Dedication: To Tally1967, who is an English teacher at UT and appreciates my various Tennessee references that I've sprinkled everywhere. If y'all haven't noticed, I'm a tad obsessed with my home state. At least once a month I take a look around at the scenery and then immediately call my parents and thank them--again--for allowing me to grow up in such an amazing place.
Grissom stared into her eyes for a split-second before lurching violently off of the chair and over to the edge of the deck. His torso hit the ground—hard—as he leaned his head over the canal and vomited.
Sara grabbed her bottle of water and rushed to him. Kneeling beside him, she stroked his curls as he finished heaving. She looked at the side of his face as he lay there, breathing heavily, tears flowing from his eyes. He looked up at her and she wordlessly handed him the bottle of water. He rinsed his mouth gratefully and sat up.
"Can we go inside?" he mumbled hoarsely. Sara nodded her assent, and she pulled him to his feet. He stumbled weakly toward his beach towel, and Sara put her hand on his arm to stop him.
"Leave it. We'll get it later. Let's just go in."
When they were back in the house, Sara looked at the couch, then back up at Grissom, asking silently if he wanted to crash there or in the bed.
"Bed," he whispered.
When they reached the bedroom, Grissom started to fall onto the bed, but Sara kept him upright. "We're wet. We need to change or we'll freeze to death in here. The A/C's on," she said logically.
Grissom stood numbly and allowed Sara to pull his wet swim trunks off. He stepped out of them and caught the sweatpants Sara threw his way. She yanked at the ties around her neck and back, and her bikini top fell to the floor. She slipped the bottom of the swimsuit down her legs, and Grissom stared at the mocking scar—a visible, tangible, cruel reminder of the horror that Sara had lived through. He clenched his fists as he thought of the unfairness of it. Was it not bad enough that she had to go through it once? Why should she have to relive it every time she looked at her body? As Sara pulled her own sweatpants up, removing the scar from his line of vision, she seemed to read his thoughts.
Taking his face in her hands, she said, "It's okay, Griss. The scar is a part of me now. I don't think about it every time I see it…"
Grissom ignored her statement. "Tell me about…after," he said abruptly. His voice softened. "If it's okay with you."
Sara sat on the bed next to him. "Of course it's okay with me." She pushed him back a little, indicating that she wanted to snuggle with him as she related the aftermath of her ordeal. In response, Grissom stacked the pillows against the headboard so they could sit up. He scooted backwards and opened his arms to her. She took her place beside him and buried the left side of her face in his chest as he wrapped his arms protectively around her.
"As I said, a Harvard professor—Dr. Durham—found me lying there. He was so kind. He found me, and when he realized I was a Harvard student and likely had no family in the area, he insisted on staying with me every step of the way. He pulled off his t-shirt and used it to try to control the bleeding in my hip. He had a sweatshirt tied around his waist, and he used it to cover me up, so I wouldn't feel so exposed." She snorted. "Like it mattered at that point." Her face softened again. "It was thoughtful, though. He screamed for help because he was terrified to leave me. He rode in the ambulance with me on the way to the hospital.
"I think we've already established that the rape kit sucked. I barely remember even being asked for my permission. I was on a morphine drip for the pain, and I was pretty out of it, so this nurse grabbed my feet and shoved them into the stirrups, then pulled my knees apart…" At this, Sara began to cry again. Grissom stroked her face as his own eyes became moist. This was killing him to hear, but he knew his pain was nothing compared to hers. "You can't imagine how vulnerable and exposed that feels to a woman who has just been violated in the worst way. You've just had a man force your legs open and thrust himself into you without your consent. Then you get stuck on a table in this bright room, with your feet up in stirrups, while a doctor treats you as a piece of meat—mere evidence in an investigation." She shuddered. "And the examination hurt, too. I had severe bruising of the labia, not to mention the numerous vaginal tears I sustained." She stopped and looked into Grissom's face. Her voice took on something of a detached, scientific quality. "Rape hurts enough for women who are already experienced sexually. Without the vaginal lubrication provided by an aroused woman, sex is…painful, to say the least. But for me…" She stopped. "Despite the fact that I swam and ran track in high school, in addition to dancing…my hymen was still fully intact." He looked down at her, understanding flooding his face. She closed her eyes and whispered, "I felt it tear. There was blood everywhere. It hurt so much." She squeezed her eyes tighter as the tears started yet again.
She sobbed against him silently for a moment. He held her tightly, stroking her face and hair, and placing small kisses on her head. He rocked her back and forth, trying to soothe her pain. After a moment, she looked up at him and grazed her fingers across his face in a silent thank-you.
"After the rape kit, the nurse pumped me full of birth-control pills so I wouldn't get pregnant. I was sick for days—and the anesthesia forsurgery only made it worse.
"The investigator was a real bitch about the whole thing. I mean, she wasn't inherently mean to me, but her lack of concern and her indelicacy in her handling of the situation definitely left a lot to be desired. I was the fourth victim, and they knew they were dealing with a serial rapist at this point. The sketch artist was brought in, but the only details I could give them were about his eyes. He had brown eyes, and long eyelashes. That's it." She shrugged helplessly. "That was the whole shebang. That's all I could tell them.
"He left me with a shattered left cheekbone, a broken left wrist, two cracked ribs, and the scar on my hip. Surgery was scheduled for the next day. The doctors were able to repair my cheekbone without too much trouble, but the hip was a bigger deal. The muscles were just…severed. It took them several hours of work to fix things, and I was in physical therapy for months afterward.
"When I woke up, I looked like a mummy." She smiled wanly at the memory. "I had this huge bandage on my head, bandages around my ribs, a white cast on my wrist, and bandages all over my hip.
"I was in the hospital for a week. I got to go home on my birthday. Dr. Durham took me to stay with him and his wife. They never got the guy. But you know that already." Sara waved her hand helplessly, as if she knew she should say more, but had nothing to give.
Grissom sat in silence, digesting all that he had heard. As he ruminated, a white-hot fiery rage began to build in his chest. Sara felt him stiffen and turned to look at him. She gazed into his eyes, confused for a moment at the expression reflected there—one she had never seen in those eyes before. Rage. Murderous fury. She watched in detached awe as the muscles of his jaw clenched and unclenched. Finally, she spoke.
"Grissom—"
He interrupted her, speaking with a voice that Sara had never heard and never wanted to hear again. Through clenched teeth, he uttered, "That son of a bitch better pray that no one ever finds him. Because if they do…" He stopped and looked Sara straight in the eyes. "I will kill him."