Chapter Four - Vitellius

Tiffany is patient as she is kind. She lets me sob all over her nice tweed blazer for what feels like hours, before gently peeling me away from her. “Aliza, I’m going to take you down to the courthouse so that way you can make an official statement to the courts, okay?”

I feel panic inside. Hell no, my mind screams. But just as I was too afraid to tell about the abuse before, now I am too afraid to deny it. I am too afraid to do anything. I let them pull my puppet strings. 

I fall asleep in the car on the way to the courthouse, obviously exhausted from the day's events. I don’t remember waking up, getting out of the car, and entering the courthouse. I know that one minute, I’m sleeping peacefully in Tiffany’s car, and the next I am waking at a wooden desk, drool on the table. I get a sense of deja vu. 

A petite hispanic woman in a suit sits before me. She smiles. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you, doll.” Her voice is sweet and so is her smile.

“Where are we?” I ask as I sit up and wipe the drool with my sleeve.

“We are at the Broward County North Regional Courthouse. We are here today to speak in earnest about some abuse that’s been reported.” Suddenly, she pulls out of nowhere a whiteboard. “My name is Jennifer Gruller, but you can call me Jenny, okay?” She does not wait for a response and keeps going without a breath, doodling on the board as she speaks. “I have worked with a lot of kids in my life, so I promise to take good care of you.” She begins to read from a folder. “So, you reported to Mrs. Cressin that your father comes into your room at night and hurts you, is that correct?”

I squeeze my eyes shut. Who the fuck is Mrs. Cressin? 

Before I can ask the question out loud, she answers. “Mrs. Cressin was the social worker who brought you here. Perhaps you know her as Tiffany.”

“Oh… yes, that’s correct.”

“Aliza, can you please tell me in as much detail as possible what happened and how often it happened?” Jenny had large brown eyes and at this moment, they cut through me. 

It’s hard to describe your worst moments in detail like this. They want to know what every inch of skin looked and felt like - they want to know what time it was and what room in the house, every last detail. They ask you to use the proper words: not “You know… down there.” They demand you say “Penis” or “Vagina”. They don’t care about how embarrassed those words make you feel. I know I do a poor job of explaining by the way she looks at me afterwards. She is disappointed. “One last question,” she says and looks in my eyes directly. “At any point, would you say that you enjoyed what your father did to you?”

I see red.

I see nothing but red and I am on my feet in an instant. “Of course not! How could you ask me that?” I practically scream. Who does she think she is?

She is visibly shaken by my outburst. “It is only routine.”
I scoff and cross my arms across my chest. “Yeah, so you’re telling me your “routine” is to go around asking rape victims if they liked it!”

Jenny looks down. “I apologize if I offended you, but like I said, it’s only routine to ask.” 

Whatever, I think to myself. I know that I am only afraid. I am afraid of what she would think if I were to tell the truth. I think about the moments where it did, in fact, feel good - the abuse, that is. Is that so taboo? Yes, of course it is. Is that so unusual? Again, of course it is! But what is taboo to you may be normal to me, right? My normalcy was, unfortunately, having my father do things only a husband or lover should do to me. My normalcy was pretending to be asleep when it happened, closing in on myself and trying not to feel - until one day, I did. Adults always claim that sex feels amazing. I didn’t like what was happening to me. I didn’t like who was doing it. But I still cannot deny that it did feel good sometimes. The thought disgusts me, but I can’t lie to myself any longer. That is what I am too afraid to tell Jenny. Yes, you are right. I enjoyed it. But it still doesn’t feel true. I never wanted any of this to begin with. Does anyone understand this feeling besides me? I feel so, so... alone. 

They tell me that I won’t be hurt anymore. That I won’t be sent back there. They tell me that someone will go there and collect my things. They tell me that I need to be seen by a doctor right away and I’m driven by police cruiser to the local Emergency Room. 

Another woman I had never met before came with me to the hospital. She tells me her name is Nancy and she is the ADA. She tells me that stands for Assistant District Attorney. I wonder what that is, but don’t ask. It’s 2 in the morning and I can barely keep my eyes open. I feel as though I have cried gallons.

After changing into a hospital gown and waiting some time, I’m wheeled on a hospital gurney to an operating room. They poke and prod at me. They ask me questions. “How old are you? Aww, so young. Sweetie, I am so sorry that happened to you. Okay, now just open your legs and you will feel a little bit of pressure… that doesn’t hurt right? Okay, good. Now just relax and breathe like normal while we take some pictures.” There is a screen above me that shows what they are doing. I do my best to avoid looking at it, or them and what they are doing. I feel humiliated - like Vitellius being dragged through the streets of Rome.