Free Butterfly by Elle Harper

and hard
before he says things. Like he’s not just talking for the sake of
it, and anything he says must have some kind of meaning.
    ‘No one asks to be raped,’ he
says. ‘It’s just a myth. A lie.’
    He leans forward slightly,
holding eye contact with me, but it’s not intimidating in any way.
All I see is understanding and sincerity shining through.
    ‘If you were burgled, would you
blame yourself? Would you think it was your fault simply because
you happened to own a house?’
    For some reason I laugh, because
that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. ‘No.’
    ‘So why do you blame yourself
for being raped?’
    ‘Because I didn’t do anything to
stop it. I didn’t fight back. I didn’t scream. I didn’t try to run,
and I didn’t say no.’ My voice is louder, defensive.
    ‘I’m sure you know about the
flight or fight response?’
    I ball up the soggy tissue in my
hand and look down at it. ‘Yes, and I didn’t do either of those
things. That’s the point! Which means it’s my fault. I must’ve
wanted it to happen subconsciously.’
    ‘There’s also another response
to trauma or attack. It’s where the body freezes. Similar to a
rabbit caught in the headlights, or an animal that plays dead to
fool a predator. It’s a subconscious action, which means you had no
control over it. It happened instinctively. It’s also a survival
reaction, just the same as flight or fight.’ He tilts his head. ‘So
you can look at it another way. Instead of blaming yourself, look
at it that not screaming or fighting back kept you from
being beaten, or worse. It actually kept you alive.’ He pauses for
a moment, and when he speaks, his words are precise and clear. ‘It
wasn’t your fault.’ His gaze holds mine, unwavering.
    Something inside me shifts,
then, and it’s as if the world is blurring in front of my eyes
before reshaping itself and coming back into focus.
    Because hearing all that from
him, hearing the quiet certainty in his voice that it wasn’t my
fault, gives me hope.

14
     
    BEN
     
    As she tells me her story, the
anger inside rages at full force. I clench my fists under the table
so she can’t see them. If I want to be good at my job, I have to
control it, which is why I beat a punch bag now instead of fighting
in a ring. Well, that and because the last time I punched someone,
I destroyed my whole life.
    My heart cracks into a million
pieces. Her pain and hurt are like shards of glass, stabbing me all
over, which just makes me want to comfort her. Protect her. Take it
all away.
    I want to give her a breather,
some time to compose herself. And I need to do something with my
hands before I punch the wall, so I get up from the table. ‘I’m
going to make you some hot chocolate.’
    I heat the milk in the microwave
to save turning the machines back on. I add spoonfuls of hot
chocolate into two mugs as she sniffs and blows her nose.
    I put a couple of cookies from
the box on the counter onto two plates and take them over to the
table. The microwave pings, and I pour the heated milk into the
mugs, stirring well to get rid of any residual powder, then
sprinkle them with chocolate powder.
    ‘Here, drink this.’ I put a mug
in front of her and sit down opposite with mine.
    She’s shivering, despite the
heat in the shop. She cradles the mug as if it’s a lifeline.
    ‘Thanks,’ she says softly, her
eyes dropping to the chocolate as she takes a sip. Her face is
pale, mascara smudged down her cheeks. She looks drained.
Exhausted.
    But she also looks utterly
beautiful to me.
    I don’t know how long we sit
there. Just sit in silence as the tears dry on her face.
    ‘I’m so embarrassed,’ she
finally says.
    ‘You have nothing to be
embarrassed about. In fact, you should be really proud of
yourself.’
    ‘Why? I’ve just told a stranger
disgusting things I’ve never told anyone.’
    ‘Because you’ve asked for help,
which is the first step, and which also makes you very brave.’