I Didn't Scream

I Didn't Scream

I didn't scream when I woke up in my bed with no memory of going home.

I didn't scream when my grandmother picked me up and knew something was wrong.

I didn't scream when she asked what was wrong and the tears started rolling down my face.

I didn't scream when we got to the hospital and I was rushed immediately to the back.

I didn't scream when the ER doctor came with the single Starr certified nurse West Jeff had at that time.

I didn't scream when they both told me they couldn't do my rape kit and I had to go to a different hospital all the way in Metairie.

I didn't scream when my grandmother told me to call my mom and dad on the way there and let them know what happened.

I didn't scream when I walked in and saw my parents had somehow made it from Hammond to Metairie in less than the time it took Granny and I to get there from Marrero.

I didn't scream when the first set of police to show up and didn't care to hear anything I had to say.

I didn't scream when the doctor and nurses invaded every orifice of my body to collect whatever evidence was left.

I didn't scream as the speculum was put in and scraped every abrasion inside that I had.

I didn't scream when the detectives came to ask their questions.

I didn't scream when the female detective insisted multiple times that it was my fault.

I didn't scream when she said I must have had a one night stand and just have a guilty conscience.

I didn't scream when I answered all of their questions 20 times each.

I didn't scream when they still didn't believe me.

I didn't scream while I asked the male detective to leave the room.

I didn't scream when I stripped naked to show that hateful woman the bruises on my body.

I didn't scream when her eyes got huge and she stopped asking questions.

I didn't scream when they told me it could be months or years before any of the evidence they collected was tested for DNA.

I didn't scream when over 18 months later the male detective called me out of the blue to say they'd found DNA evidence in my kit.

I didn't scream as I sat on the other side of the desk from the male detective who asked still more questions and had me flip through page after page of mug shots.

I didn't scream when I came back to the same guy 3 or 4 times because I knew him.

I didn't scream when the detective told me it was interesting I kept coming back to this man's picture and asked me why.

I didn't scream as I explained that he had asked me out several times years previously and I had gone on two dates with him.

I didn't scream as I told the detective this man was extremely pushy about trying to get me into bed both times.

I didn't scream as the detective acknowledged his was the DNA found on and inside my body.

I didn't scream when the detective told me I couldn't press charges.

I didn't scream when I was told that this man who did these awful repugnant things to me was dead.

I didn't scream when they explained how he died and that I felt like it wasn't awful enough.

I didn't scream when I walked out of that building back into the late afternoon sunlight more tears streaming down my face.

I didn't scream when I had no outlet or chance for justice.

I didn't scream.