Thanks for the Pain: One Rape Victim’S Wrath

By Josh Gates

Scarlett was just shy of her thirteenth birthday when her mother, Staci, abandoned the family. Scarlett and her father, Jacob, are forced to co-exist in their grief. Five years later, Staci dies, leaving her husband and daughter to wonder what has transpired in the intervening years.

After the funeral, Jacob decides its time to introduce Scarlett to his extended family via a scrapbook of storieshe fails miserably. Scarletts wit sees through her fathers deceit to the truth about her mothers abandonment of them. The pain of this truth and Jacobs continued efforts to hide it from his daughter lead Scarlett to emotionally abandon her husband, Michael, at a time when he needs her most.

Scarletts attempts to cope and heal result in dangerous choices for herself and her son Bailey. Eventually, Scarlett finds a kindred spirit in a young woman named Jade. With the help of her mothers words and an incredibly adaptable spirit, Scarlett attempts to make sense of a life filled with pain.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Sep 15, 2015
• ISBN: 9781491776179

Josh Gates

Josh Gates earned a bachelor’s degree in criminal justice from Saint Cloud State University. A welfare fraud investigator in Golden, Colorado, he is a former probation officer for the State of Colorado and served in the US Army Infantry and Intelligence. Gates and his wife are parents to twin boys.

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THANKS FOR THE PAIN

ONE RAPE VICTIM’S WRATH

Copyright © 2015 Josh Gates.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-7616-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-7617-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015915061

iUniverse rev. date: 09/11/2015

Contents

Dedication

Scarlett’s Induction

The Day Before

The Scrapbook

A New Day

Love

Pain

Family

Death

Friendship

Fear

Freedom

Anger

Knowledge

Counseling

Michael

Scarlett

Michael

Scarlett

Michael

Scarlett

Michael’s Final Session

Scarlett

The Barney

Guilt and Sorrow

The Skirmish

Scarlett’s Final Session

The Many Characteristics of Jade

A Mother’s Wisdom

Scarlett’s Confidence

Dedication

I dedicate this novel to the terribly high number of victims of sexual assault and rape who have been and are being largely disregarded by the criminal justice system. May this novel serve as an insight into the societal costs of failing to respond to and help these victims, particularly those who have survived non-stranger rape.

Scarlett’s Induction

T he small shard from the broken shot glass barely began to penetrate my wrist as I contemplated how so much could change in one day. How had this happened, and who was to blame? Should the blame lie with my mother, or my father, or that man? Needless to say, my idea of strangers being neighborly had been shattered. I wished I had met Michael yesterday, instead, as that would have been a happier time, but I hoped to see him again. As I contemplated, I looked down at the glass shard, which was now nearly buried in my wrist. A smile swept across my face as I pulled it out and felt a slight pinch of pain; I was happy to know that after what had transpired, I could at least still feel something.

I thought about what Father’s reaction might be to the sight of my blood, now spreading across the kitchen floor. Likely nothing, as he was passed out on the living room floor with a mostly empty bottle of whiskey—something he’d promised me years ago that he wouldn’t touch again. I knew I had to clean up all the papers from the scrapbook, as well as the blood, but first I had to stop myself from bleeding. I eased over to the fireplace, grabbed a hot poker, and placed it into the dwindling fire. After a couple of minutes, I pulled it out. Holding the red-hot tip just over my cut, I looked with disgust at my drunken father and then placed it on my wrist and cauterized the wound. I didn’t make a sound; I just stared at my father. The stench of burnt flesh filled the cabin. I cleaned myself, the book, the blood, and my father’s mess. Then I wrapped my wrist tightly with some gauze from the medicine cabinet and crawled into bed.

I was on the side of the bed my mother used to sleep on, but I didn’t get much sleep. During the little sleep I did get, I had the same recurring dream I’ve had since my mother abandoned me, only this time it was different. I used to dream of being in the woods just outside my home—a happy place where I felt calm and safe. In the dream, I felt safest when the beautiful and bright, albeit indiscernible, figure of a nymph would appear. The nymph would leap among the trees—it especially seemed to like the weeping willow—while I danced and spun in circles, and I would always wake up happy. But this time when I awoke, I was trying to focus my anger. It landed almost solely on my father, who was still passed out. I was angry that he’d gotten drunk, and I could not stop thinking about the promise he had broken.

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Scarlett seemed to have improbably swiftly accepted her mother leavin g; she appeared to be handling it with a serene maturity that her father lacked. No more than a couple of months had passed, yet Scarlett awoke on the morning of her thirteenth birthday feeling enthusiastic. Fueling that enthusiasm was a most unexpected dream that had brought her much joy. She checked the clock; it was around nine o’clock. Running into the kitchen, she saw her father, Jacob, leaning on the counter. She ran up to him, kissed him on the check, and said, What have you planned for me today, old man?—ignoring the glass of bourbon in his right hand and the half-empty bottle near his left. She watched him turn slowly and smile at her with an expression resembling contempt, but she chose to ignore the glare and grab something to eat.

Finally Jacob responded in a low, monotonous voice. What’s so special about this day? What is special about any day anymore?

Having been dragged out of her happy moment, Scarlett just looked at the floor, laid her hands on the counter across from her father, and sighed. "It’s only my birthday, my thirteenth birthday … Mom would have remembered!"

