Ma reached out and took my hand. She squeezed it and continued.
“I squirmed under his lips. His stink and the heat from his body were nauseating. I tried hard not to vomit. And then I was released from the wall and on my hands and knees vomiting.
“He’d punched me. His fist was a solid rock slamming into my stomach. He stood over me breathing hard, ‘I like hard to get up to a point, but it is my birthday and I should get what I want.’ His words tumbled over themselves with each breath.
“I would have run then, god knows I wanted to, but I couldn’t get any air into my lungs. Fear had curled me into a ball on the ground and he still stood between me and any type of escape.
“As silent sobs went through me, I kept wary eyes on him. He stood over me, panting and moved his hands to the waist of his jeans. With the sound of the zipper, everything stopped. I was paralyzed against what was to come next. I began to shake and my crying was more audible.
“Looking back, I can’t help but feel self-loathing, this dirty feeling that somehow I deserved what happened, and guilt. I know I shouldn’t. I know it sounds ridiculous; I was the victim, but when I went to work at the Tavern, I’d promised myself to never let something like that happen to me. I am furious with myself for ever being in that situation. I hate how weak and impotent I let him make me feel.”
I squeezed Ma’s hand. I wanted to speak, to tell her it was in no way her fault, to lash out at the memory of Billy Braithwaite and the well-to-do of Berwick, but I’d promised to let her tell the story.
She squeezed my hand, acknowledging the thoughts that she watched race across my face, then with a sad smile, she continued.
“It didn’t happen. I was curled up on the ground, a sniveling mess of snot and scared tears. Billy stood over me fumbling with himself, trying to get his partner excited about what was to come next. It must have been the alcohol. Or maybe a certain part of him knew what he was planning to do was wrong. I don’t know.
“He started cursing at himself and his partner. Then he started telling me it was my fault for not giving him what he wanted. He alternated between that and blaming me for giving him too many drinks. He said he’d seen the way I was looking at him all night as I brought beers to the table, and the least I could do was give him a kiss now that he’d taken the initiative to come talk to me. Tears formed at the corner of his eyes.
“Then he kicked me in the stomach. I’d just started to get regular breath again when his foot landed. Whatever was left in my stomach ended up on his shoe, enraging him further.
“Through my tears I saw the moonlight cross his face revealing a mixture of humiliation and confused anger. It was almost as though he knew what he was doing and was mad about it, but couldn’t stop himself.
“I tried to beg him to stop, but the words wouldn’t come. ‘This is your fault,’ he repeated over and over as he kicked me again and again. The kicks and curses rained down in a waterfall of pain. At a certain point, I stopped feeling anything and just begged god to make him stop.
“I was curled in on myself, arms and knees tucked so after the first two kicks all the others landed on them or were deflected. Each blow landed hard though the impact lessened with each kick. The pain was still real, throbbing throughout my body. Then all of a sudden they stopped.
