I, The Divine

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It was hot that day. Sarah wore her long black dress with a flower motif, tiny yellow-and-white daisies and red poppies. She loved the dress. Her stepmother had told her it made her appear too thin, the black making her skin look too pale. But she loved the fine cloth, billowing linen perfect for the weather. The heat was suffocating. She had been waiting at the side of the road for more than ten minutes and not a single taxi or jitney seemed to want to stop. A couple had passed filled with the maximum five passengers. Her hair stuck to her clammy forehead. She hated Beirut in the summer. The heat and humidity made the city filthy.

A car stopped. She glanced at the driver furtively, then signaled him with a slight movement of her head that she did not need a jitney. She was always told to be wary of young taxi drivers. She looked at her watch. Already six o’clock. She was tired and weary. She wanted to be home. The symptoms of her recent illness were beginning to reappear. If it were not for the bout of pneumonia, she would have been up in the mountains instead of in Beirut. When she got sick, the family packed their summer home, returning early to Beirut to make sure she could be hospitalized. She ended up spending a couple of days in the hospital when her fever ran too high.

It was so oppressively hot, she felt faint.

A white car stopped, grimy, needing a vigorous wash. She looked inside. The driver was a man about as old as her father. In the back sat a young man of about twenty. She was so tired, she decided to take the two seats next to the driver. After all, she knew she did not have to worry because the driver was a seat away and she was not alone.

She rode in the car distracted, thinking of other things: the strange behavior of her boyfriend, the engagement of her sister, the pleasures of air-conditioning.

She did not know exactly when she no longer recognized the route. She told the driver this was not the road to her house. The driver looked at her, smiling, showing teeth that turned her stomach. The passenger seemed imperturbable. What was going on? She told the driver to stop, but he addressed her with the same nauseating smile. This was strange. She realized she must escape, get out of the car. The man in the back seemed indifferent to her complaints. Why would he not help her? She should get out, but the car drove fast in a neighborhood she had never seen before. She was not afraid. Not yet. She felt overwhelmed, unsure what to do, but not afraid yet. She knew she must act, and quickly. She put her hand on the door handle, but she felt a coldness on her slick temple, a metal coldness. She did not dare look back. The driver landed his large brown hand on her arm. When she tried to free her arm, his grip tightened, like a vice. The contrast between the whiteness of her arms and the dark of his fingers frightened her. Her dry throat tightened when she heard a click. The click of a revolver. She felt the veins in her temple pulse with such force, she thought the hand holding the gun would certainly feel the palpitations. It was only at that moment that she realized the passenger held the gun. She also realized she was at their mercy. She tried to master her mounting terror. She anxiously calculated the value of everything she had on her. This process reassured her. She would give them the gold watch, a gift from her father. She would give them the gold chain she had received from her stepmother six months ago for her sixteenth birthday. And of course, all the money she had on her.

Lost in her thoughts, she did not notice the car had stopped at an indistinct plot of land. The driver got out of the car, made the round to her side and opened the door. Her first reflex when she got out was to give him a kick on his shin. The cry which escaped him launched a horrifying panic in her. She knew she was going to bitterly regret her action. The man with the gun was already behind her, holding her firmly by the shoulders, the revolver aimed at the nape of her neck. She received the first blow on her stomach. Slut. Fucking bitch. The second blow, a slap across her face, caused a rattle in her head. She did not pay attention to the pain in her jaw, or the blood running from her lips. She came to realize what these men wanted. They did not want her money, or her watch.

For the first time, she dared look the driver in the eyes. What she saw froze her. A scary mixture of lust and disdain. The desire was not of coveting, or lust, not even of possessing. It was a primitive desire, dominance, aggression. For the first time, she wanted to die. She did not wish to suffer what these men wanted to inflict.

The man who held her shoulders, raked his gun along the naked skin of her back. She did not know if the shiver that ran up her back was from fear or disgust. The driver dragged his palm along her chest. His hand glided the length of her throat and rested on her bloody lips. She did not know where she got the courage to bite. She bit, gripping his fingers with her teeth the way her dog held on to bones. She did not want to, could not release her prize. The taste of blood, was it her lips or his fingers? She never figured it out because the punch she received in her kidneys blinded her. The younger man threw her on the ground, while the other, holding his injured fingers, kept repeating, Slut. Whore. You will pay me for this, bitch.

