She had been raped by her partner, over and over again.
It was a curious kind of rape, though: it was the rape of ignoring; the rope of inconsolation; the rule of being under his thumb. Nothing left to do but run.
But she had nowhere to run to. They said, those who still spoke to her, that she needed support. But, in response, she only needed to ask herself one question, before discarding flatly this foolish idea:
“Would you ask the family of the partner, who – over the years – had persistently raped you, to intervene in your situation? And would you ask the sheriff of the small town you lived in, if the sheriff was second cousin to the bastard who raped? And would you ask absolutely anyone you knew in your life – if everyone you knew had that formal connection to your partner … and his rights … and his terrible acts?”
She didn’t think so.