January 5, 1991

She doesn't know how long it takes her to run out of tears. But eventually, she does. Her face feels swollen and puffy. She's exhausted. Her body protests as she uses the doorknob to pull it off the ground. She moves slowly as every little ache makes itself known.

She stands by the door for a few moments as she wonders what she's supposed to do next. She could call the police. That's what they tell say to do when something like this happens—at least that's what her high school health teacher had said. But what would the police be able to do? What would they ask her? Would she have to give them the details? Would they say she should've fought harder? Would they say her sweatpants were too tight or her music was too loud? She can't do that.

She wants her mom. Her mom would know what to do. Her mom would hold her and tell her everything would be okay. But her mom can't. And neither can her dad. She's all alone. Maybe she could call Joan. Or would Joan judge her too harshly? And it's not as if Joan signed up to be a mother. No, a legal guardian and a mother are two different jobs. She can't put this on Joan.

And Henry. How was she supposed to tell him this? He's deployed. He can't afford to be distracted. And worse than that thought was the fear that he would leave her. What if he thinks she's dirty? Or that it's her fault. Or worse—that he's no longer attracted to her. How could he ever find her desirable after this? She can't tell him.

She can't tell anyone. She will handle this alone.

She makes her way slowly to the bathroom. She faces herself in the mirror. She doesn't believe the person looking back at her is her. Her hair is filthy with mud and small leaves. It's tangled all to hell. Her face is stained with tears. Her nose and cheeks are bright red, and her eyes are bloodshot and puffy. There's a rip in the shoulder seam of her sweatshirt. She can feel the blood from the rock on the back of her left shoulder blade. She can't look anymore.

She turns the shower on hot. She strips her clothes slowly and carefully. She keeps them in the smallest possible pile in the corner of the room as if they are hazardous materials. She examines her body. There are new bruises in the shape of his hands on her forearms. There are more bruises on her thighs from his knees. She feels scrapes on her backside from the ground. And what he left inside her is sticky on her inner thighs.

She steps under the stream of water. She waits for it to feel cleansing. It doesn't. It only stings as it washes over her scrapes. She begins to rub away the grime on her skin. And at least that's something. It calms her mind to know she's washing this down the drain. She washes her hair, scrubbing at her scalp with her nails. She wants to ensure that all of the dirt washes away, leaving her hair as bright and blonde as it's supposed to be. She spends time working with the conditioner. She combs globs of it through as she detangles little by little. She applies too much body wash to her loofa and then scrubs at her skin. She scrubs at the bruises as if she can scrub away the memory of how they got there.

It isn't until the hot water turns cold that she contemplates leaving the sanctuary of the shower. She doesn't like the cold water hitting her skin, reminding her of the icy ground she was lying on only an hour ago. She shuts it off and opens the curtain. She takes her time wrapping her body in a towel, avoiding looking at the pile of dirty clothes.

She picks Henry's Steelers sweatshirt—the one she got him for Christmas—and a baggy pair of his pajama pants. They feel loose on her as they're meant to hang off of Henry's frame, but she's thankful for that.

She's tired, and her body is aching. Her bed calls to her, but she ignores it. She finds herself on the couch—cuddled into the corner, clutching a throw pillow to her chest. She doesn't know what to do. She could turn on the TV and fill the quiet, empty apartment with noise. But she doesn't. She could read. But that would require focus and concentration, and she doesn't have the energy. So, instead, she stares at the wall, trying not to think about what happened, trying not to think about Henry and how much she wants him here.

It's a few hours past dark when her body forces her to sustain it. Her nausea now comes from hunger instead of anxiety, so she goes into the kitchen and searches for something to eat. She manages to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. And then she stares at it as is sits on the paper towel she made it on. She doesn't know if she can eat it. But there's some part of her brain that's still functioning normally- some part of her brain that today's events haven't shattered, and it reminds her that she needs to eat. And so she picks up the sandwich and takes a bite. It tastes the way it always has. But it brings her no joy, no sense of nostalgia coming with her favorite combination of flavors.