Hey, darling, in case you are blind this morning, or the past couple months, for that matter, your mother is no longer here!

Why can’t you be happy for me? This is my day—for me! Scarlett wondered why she’d had to feel like the parent to her father ever since her mother left.

"Well, why the hell are you so happy?" Jacob’s speech was slurred, and Scarlett recognized his current state of drunkenness, as it was something she had witnessed more often than not over the past couple of months.

Not that you care, but I had a great dream, and I think Mom was speaking to me and wanting me to be happy.

No, Scarlett—if she wanted you to be happy, she would never have left us. She doesn’t care.

"Don’t say that! Why do you say these things constantly? She loved us—I know she did. She loved me."

Shut up—just shut up now!

How much have you had to drink, Dad?

You don’t ever question me on what I do in my house! Do you understand me?

I’m just concerned for you—

Jacob grabbed Scarlett by the shoulder and pushed her backward, perhaps only to get her attention, but she slipped, and as she fell, she banged her head on the counter and hit the floor with a sickening thud. Scarlett curled up and began to cry. Jacob took his drink and the bottle and went to his bedroom without saying a word or even glancing back at his daughter.

Scarlett spent the whole day in her room, crying almost the entire time, on a day that should have been celebrated. She could not understand her father’s actions.

Hours later, nearly out of tears, Scarlett approached her father’s door. She placed her left hand on the door, careful not to make a sound, and as her tears returned, she whispered to her father, I miss her too, don’t you understand that? With that, Scarlett went to her room, and for the first time she could remember, she locked her door.

Around eleven o’clock that night, Jacob came out of his room after polishing off the remainder of the bourbon. He stood outside Scarlett’s room, and through the door he promised her he would never touch her in anger again, and he also promised he would never touch alcohol again. Jacob took her silence as acceptance of his promise and forgiveness for his actions.

The day after her birthday, Scarlett woke her father and made him tell her face-to-face what he’d told her the night before, as she had been curled up right next to her door when her father had whispered his promises. From then on, Scarlett no longer called Jacob Dad or old man or Pop or Daddy, or any other such endearment. After her thirteenth birthday, she only called him Father. Perhaps she did it as a way to protect herself from getting too close to a man who could harm her as he had …

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When I woke up, I was still on the balcony overlooking my favorite tree, the large, strong weeping willow that had been there since before I was born. The willow was roughly as tall as our two-story cabin. Its leaves spiraled down almost to the grass, and all the way around, with one exception—an opening that looked almost purposeful, like an arched door, through which I could enter and enjoy both the shade and the beams of light glistening through the foliage. I was afraid because my recurring dream, which had brought me comfort since I was thirteen, had for the first time brought me fear. The bright, prancing nymph had become a dark, shadowy, sad figure, and seeing it had put me in an almost frozen state. I still wanted to get up and go after the nymph, but when I thought about doing it, I felt a pain in my wrists that held me to the ground. The more I struggled to get up and go to the now unhappy, shadowy nymph, the more terrible the pain became—it crawled from my wrists and spread quickly through my body, but stopped at my neck. Then, when I was most afraid, I awoke. After thinking about this new twist, I quickly dismissed it, assuming that my beautiful dream would return to its former glory. I had always been quick to forgive and a strong believer in positivity. After spending a few more hours in the stillness of the morning, with not more than a couple hours of sleep, I decided it was time to wake my father with a good breakfast. Since I could not change the past, recent though it was, I hoped to gain the answers I sought from the only one who had them.

The Day Before

T wenty-four hours before I woke my father from his drunken stupor, storm clouds began rolling through, reflecting my mood. I looked up at the lightning with an empty stare, unable to really process the moment. I normally enjoyed an oncoming storm, but this time I stood nearly motionless. A lot of faces, some familiar and some not, were coming in and out of my bubble, and all the condolences quickly became an annoyance. I felt my father’s warm, clammy hand press something into my hand, and I was instantly aware of what I was gripping so tightly. The golden, heart-shaped locket was the last piece of my mother I could ever hold. As my hands shook, I tried frantically to place the chain around my neck. Then my father, who was about six feet four and towered over me, knelt down next to me to help secure the clasp.

Where has she been for so many years? I asked, barely able to force the words from my lips.

Always know that she never stopped loving you—never!

I was certain that Father was simply saying what I wanted to hear, but I looked toward my mother’s coffin and nodded. I honestly didn’t know how he could possibly know that my mother had loved me, since she had not been in any kind of contact with him or me in nearly five years.

It had been three hours since the funeral began, and now Father and I were the only people remaining amid the tombstones, with one exception. A man about my father’s age stood stoically fifty feet away, never saying one word, but just looking at me. I figured my father knew the man, who was beginning to give me the creeps.

Who is that man, and why is he staring? I asked.

Father looked at the man and scowled at him until he looked away. He is no one, my dear. Sometimes the world finds itself occupied by odd strangers, is all. Pay no attention.

With that, the strange man’s eyes once again caught my father’s. Then the man turned and walked away, disappearing among the tombstones.

I noticed the storm fading, perhaps anticipating my anguish, which was good; I didn’t want to deal with the burden of rain and wet clothes. However, the fog was a