The man with the gun was stretched out on top of her, holding her arms with one hand, pulling the thin straps of her dress with his revolver. Her bust was now naked. She looked with horror as his mouth engulfed one of her breasts. He bit savagely. He lifted his head, a smile plastered on his lips, a smile disfigured by ugly desire. Are you feeling pain, whore? He lowered his head to kiss her, but she tried to turn her head. I don’t want to kiss you, bitch! I want to shove the gun in. Slut!

She tried to strike out, but the other, the older one, crouched down and held her arms. With his free hand the younger man rubbed her breasts, with the other, lifted her dress, then pulled her panties down with the tip of his gun. He ran the cold gun along the inside of her thigh.

She did not want to believe this was happening to her. She wanted to wake up and realize this was nothing more than a nightmare. She raised her eyes and saw the pale sky. Blue, no cloud in sight. The chill of the gun as it touched her vagina brought her back to the cold reality. She was going to suffer. Of that she was certain. She would not look at them.

The sky was hazy, or was it her vision? She felt the gun moving in and out of her vagina. The man placed his knees on her legs, forcing her to remain open. The gun was practically in her now.

The sky. Where was the sky? It had disappeared. She felt she was about to dissolve as well. She heard the older man heap insults. No, just one. Whore. The word rang in her ears. She continually searched for the sky, but she saw nothing but the man with the gun, standing, blocking her line of sight, unbuttoning his jeans, one button at a time. He pulled down his pants and threw himself on her. She felt the heat of his erect penis enter her. She only saw the sky for a second because the pain caused her to faint. When she regained consciousness, the pain seemed intensified by the frenetic movement of the man within her. She heard his breathing accelerate. She heard his groan. Or was it her that groaned? Suddenly, the body of the man stopped moving, and he fell heavily on top of her in a death rattle. She lifted her head to look at the sky. It was darker, but the sky was there, assuring her. She was still alive. She was not dead. When she saw the older man take the place of the younger man, she folded herself up, as if, with such a movement, she would be able to stop his penetration. He kicked her, forcing her to curl up more. It was not the sky she looked at now, but the muddy earth. He yanked her by the hair, forcing her to turn around, hitting her. She was suffocated by his weight. The other man took his turn holding her down. You see these fingers you bit? I am going to shove them in like. The rest of the phrase hung in the air, suspended, because the pain this time was so sudden, she could hear only her own cries. He penetrated her savagely. She thought he was going to pierce her.

The sky had disappeared. She closed her eyes, out of pain, out of bitterness, out of shame. She felt him going in and out of her like an animal in a rut. With every movement of his body, he emitted a cry, and she groaned in pain.

When at last, with a cry, he fell on her, she dared to open her eyes. She allowed her eyes to wander along. She felt dispossessed of her own body. She tried to recapture a visual support, something to get a hold of, but she could only discern a frail silhouette in the distance. The end of the nightmare? Salvation? Someone was there. She felt a strange relief. The person would call for help. She would not die.

The man holding her down noticed the spectator. But instead of panicking as she had hoped, he called out to him. The silhouette approached slowly, with a hesitant step. She realized he was only an adolescent, maybe a year or two younger than her. She read in his gaze a terror akin to hers. Run, she thought. Go call for help. He regarded the scene with a mixture of fascination and disgust. A child in an adult world. The man stood up, arrogant in spite of the fact that he was naked from the waist down, his penis covered with blood. You want to remain a virgin all your life. Come. Come find out the pleasures of being a man.

The adolescent hesitated. Looked at her. From pathetic and poignant, his look transformed to desire. It burned with the same fire which animated the driver after he hit her. The man snickered. Come on. What are you waiting for? Inspiration? Both men burst out laughing. The boy began slipping out of his pants. You know what to do, right? The older man had a conniving smile. The boy nodded. He jumped on her, penetrating her brutally and clumsily. She did not have time to close her eyes for already he emitted the strange cry. She felt him being picked up. Why didn’t you take your time? She is ours. One of the others went back inside her. She did not know which one. She remembered that she sobbed, begged the man to stop. He slapped her. Her tears did not stop, but he did not hit her anymore. Then the man penetrated her again. But she felt nothing other than pain.

