himself as much as I did, me. I wanted him to pay a steep and painful price for what he did.
Still, as I sat in my car alone each morning, I didn’t know how to make that happen. My parents continued to push me to go to the police, convinced—naïvely so—that the justice system would do its job and put Tyler away. They assumed I was reluctant to report what Tyler did because I was afraid I might end up getting put on trial myself, which of course was part of my hesitance, but mostly, I felt like the only way I could move on was to find a way to stop blaming myself, and the only thing that would let me do that was for Tyler to take the blame himself. If he admitted his guilt, I might find a way to alleviate my own.
I’d refused to go back and see Vanessa again, reasoning that there was no amount of talking that would fix what was broken inside of me. There was only action, only the idea of seeing a grainy picture of Tyler in the paper, the headline LOCAL PARAMEDIC PLEADS GUILTY TO RAPE written in bold, black letters above his face.
I watched as Tyler’s red truck pulled out of the driveway and onto the street. I checked the clock on my cell phone—five thirty-six—and then slid down even farther in my seat to make sure he didn’t see me. I worried that he might recognize my car, but so far, he hadn’t. At least, not that I knew of. It wasn’t like he would call me now and ask if it had been me parked on the street.
And even though I tried to fight it, I felt a small pang of longing then, mourning the relationship he and I had shared for so many years. Just like that, it had vanished, all the days and hours we’d spent together, the laughter we’d shared, the sense of stability that no other relationship in my life seemed to match. There was a vacuum where our friendship had once been. He’d robbed me of the one constant in my world, besides my parents. He’d annihilated more than just my body that night—he’d crushed my entire life.
As he drove past, I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to fight back tears. How was I going to get him to admit what he’d done if I could barely stand the thought of him? How could I be in his physical presence without wanting to turn around and flee? He was so much stronger, he could easily overtake me. He could lure me in with sweet words of amends, promises of atonement, and then, without warning, he could rape me again. My entire body convulsed at the thought. I’d need something to even the playing field, something that would let me be in control. He could apologize, beg forgiveness, and all the years I’d loved him might soften my heart and not make him confess. I needed something to remind me to be strong—to show him I couldn’t be persuaded or sweet-talked. And then, my mind flashed to the image of my father’s black pistol, which was in his home office, locked away in the safe behind his desk. I knew where he kept the key—he’d shown me, years ago, in case I was ever alone in the house and needed to protect myself from anyone trying to break in. That’s it, I realized. The one thing that could make me more powerful than Tyler. If I had a weapon, it would remind me that I was the one in control. There was no question it would give me the upper hand.
After I was sure he was gone, after I’d given him enough time to be blocks and blocks away, I finally sat upright in the driver’s seat and started my car. Once at the gym, I went through the motions of my job, instructing Doris and my other clients through their workouts, cheering for them, correcting their positions as needed. But I was mostly thinking about that gun. How I could sneak it from the safe without my father knowing, how I would have to figure out a place to take Tyler where no one would interrupt us. How once I was holding that gun, I would be invincible.
“You’re distracted today,” Doris said as we finished up the last session of my shift and I walked with her into the locker room.
“Oh,” I said. “Sorry. Just thinking about my test.”
“Mmm-hmm,” she said, skeptically. “You’ll have to forgive me for saying this, dear, but I’m concerned about how much weight you’ve lost. You’re wasting away.”
“I’m just one of those people with a fast metabolism.” I gave her a big, fake smile to make the lie more palatable. “I eat like crazy, but when I’m busy and a little stressed, the pounds just slide right off.” I glanced down at my body, which, despite the valley between my hip bones and the ribs that showed through my skin, I knew could still stand to lose another ten pounds, at least. I felt disgusting. I pinched the skin of my stomach, sure there were fat cells multiplying beneath it, taunting me when I looked in the mirror.
