I pull a chair up next to the bed and sit down. Finally noticing that there’s another nurse in the room, I turn to her and ask, “What’s going on? Is she okay?” I hold Candace’s hand tightly in mine and when I shift my eyes to it, I’m nauseated when I see her brittle nails. It’s as if someone has been sawing at them. They are covered in dried, cracked blood and worn down. There are chunks of flesh under what’s left of a couple of her nails. I jerk my head back to the nurse, not able to look any longer.
She asks Candace if she would be willing to go through a rape kit exam and she freaks out, snapping her head to me, saying, “No.”
“Candace, I really think you should do it. I get that you’re scared right now, but maybe in a few days you might feel differently about this.” I turn to the nurse and ask, “If she does this exam, then what?”
“If she decides to press charges, we will hand over the kit to the police. If not, we keep the kit here. If she changes her mind about prosecuting, then at that time, we will hand the kit over to the criminal lab.”
I squeeze her hand and assure her, “I’m right here. I think you should do this, sweetie.”
I watch as her eyes well with tears and then she slowly nods her head. I know she’s scared, but she’s strong.
The doctor comes in, and they take her for a couple of scans and x-rays while I wait in the room for her to return. When she leaves, I let go and cry. I try to get as much of it out as I can before she comes back and I have to shove all this pain back down. But I’m scared. I’m scared to know what this has done to her spirit. How will she ever heal from this?
When she is brought back into the room, I am by her side and holding her hand that I still can’t look at. I can’t even imagine how hard she must have fought for her hands to look the way they do.
The nurse talks to Candace about starting the rape kit then goes into the bathroom for a minute. When she returns, she looks at Candace and instructs, “Candace, I need for you to carefully remove all of your clothing, including your jewelry. I have laid down a large sheet of paper that is there to collect any evidence that may fall off of your clothes or body. Just stand on the paper while you undress, hand me each article of clothing as you remove it, and I will place each piece in a separate evidence bag. There is a hospital gown hanging on the door that you can change into.”
I look down at her and ask, “Do you want me to leave?”
“No. I don’t want to be alone.” She clings to me, and I see the fear and despondence in her eyes. I want to take it away, but I feel so helpless. I don’t know what to say to her, so I just help her off of the bed and walk her to the bathroom. She’s clutching a blanket to her and when she holds it out to hand to the nurse, I see she’s nearly naked. Her body is bloody and badly bruised. She begins to cry, and in a panic, turns around and asks where her pants are.
“The EMTs collected them. We already have them,” the nurse tells her.
Candace looks up at me, her whole body shaking, and I can barely get my voice out when I try to calm her and say, “It’s okay.”
She slowly starts taking off the remnants of her ripped up clothing, which isn’t much. Candace is such a small girl—tiny—and although she’s strong as hell, there would have been no way she could’ve fought off the guy who did this. Fuck, who did this?
Slipping on the hospital gown, she walks straight into my arms, and I hold her; I cling so tightly to her.
“Candace, whenever you are ready, I need you to have a seat on the exam table behind the curtain,” the nurse instructs.
Looking up at me, her dirty face soaked in tears, she says, “I don’t have anything to wear.”
“When the nurse called me, she told me to bring clothes with me. They’re in my backpack.”
She nods and we walk over to the exam table. She steps up to sit down on it, never letting go of my hand. I hate that she is so scared. She’s never scared.
I concentrate on her face as the nurse starts collecting the evidence from underneath her nails. I watch as the life leaves her eyes and she completely zones out. It kills me to see her so void and incoherent right now. That her pain is so wrenching that she has to escape somewhere deep inside her head.
When she lies down, the nurse explains the internal exam that she’s about to do. I hear every word, but I know Candace isn’t hearing a thing. She just stares at my t-shirt as tears run freely down the side of her face.
My mind is consumed with a million questions, and I know that I will probably never get any answers. I don’t see Candace talking about this. Ever. I want to murder the piece of shit who did this to her.
I snap out of my internal rage when Candace screams, “Enough!” She’s freaking out and shrieks, “Get out!” Scrambling back on the table, trying to get away, she keeps screaming, “Stop touching me, and get the hell out!”
“Candace, calm down, sweetie.” I try to say this as calmly as I can, but seeing her reaction is throwing me into a panic as she yells at the nurse, who quickly collects everything and leaves the room.
Curling into a ball, she cries, “I want to go home.”
“What happened?” I ask, wondering what triggered her outburst.
Glaring at me, she says in a slow, stern voice, “I want my clothes, Jase.”
I don’t say anything because I don’t want to upset her any more, so I pick up my backpack, and when I turn around, the door opens and the nurse who spoke to me when I first got here steps in.