October Ghosts. Jenny Plumb
Nothing said here leaves the room. We will go around the circle left to right, and everyone can say hello and give us your name or the name you'd like to use. Then after that, anyone who wants to share can get my attention, and I'll call on you to share as much or as little as you want. We do not comment or judge what people share; we simply say thank you and move on to the next person. We only have the conference room for two hours, so try to keep your initial story to ten minutes or less so that everyone has a chance to talk, and then when it's over, we can mingle and visit. Any questions before we start?"
When no one raised a hand, Olivia began. "Okay, let's introduce ourselves first." She looked to the woman on her left and nodded.
"Hi, I'm Emily, and I'm a survivor."
"Hello, Emily," the group answered.
Once all thirteen women had introduced themselves, Olivia said, "To start the ball rolling, I'll share my story. I was molested by my aunt's neighbor when I was eight. I used to get dropped off for the weekends a lot because my mom was dating. I'm an only child, and my aunt had six boys, five older than I am, and one younger. They lived on a farm with a lot of land. Her oldest was just about to start college, and he was friends with the neighbor's son who was a year older. I don't remember his name, but he had black wavy hair, blue eyes, and he always smiled at me. Most of my cousins couldn't stand me, because I was a girl and a nuisance to have around. But not him. He was incredibly friendly and made me feel worthy of attention when not many other people in my life did. He never yelled at me when I wanted to hang out and watch him fix cars, even though my oldest cousin hated it when I tagged along."
Her gaze focused on the library's well-worn carpet as she continued. "The afternoon it happened, I think my cousin might have forgotten I was there watching them work on the car. Or maybe he was just so annoyed that I was there that he didn't care. He accidentally whacked his thumb with a hammer and went home to ice it. I stayed. The neighbor was quiet for several minutes, and I didn't dare say anything, because I was afraid he'd send me home if he realized I was there. Then without looking my way, he gently asked me if I wanted to help him work on the car."
A bitter chuckle escaped her throat. "Of course, I said yes, and he got out this rolling floor mat that he used to lie on to look under cars. He told me I'd have to lie on top of him while we fixed the car because there was only room for one person on the mat. I jumped at the chance. I was so fucking desperate to be of use and to be wanted that I would have done anything he asked. After I lay on top of him, it gets a bit choppy. I remember the smell of him, the way his chest vibrated under my back when he spoke, the bottom of the car an inch from my face, his hand snaking into my panties, and feeling so very afraid that he'd hate me if I told him I wanted him to stop. I'm not sure how long we were there. I don't remember leaving or how I got home. I just remember feeling guilty and ashamed that I'd ruined our friendship without knowing what I'd done wrong. I remember hoping he would still like me. But I didn't get the chance to see him again, because my mom decided to marry one of the jerks she was dating, and we moved."
Smiling ruefully, Olivia said, "Ten years later, my best friend was fangirling over Joseph Gordon-Levitt and made me watch a ton of his stuff. One night, we watched the movie Mysterious Skin, about a couple of kids who get molested and how they each handle it differently. I hadn't thought about that neighbor for years, but after watching the movie, I couldn't stop shaking and I felt nauseous. I had to go home and take a shower until the water ran cold, and then I just sat there crying, shivering, and thinking he wasn't my friend; he was my abuser."
She shrugged. "That was two years ago, and since then I've thought a lot about that day and about him. I'd like to say that if I saw him again I'd kill him, or at the very least confront him, but that would be a lie. I'd probably just keep silent, the way I did back then, and feel ill while hating myself."
She looked around at the faces in the circle and said with a smile, "That's it for me tonight."
"Thank you for sharing," some of the regulars said, and the new members echoed them.
"Who else would like to share?" she asked.
Emily raised her hand, and Olivia said, "Go ahead, Em."
Emily said, "Three and a half months ago, I was drugged and raped during a party at Sigma Alpha Kappa."
Olivia gave each of the women her full attention as they went around the room sharing their stories. She'd been running these meetings for a year now, and as always, by the end of the two hours, she felt a kinship with each of the attendees even though she didn't know most of them outside the group. But that was the point. Solidarity, and a safe space to say what they were feeling without judgment, unwanted advice, or pity.
Nothing got under Olivia's skin quicker than pity. Fuck pity. And while she was at it, fuck people who wanted to judge her and make assumptions about her because of her past. But mostly, fuck advice. If some therapist, or as Olivia liked to call them 'the rapist', wanted to mind fuck her and tell her what she should or shouldn't do to 'get better', they could just jump off a cliff. Yes, she had issues, and yes, they sucked. But they were her issues. She wasn't about to share them with her family, her friends, or some stranger who got paid to 'fix her'. She was broken, and she was fine with that self-diagnosis. She had accepted it as her truth, and she would find a way to live with it without anyone's professional help.
The alarm went off on her phone, signaling the end of their allotted time for the campus library's conference room. She stood and asked the women to help her put the chairs back around the table. As the women were leaving, she handed out business cards for one of the college's counselors, Dr. Megan Stryker. She wasn't opposed to therapy as a concept; she was just opposed to therapy for herself.
Chapter 2
Wednesday evening, Seth was leaning against the wall in the cafeteria lobby next to Jessie. They were waiting for the women so they could have dinner with them when Seth's cell phone rang. He dug it out of his pocket, and looked at the caller ID. Dread filled him as his mother's name appeared on the screen. There were only two reasons she would call. Someone was dead, or she was on one of her drunken rants. Since it was early evening, Seth was certain it was the latter. Taking a deep breath, he swiped to answer and put the phone to his ear.
"Hi, Mom."
"When will you be home?" she slurred.
"I'll be home for Thanksgiving." He didn't remind her that they'd been over that at least thirty times before.
"But I want you home now."
Guilt washed over him. "I know, but I'm four hours away. I can't just come home on a whim. I have classes tomorrow." Moving away for his last two years of college had been a calculated decision on his part. He needed to be far enough away from his parents that he couldn't drop everything and see them when his mother called like this. Living with them and going to community college for his first two years, had almost made him snap. It was hard to study when they were both drunk and yelling at each other in the other room. And even harder when he had to drag his drunk mom to bed after a bender and make sure she was lying on her side so she wouldn't drown in her own vomit in the middle of the night. If his bastard of a father passed out somewhere, Seth left him where he was and hoped for the worst.
"Your father screamed at me for making chicken soup for dinner! Chicken soup, Seth."
Seth gritted his teeth and with barely restrained anger, asked, "Is Dad there?"
"He stormed out. Left me alone in this big empty house with nothing to do but miss you."
Taking a relieved breath, he nodded absently. "Have you eaten any dinner?"
"I don't want to eat alone."
His mom's plaintive whine grated on his nerves. He'd been trying to convince her to divorce his father since he was fourteen, but she was always full of reasons why she couldn't. He'd promised himself that he wasn't going to bring it up anymore when he moved away. She was a grown woman with a decent job. If she wanted to stay with a verbally abusive drunk, there was nothing he could do to stop her. Besides, she gave as good as she got and as far as he knew, neither