She nods once, understanding. “I understand. If for any reason, you need a break, just let me know and we’ll stop immediately.”
She pulls on gloves, her movements calm, practiced.
“What happened to my clothes?”
“They were bagged as evidence.”
“There was a photo strip in my back pocket. Can I get that back?”
“I will make a note for them to take a look and get that back for you, okay?”
I nod, and Nurse Lang scribbles on her clipboard.
“First, I’ll ask you a few questions, just basic medical history, andanything you remember about what happened. I know it’s hard. You don’t have to go into detail unless you want to.”
I nod again.
“Then we’ll begin the exam. That will include collecting samples, swabs, photographs of injuries if you consent, and a physical exam. I’ll narrate every step before I do it and ask before I touch you.”
“Will it hurt?” I’m not sure she heard me.
But her face fills with compassion.
“Some parts might be uncomfortable. But we’ll go slowly, and you can ask me to stop at any time. You’re safe here.”
There’s something in the way she says it that makes it almost feel true. Not just words. A promise.
She moves around the bed, prepping supplies, her presence is warm and comfortable. No rush. No drama. Just a woman who believes in me and knows what to do. I let myself exhale. Nurse Lang sits beside the bed, clipboard balanced on her knee.
“We’ll start with the questions. If you don’t know the answer or don’t want to say, just tell me. Okay?”
I nod.
She keeps her voice soft. “Do you know the name of the person who assaulted you?”
“Daniel Mercer.” His name tastes like rot in my mouth.
“Relationship to you?”
I hesitate. “Stepfather.”
She doesn’t blink. No surprise. No pity. Just a quiet, “Thank you.”
More questions follow: recent showers, the last time I used the bathroom, and how long I was in the rain. I answer what I can. She never pushes.
“I’ll start with a few photographs of visible injuries, only if you consent. Then I’ll examine you, check for tears or bruising, and collect samples.”
I nod. “It’s okay.”
She pulls a warm sheet up over me. “I’ll make sure you’re covered the whole time. I’ll walk you through everything. Just breathe with me.”
The camera clicks softly.
My arms. My thighs. My ribs. My back. The fading yellow of old bruises layered under the new.
She pauses at one point, gently lifting the collar of my gown to reveal a hand-shaped bruise.
“This one’s fresh,” she says, voice like silk. “I’m documenting the shape, don’t move, you’re doing great.”
