skonen_blades

I see a lot of old movies with a ‘player’ character.
A man trying to charm every woman he meets.
I see him portrayed in these movies as a scamp.
A rascal.
Someone worthy of an eye-roll.
Or if he attempts an actual assault, worth a slap.
And even that is portrayed as roguish.
The aftermath relayed to others with a laugh.
But if he persists.
If he ignores the slap.
The woman’s anger is portrayed as just half an inch to the left of passion.
Her furious resistance dancing over to kissing and clutching in the face of an unrelenting onslaught.
Overpowering her defenses.
Him sparking consent with raw dominance.
That this was encouraged horrifies me.
Its rape played out as romance repeatedly on the big screen.
That constantly seeking out partners
Tricking them into sex
Is a noble pursuit
A noble male pursuit.
Woman who do it are branded.
Don’t get me wrong.
If it was portrayed as an equal opportunity pursuit, it wouldn’t be better.
It’s just so that I so rarely see a meeting of romantic equals on the screen.
A union based on consent and straightforward communication.
A relationship.
I hunger for it.


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And the shadows come downstairs.

I’m wary of the air of celebration
I dislike the atmosphere of elation that retroactively might look like grave-dancing.
I’m off in a quiet corner of the party hoping that the cops don’t come.
Even though this no longer feels like my house.
I feel like getting everyone’s attention and giving them a nice, big, condescending
“Easy. Easy. Let’s all take a step back here.”
But the train has left the station and momentum will do what it does.

And anyway, that is not my call.
And anyway, to express nervousness over the proceedings is to expose my own swallowing of the rape culture pill.
And anyway, to fear the repercussions of our actions is to disrespect the victims.
And anyway, to be a man in this situation makes me feels as helpless as I’ve felt in the years leading up to this.
And anyway, I’m angry.
And anyway, I’m afraid of being outed as the sexist, demeaning pig that I am.
And anyway, I keep the potential rapist inside of me hidden from the world as all men do and that rapist is scared and since he is a part of me, I am scared as well.

I know the truth is out. Or to be clearer, I know that’s what is out is the truth. I know the central basis of what’s happening is supposed to be healing and is supposed to have a goal of welcoming back. I’m not sure that’s realistic or possible.

All I know is that I’m searching for balance and as a result, a devil’s advocate is stuck in my Adam’s apple as I look at what used to be the Garden of Eden.





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“We’ll start with the feelings of the attack. That will help the imager,” said the psychologist.

Julie bit back tears and remembered the alley where the assault had taken place.

Julie was sitting in a police interrogation room. A police software sketch artist sat across from her along with a registered boosted telepath and also a psychologist educated in the ‘fine points of non-invasive memory retrieval trigger techniques’. He was a low-grade hypnotist, in other words.

The three of them looked intently at her as she looked above their heads at her own reflection in the mirror. A black eye and one arm in a sling. Bruises and a broken nose that would heal in time but her face would never be back to the way it was.

Every mirror would remind her of that alley for the rest of her life.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she looked at the computer monitor screen on the desk in front of her through the one eye that wasn’t swollen shut. She felt the electrodes at her temples. The pattern on the monitor screen swirled in a fascinating way.

She let the fear come back. She let the sensations of surprise followed by horror rekindle in the base of her stomach. She let the shock of her purse strap biting into her arm remind her of that initial pain. She remembered being pulled from the light.

“We’re getting something,” said the telepath in a small voice and turned a few dials on the table in front of him. His eyes stayed pointing at the ceiling no matter how he moved. It was disconcerting.

“Hooking in.” said the software sketch artist.

Black petals fluttered across the screen in front of her like ink on a raven’s wing. It was the flourish of a matador’s cape at a funeral and then she was looking at the alley where the attack took place. Black bricks and steam from the manhole. Water dripped off of the pipes.

“Now,” said the psychologist, “remember that this is not happening to you. This is happening to another Julie. This is a memory being brought back into visualization. It cannot hurt you. It is a fabricated simulation. You are safe here with us.”

“Okay,” said the software sketch artist, “I’m getting something. Male.” He smiled and gave the thumbs up to the psychologist who rolled his eyes and jerked his head towards Julie. The sketch artist glanced back at Julie and his smile disappeared instantly. Red-cheeked, he looked back down at his input module and re-commenced his work.

On the screen in front of Julie’s face, she saw the face take form. It was lit from the back by a weak streetlight. The face was hard to make out.

The telepath winced. “It’s going to be tough. He got to work right away," he said to his colleagues, and then, "Julie, I’m taking as much of the pain as I can to let you through but you’ll, uh, have to be quick.” He stopped staring at the ceiling and closed his eyes with a hissed intake of breath through clenched teeth.

Julie smelled smoke.

“Smoke.” said the telepath and wrinkled his nose.

“Smoke, that means….” said the sketch artist and typed a few commands into the processor.

“Was the assailant smoking, Julie? Did he have a cigarette?” asked the hypnotist.

Julie’s legs stiffened. She could feel sweat starting to make the grip of the electrodes loosen on the sides of her head. She remembered.

On the screen in front of her, a cigarette came up to the assailants lips. He inhaled. The tip of the cigarette cherried bright red siren-light onto his features from the crack under hell’s bedroom door. A handsome man except for the acne scars, the sweat, and the cold drive to do harm held glinting in his glassy eyes.

He breathed smoke out into Julie’s face and flicked the cigarette away. She could feel his thick, callused hand fishing around under her skirt and grabbing a hold of her panties as her legs thrashed.

“We got it!” said the digital sketch artist with a proud laugh before colouring again and shutting up.

He hit a button and the smoke-filled monitor screen in front of Julie went blank. The lights inside the room returned to full brightness.

“Okay, Julie. We’re done. You’re okay. On the count of three, you’ll wake up, uh, refreshed and happy and well-rested. One. Two. Three.” Said the therapist. For a second, Julie thought that he was actually going to snap his fingers.

The telepath slumped forward, let out a pent-up breath and opened his eyes. He was bleeding a little where he’d bitten his own lip. He stood up, shivered, and dusted imaginary dust off his suit.

The technician took out the disk to take it to processing and warrant control. He left the room quickly, embarrassed about his lack of tact during the questioning.

The telepath left next with a backward glance at Julie, mopping the light sweat from his brow.

The hypnotist stayed in the room with Julie. The door closed behind the telepath, leaving the two of the alone in the interrogation room. The hypnotist put a hand over Julie’s good hand on the desk.

“You did good, Miss Jalkin. Julie. We got a clear shot at him. The attack happened not that long ago. The nurse will take one last look at you and you’re free to go.” He said.

He seemed to go through a bit of an internal struggle before he took out a pen and his card. He wrote a phone number on the back and then tucked into the pocket of Julie’s blood-stained blouse.

“That’s my home number. You call me anytime you want. I mean it.” He said and then he left as well, whistling.

Julie sat alone in the room and waited for the nurse, feeling like she’d just been assaulted again.





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