Vignette: The Bog

Women who ultimately manage to escape from an abuser’s physical and sexual violence are called “survivors”. But not all women escape with their lives. There were times when I thought I wouldn’t.

The spring night is warm and humid. The sun has only recently gone down. I am driving, but he is the one deciding where we should go.

At his command, I pull into the deserted parking lot of an unfamiliar conservation area. The sign at the entrance states that it is a bog. This small detail becomes seared into my memory of that evening. He tells me to get out, then walks away from the car. When I don’t follow immediately, he strides back to grab my hand and pulls me into the darkness, down a boardwalk and through the wetlands.

My work shoes click rapidly against the wooden planks as I struggle to match his pace. That clicking had sounded more doctor-like in the hospital corridors. Now it just sounds out of place. My shoes, and I, shouldn’t be here.

My heart pounds and I dread what his intentions are for me. He has claimed to be capable of terrible things and I believe him. He has taken me to a very isolated place. I don’t want to know the answer to the question that has been forming in my mind but, as he drags me further into the dark, there comes a point when I can’t stand it any longer.

“Are you going to kill me?”

He pauses. Then laughs coldly and challenges me: “Now, how would I do that?”

At the end of the boardwalk, he tells me to get on my knees; he is going to fuck me. The navy blue dress I am wearing was clean and pretty when I went to work that morning. By the end of the night, it is dirty and dishevelled.