Doris stared at me, lips pursed and her kind, cornflower-blue eyes still filled with doubt. “If that’s the case, you should talk with your doctor,” she said, and I nodded, knowing that she meant well. But she didn’t understand that every meal was a battlefield, that every bite was a bullet I put in my own mouth. Every pound I lost made me a purer version of myself.
As I drove home, I thought about how I could get Tyler to confess. I could hear a quiet, rational voice whispering in my ear, telling me I was out of my mind, saying that I should just go back and see Vanessa, let her help me navigate my life and stitch together the ragged remnants of my soul. But the louder voice inside me was that of anger—my absolute fury at the idea of Tyler getting away with this. If I let that happen, I was tacitly giving him permission to do the same thing to someone else.
I needed to get my hands on my father’s gun.
When I pulled into my parents’ driveway, I noticed an unfamiliar blue sedan parked in the spot next to mine. I wondered if it was one of my father’s clients, whom he sometimes invited over to sign paperwork if he was working from home. Feeling wary as I entered the house through the side door, I heard voices in the family room, just off the kitchen—my parents, and someone else.
“Hi, honey,” my dad said, rising from where he had been sitting, next to my mother, on the couch. “Come meet Larry.”
Larry was a tall, skinny reed of a man dressed in a blue suit that looked too short on his long limbs. He was completely bald, wore round glasses without frames, and his earlobes were huge, sticking out at a weird angle from his head.
“Hi,” I said, dropping my purse on the counter and then crossing my arms over my chest, thinking that no good could come of a strange man in our house. Was he another counselor? A detective, maybe? Did my parents really have the nerve to bring the police to me when I’d refused go to them?
“Nice to meet you, Amber,” Larry said, walking around the couch. He came toward me, holding out his hand, and so I shook it, quickly, and then crossed my arms again.
“Why don’t you come join us?” my mom said. She was still on the couch, turned to look at me. Her eyes were rimmed in red, and I knew that she’d been crying.
My gaze bounced from her, to my dad, and then to Larry, and I shook my head. “I need to shower,” I said. “And study.”
“Amber, please,” my dad said. “That can wait. We invited Larry over to speak with you.”
“Without telling me about it first?” I said, unable to keep the anger from my words. “I told you, I don’t want to talk to the police!”
“I’m not with the police,” Larry said. His voice was low and calm. “I’m a lawyer, and I’ve represented several other women like you in civil cases against their attackers. It’s my specialty.”
“You told him?” I said, shooting an embittered look at both of my parents. I hated the idea that they’d discussed what Tyler had done to me behind my back, with a stranger, no less. I hated that Larry was looking at me now, picturing me with my dress pulled up around my hips, Tyler on top of me, holding me down.
“Just hear him out,” my dad said, pleading. “You don’t have to say anything. Just listen.”
“Fine,” I said, perching on one of the barstools under the counter.
“Don’t be rude, Amber,” my mother said. “Come sit down with us.”
“That’s okay,” Larry said. He stayed standing, but leaned against the back of the couch, slipped his hands into the pockets of his slacks, and crossed one ankle over the other. I could see his pale skin above the blue and yellow striped socks he wore. I found myself thinking that his professional abilities had better be more polished than his fashion acumen. He looked at me for a moment, and then began to speak. “Your parents told me what happened to you in July. And that you decided not to report it to the police. Considering the circumstances, I can’t say I blame you.”
I raised a single eyebrow, my attention momentarily piqued by his affirmation of what I believed to be true.
“Unfortunately, our justice system, as it currently stands, regularly fails rape victims. There’s rarely enough valid evidentiary proof in these types of situations to warrant an arrest, let alone a conviction.”
“And that’s my fault, right, because I didn’t go straight to the hospital and have a rape kit done?” I said, feeling my defenses shoot back up.
“Amber . . .” my mom began, but Larry held up a hand to stop her.
“That’s not what I meant,” Larry said. “I was simply stating that in the majority of cases—and the majority are acquaintance rape—it’s almost impossible to get an attacker to serve time for his crime. It’s an ugly truth, but it’s the way things are.” He pushed up his glasses on the bridge of his nose. “But that doesn’t mean there aren’t other ways to bring attention to the kind of man he is.”
