The receptionist’s desk was draped with garland across the front, a Christmas tree stood nearly reaching the ceiling, lit up and weighed down with glass bulbs. People filled the waiting room sniffling and coughing, looking for relief from their seasonal ailments. As I put my name on the sign-in sheet, the nurse behind the desk told me to “take a seat,” and that the doctor would be with me shortly. Sitting straight-backed in the chair facing the door from which I knew the nurse would come, I pulled at my clothes, feeling my heart pounding, nervous and wanting to be anywhere but that office. I waited.

 

 

            The television was on, but the lights were out, aside from the little bit of light that managed to creep in from the kitchen two rooms down. In the bedroom, the computer was on, and he sat there staring at the screen. Have a seat, he said, getting up from his chair. The damn thing isn’t working right. I need you to fix it, he explained. So I sat, my heart pounding, listening for any other sound from inside the house that would tell we weren’t completely alone. I prayed for any small sound aside from the whirring of the troubled computer. I fixed the problem quickly. I waited.

 

 

            The nurse emerged from the door and searched for the file that should have been sitting on the desk. Once she found it, she called my name, and waited for me to join her at the door. Just across the hall, she said, and motioned for me to follow her into the small room. I followed her requests, stood where she wanted me, then sat when she told me to sit. She placed the blood pressure cuff around my arm, and she held it, lifeless against her hip as I felt it begin to tighten. Her fingers then found my wrist as she waited patiently, counting.

 

 

            I got up from the chair when he told me we were alone, and said I needed to get home, heading towards the door. He called my middle name, asking me why I needed to go. He said, you just got here - stay and visit for a while. He sounded sad. He pointed to the chair next to him, wanting me to sit. I stood, unsure of what to do, and he came closer. Again, I told him I needed to go. He pushed me up against the wall, and I felt my body go numb, weak. His hands tightened around my wrists, and then one brave hand started to roam, his fingers touching places they shouldn’t, as I waited, panicking.

 

 

            The doctor’s face grew sad as I told her my real reason for visiting – I might be pregnant. I explained to her that I had gotten three positive tests, followed a few days later by severe cramping, then three negative tests. She seemed to understand something that I had feared. She assured me I had done nothing wrong, that none of it was my fault, and her voice was calm and soft, as if she were afraid of waking the baby that had supposedly been inside of me. She instructed me to go to the bathroom, to take one more test, just to be sure. I listened.

 

 

            His face was hard, his eyes distant and half-closed, as I tried to push him off of me. Remembering all of the times before, I knew what would more than likely come next. It was happening again, just as I had hoped it never would, but had always feared. He was going to hurt me again. His voice was flat, but harsh, as he told me not to cry, not to be a big baby like before. He told me to get down on the floor. When I didn’t, he grabbed my arms and pulled me down onto the carpet. He made me lay on my stomach. It was all my fault. I listened.

 

 

            It happened.

 

 

            It happened.

 

 

            As she explained to me that the test was now negative, that my hormones had most likely returned to such a low state that they were no longer being picked up, I stared at the wall, only half-listening to the words that were being said. I wondered, should I be sad? Should I sit here and cry as it seemed she expected me to? In my head, I started running over the test material that I would need to know for my final exam that afternoon. Retirement plans. Mutual funds. 401(K). Treasury bonds. Her words kept interrupting my thoughts. The cells weren’t able to develop correctly. My body got rid of them, did just as it was supposed to. I felt like my body had deceived me.

 

 

            As he kneeled behind me, my face lay flat against the dirty carpet and my nostrils pulled in the dust that had most likely been collecting there for years. I stared at the chair legs in front of me, willing my thoughts to go anywhere but where I was in that present moment. I wondered how long I had been there. I wondered how much longer it would take. I had a  journalism report to work on that night. Penn State scandal. Sandusky. Forty charges. Eight boys. Everything hurt, and the pain kept my thoughts from wandering very far. The sound of his grunts echoed in my ears. My body started to slip into that familiar sensation. That’s what should happen in times like these, though. My body was doing just as it should. Oh, please, no. But it was too late. My body had betrayed me.

 

 

            Although her words were still spoken softly, they switched from attempts to consol to words of scrutiny. You shouldn’t be having unprotected sex, she said. You know better than that. They burned like hot wires entering my heart, and I wanted to scream out to her that this was not my choice – I did not want for this to happen. I wanted her to understand that I was not disgusting, that I was not promiscuous or irresponsible. But I kept my mouth shut, afraid that she would ask questions, afraid that I could not give her the answers she needed.

 

 

            His face turned from a look of pleasure to frustration, maybe even anger. I told you not to cry, he said. And I don’t like it when you fight back. He took his pack of cigarettes from the desk beside him, and he placed one in his mouth and lit it. As the fire blazed a hot red at the end of the cigarette, I wanted to scream. He pulled up my shirt and stuck the burning end into my left breast. I bit my lip and whimpered. I wanted to scream. I wanted to tell him to get off of me, to never touch me again. I needed him to know that this was not okay and that I never wanted him to hurt me again. But the cigarettes were still by his side. My pants were still off, and I was afraid of what he might do if I talked to him that way.

 

 

            I left the office and drove the hour back to my apartment, directing my thoughts towards the test I had that afternoon, knowing that I needed to start studying as soon as I walked through the door. Any thoughts about my appointment that morning would have to wait.

 

 

            I left his house, finally, and drove in circles around the city for a couple of hours, trying to place my thoughts on the homework I needed to do that night when I would eventually return to my apartment. I needed to leave behind everything that had just happened, to forget it and focus my attention elsewhere, but everything hurt and I could still smell him on me. I needed to tell someone, but I was alone, and it would have to wait.