I jump, the beeping accelerating.
“Hey, it’s okay. You’re okay.” She crosses over to me and reaches out to soothe me.
I flinch.
She immediately lifts her hands.
“It was just a tray, you’re okay. Take a slow, deep breath for me.”
I turn to see a nurse picking up different packages off the floor and putting them on a metal tray.
The beeping starts to slow. I close my eyes and focus on breathing.
“That’s it.” She continues quietly, “The police have been notified. They’ll want to speak with you when you’re ready. But right now, you’re safe. No one can hurt you.”
Safe.
I don’t know how to operate inside this body. Don’t know how to live in the skin they stitched shut. She watches me a moment longer, then reaches into her coat pocket and pulls out a small badge clipped to her ID.
“I’m Dr. Ramirez. I’m the trauma surgeon on call tonight, and I’ll be overseeing your care while you’re here.”
I nod again, just barely. It feels like I’m watching this happen to someone else.
“There’s something else we need to talk about,” she says, her voice quiet but clear.
She shifts slightly, putting her hands in the pockets of her white coat.
“When you arrived, you had injuries that suggested recent sexual trauma. We treated what we could, but we haven’t performed a forensic exam.”
The words sound like another language. I hear them, but I can’t understand them. Not fully, at least.
“You don’t have to decide right now,” she adds. “But the sooner we do it, the more evidence we can preserve. It’s completely your choice. No one will force you. We’ll support you either way.”
I stare at her. She’s not looking away. Not awkward. Not pitying. Just present.
“Okay, let’s do it.”
“All right,” she says. “We’ll have a nurse come in shortly. Someone who is trained specifically for this. She’ll walk you through every step.”
Dr. Ramirez walks to the open door of my room and leans out, calling a name. I feel dirty and I want to shower. But I’ve seen the shows, I won’t be able to until this is over.
There’s a soft knock, and Dr. Ramirez steps aside to let in a woman wearing light blue scrubs, a warm cardigan wrapped around her shoulders. Mid-40s, calm eyes. Clipboard in one hand, a wheeled cart in the other.
“Isobel,” Dr. Ramirez says, “this is Nurse Lang. She’s a certified SANE, which stands for Sexual Assault Nurse Examiner. She’s here to walk you through the next part, if you’re ready.”
I sit up a little straighter. My voice is barely a whisper. “Okay.”
Dr. Ramirez nods at us and leaves, shutting the door behind her. Nurse Lang gives a small, reassuring smile.
“Hi, Isobel. I’m really sorry you’re going through this. But I want you to know, I’m here for you. Everything we do tonight is in your control, all right?”
I nod. She rolls the cart over slowly and sets her clipboard down.
“I’ll explain everything before we begin. You can stop at any time. You can skip any step. You don’t even have to answer my questions if you don’t want to. This exam is here to collect evidence, but only if you consent.”
My hands twist the blanket in my lap.
“I want to do it,” I murmur. “Just… I want to get this over with.”