The sky was darker now.

She had not noticed the men dress and leave. She found herself suddenly alone, filthy, covered in dirt and blood. She put her dress back on. Though dirty, it remained intact.

She must return home. She was late. She looked at her watch, which they had not taken, and saw that it was only seven o’clock.

One hour. In only one hour, her life had come to an end. In only one hour, her dreams were shattered. In only one hour, she thought bitterly, she had become a woman. She was no longer a virgin.

She did not know how she returned home. By taxi.

She had only one worry; her parents must never know what happened. No one could know. No one.

Her father was home playing cards when she arrived. He did not notice her come in. She went into her room and undressed. There, she saw the marks. She placed herself in front of a mirror reflecting back the image of a girl who had been raped. Here was the bruise. She was raped. She was not guilty, she kept reminding herself. She was a victim. She felt soiled. There, between her thighs, on her naked legs, the dark blood mocked the pallor of her skin.

She placed herself under the waters of the shower, vigorously rubbing her skin, to erase the marks, the bruises, any trace. She scrubbed.

She put a new dress on. She covered her face with makeup. She left her room to face the tribe. Everything must go on like before.

Hello everyone, she addressed the card table. A chorus of hellos. That’s a wonderful dress you’re wearing. The man overflowed his seat with his girth. You like it? She twirled coyly. It’s a beautiful dress, her father said. Did he still love her? she wondered.

She sat in front of the television. Her stepmother watched her intently. Are you all right? Yes, I’m fine. I’m fine. For a minute, but only a minute, she considered how many girls must have gone through what she did and sat silent. Are you sure you’re all right?

* * *

Her best friend was spending the night. They were in bed together. What’s going on? It’s been a while since you’ve been yourself. Don’t you think I’d know if you’re not all right? I’m your best friend. For the first time since the incident, tears ran down her cheeks. Her best friend gently touched her cheek. I missed my period. Oh, my god. You didn’t tell me you went all the way with him. I didn’t. Oh, my god! I was raped. There. She said it. I was raped.

A best friend is someone who cries when you do.

We’ll go see Dr. Baddour. What if he tells someone? He won’t. But everyone will know. No one will know. There’s something inside of me. I know it. We’ll just get rid of it. Who’ll pay? I have some money, and anyway, I’m sure he’ll give us a discount.

Dr. Baddour scheduled her in the morning. She did not dare look down while he worked. She looked up. At the white ceiling, which became hazy sometimes.

The pain in her stomach was unbearable. She stayed in bed, told her parents she had stomach flu. She tried to be quiet for fear her father would want to examine her. Her best friend held her hand for a whole week.

Six months later, a group of her friends were over for dinner. Bombs were exploding somewhere in the distance. The electricity went out. They played a French version of Pictionary by candlelight. They were divided into teams of two, one to draw and the other to guess what was being drawn. She was teamed up with her best friend. They had been playing for over an hour. The next word was in the category of action. The first artist looked up the word. Oh, boy. This is going to be hard. He passed the card to the next artist and then to her best friend. She saw her best friend’s jaw drop. Okay. Time. The artists began drawing. Her friend put the pencil on paper, but was unable to make it move. Stick figures in various forms of coupling appeared on the other artists’ papers. Have sex. She was looking at her best friend, who still could not draw anything. Making love. The other guessers yelled out possible answers. A lump stuck in her throat. Fucking. It has to be fucking.

Her best friend finally looked at her, her eyes moist. Rape? she asked quietly, incredulously. I can’t believe you figured it out. You should have drawn it differently. How can I tell this is rape and not just fucking? I put those lines around the figures. That means it’s violent. Those lines mean violent? You’re crazy. Well, sorry, I don’t know how to draw rape. I can’t believe you figured it out. You two must be psychic. You must have some kind of connection.

For the rest of her life, she would try and figure out why a game of Pictionary would have the word rape in it.

How does one draw rape?