She gets through half of the sandwich when the phone rings. She contemplates not answering it. But she could use a distraction–talking to another person, even if it's just the cable company calling to remind her that her bill is late.

"Hello?" She notices her voice is raspier than usual, from her screaming, and then her crying, and then her silence.

"Hey, finally got to a phone." Henry's rushed and happy voice hits her ears.

She wants to cry. She wants to beg him to come home. She wants him to hold her and tell her everything will be okay. But he can't- not because he wouldn't try, but because they wouldn't let him. And he'd be away from her and distracted with the thought of her while he's flying fighter jets. She can't have that, so she pushes her emotions down and forces herself to sound happy.

"Hi, babe," Those are the only two words she can get out before her throat gets tight and her eyes get watery.

"I don't have long. I just wanted to be able to tell you I love you." She can hear the lightness on his end of the conversation- the joy of being able to speak to her. She wishes she could match it.

"I love you, too," She says softly. If he notices her loss of voice, he doesn't say. If he notices the sniffle she can't contain, he doesn't say. But they share a moment of comfortable silence over the line. She can picture him, a small smile on his face as he holds the phone close to his ear. She hears a Commanding Officer call for him as their small bubble of silence is broken.

"I have to go. I love you, Elibet," He says once more.

"I love you, too, Henry. Stay safe," She whispers with a new set of tears running down her cheeks.

"I love you, baby," He repeats for good measure. The line is dead before she can respond. She lays the phone back in its cradle and, for the second time, collapses on the floor in a fit of tears. Her sobs come with such force they threaten to force her to expel the little she has eaten.

January 5, 2019

They sit together in silence- a comfortable silence. Her head rests on his shoulder. His arm wraps around her back. His hand rests gently on her hip. They're still dressed to the nines in their formal wear. It's becoming uncomfortable and itchy. He knows the pins on her chest must be poking her, and the heels must be killing her feet. But neither of them seem to want to move. They draw on each other for strength and support.

His eyes drift to the coffee table where their current paused game of scrabble lies pushed aside from him sitting down in front of her an hour earlier. His mind is working so fast that he's concerned his head could explode. He thinks about everything. He thinks about her attack, the trauma that's followed her around for twenty-nine years. He thinks about her keeping it from him, and he's not mad at her, but he doesn't understand. He thinks about the man she saw tonight and if it was really him or not. He thinks about how much it's affected her, how much it's still affecting her. He wants to help her finally put this behind her. He wants to help her move on and find some peace.

"Can I ask you one more question?" He asks softly. He doesn't want to push too hard and risk her shutting him off from this, as she has obviously been doing for years.

"You just did," she jokes weakly, and he gives a soft laugh.

"You know what I mean," He kisses her temple and runs his hand up and down her side, hoping the motion is soothing to her.

"Sure," She says, her voice low and soft.

"Are you sure it was your—" he pauses at the gravity of what he's about to say, "y-your ra—him at the White House tonight?"

He realizes the question could be mistaken as him telling her she has a faulty memory or that she's being dramatic, but that's not what he's trying to do. He needs a way to help, and he knows that if she's sure she identified him tonight, he can find him. His name will be on a guest list. And once Henry has his name, the fucker will be lucky if Henry doesn't kill him.

"Yes, I'm sure," She says without a hint of doubt in her voice. She remembers his face and the weight of his body. She remembers the smell of his deodorant mixed with his breath and cigarettes. She remembers his voice and his laugh. His laugh. He thought this was funny. He laughed at her. He took a part of her that she would never get back, and he thought it was funny. It's his laugh that haunts her. There's no one around to hear you, sweetheart. Then he laughed. You want me to stop? And then he laughed. She's certain it was him.

"Okay," He whispers, placing a kiss on the top of her head, "It's all going to be okay,"