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Bystander by Wren Wilson
21
Bystander
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by Wren Wilson
They say that being a sexual assault survivor means that you can never leave the scene of the crime.
The caution tape is torn down from the doorway The police perimeter to keep everyone out is gone The dust used for fingerprints is wiped clean The bags for evidence are taken out with the trash The case is closed and filed away with the records But his presence still remains.
I see him in my American Government textbook Hear him in the laugh soundtrack on the sitcom Friends Taste him in cheap fruit-flavored vodka Smell him in raindrops on sidewalk hedge leaves And feel him with my back pressed up against the wall.
I drive my car to work every day and remember the feeling of sitting as a passenger on the left side of the car as we drove down the Japanese highway to the closest military hospital able to perform sexual assault forensic exams.
I report to my retired chief supervisor at work and remember all the chiefs who gave up on me while I was still serving too broken to be of use anymore their energy and efforts better spent on a sailor who still had a future.
I give my corporate boss my doctor's note and remember the years I spent fighting to receive the four-letter diagnosis the Navy prohibited my therapists from assigning but the VA gave out like a participation trophy labeled “#1 Military Sexual Trauma Survivor”.
I laugh when a coworker feigns surprise that I'm back and remember how it felt to sleep for fifteen hours the night prior while I dreamt of chasing my assailant round and round the room begging for his attention as if I hadn't just spent the last five years a living memorial to both of our military careers. Kaleidoscope