“What other ways?” I asked, warily.
“You could file a civil suit, which only requires that we bring forth a preponderance of evidence that he raped you, instead of having to prove that he did beyond a reasonable doubt, which we’d have to at a criminal trial. You’d still have to testify as to what happened, but whether we win a legal judgment for damages against him or not, a suit of this sort would at least get his name out there, linked to being a rapist. People will know what he’s done, and other women will be informed that he has the potential to hurt them. He might not go to jail, but some sort of justice could still be served.”
Hearing this last sentence, I couldn’t help it—I let out a sharp laugh. “So you want me to put myself out there and be dragged through the court of public opinion?” I shook my head. “No way. I’ve read about other women who’ve done just that. And what ends up happening is every boyfriend they’ve ever had, their entire sexual past, is put on trial instead of their attacker’s. He’s the ‘good guy’ who made a stupid mistake, and she’s the whore who spread her legs and then regretted it.”
I watched my parents both flinch as I spoke, and felt a little bad for being so blunt, but if they were bothered by my words now, I could only imagine how they’d feel when Tyler’s lawyer searched out and cross-examined the string of men that I’d led into dark alleys over the last few months. I pictured these men sitting on the witness stand, describing how I’d pushed them up against the wall and reached into their pants. How I’d never even asked their names. I imagined describing for a jury the way I stood in front of the mirror in my bathroom when I came home after a night at the bars, staring at my reflection, hissing to it the same words I had when I was younger: You’re disgusting, you’re filthy, you’re fat. Except now I added: And you’re a slut.
“Are you worried about what Daniel will think?” my mom asked, and my lungs seized, realizing that if I followed through with my plan, if I managed to find a way to get Tyler to confess, Daniel would it read in the papers and know what had happened to me. He’d know the real reason I ended our engagement. I pictured him thinking back to our first date, when I’d brazenly pulled him inside my apartment and onto my bed, and I had no doubt he’d conclude that he should have known back then what kind of girl I really was; that a good woman, the kind of woman a man wants to marry, doesn’t spread her legs on the first date. I imagined he’d be grateful that he got away from me when he did.
“Daniel doesn’t have anything to do with this,” I lied. “I haven’t heard from him in months.” I didn’t say that I still checked my phone several times a day, hoping that he would reach out. I didn’t say that every time I lured a man into an alley, I felt like Daniel was there watching me, repulsed and sick with regret for ever having touched me.
“And Daniel is . . . ?” Larry asked, looking back and forth between me and my mom.
“Amber’s fiancé,” my dad said.
“Ex-fiancé,” I corrected.
“You were engaged at the time of the attack?” Larry inquired.
I nodded.
“Would he be willing to testify on your behalf?” Larry asked.
“No,” I said, at the same time both of my parents said, “Yes.” I stood up from the barstool. “Look, I’m sorry, but there’s nothing more to discuss. Nobody’s going to be testifying about anything. I don’t want to do this.”
“Honey, please,” my mom said. “You have to do something.”
“No,” I said, “I don’t.” I looked at Larry. “Sorry to waste your time.” Not waiting for him to reply, I strode out of the kitchen, down the hall, and up to my room. My parents had no idea what I’d been up to; they had no clue that I planned to get Tyler to admit what he’d done and save me the pain—not to mention the expense—of bringing a suit against him. There was no way I could tell them; they’d just try to stop me. They wanted to believe that there was some other avenue I could take to expose him, but I knew that his confession was the only way to avoid the pitfalls of a system hell-bent on blaming women for the sins of men—the only way I wouldn’t be victimized all over again. I’d been making myself suffer, caught in a cycle of pain I couldn’t escape. I had to believe that getting Tyler to confess would finally put all the guilt and shame I carried where it actually belonged—onto him. He needed to suffer, now, and if the justice system couldn’t make that happen, I would.
