Humiliated

I am bruised, sick, and utterly humiliated. I’ll never be able to rent a car again, and my cover may be blown. How could it get so bad?

3:00 a.m.

What am I doing up at this hour, sitting in a dead woman’s home, crying my eyes out, and throwing up every ten minutes? God I wish I knew. I can’t think straight; I can’t even see straight. And I think someone is in the house. I’ve locked myself in the kitchen office and am throwing up in a wastebasket.

Here’s what I remember. My head is so fuzzy. I went to that bar at about 9:00 last night. Susan and Rick introduced me all around to several people and everyone wanted to talk about Georgia and what they remembered. Mostly it was pretty sweet and sort of a wake. All I had to drink was tonic. I know that’s all I had to drink. Damn it! I know I didn’t drink anything else. I’d know, wouldn’t I?

This one guy—Dean?—kept getting closer and closer to me and he was all “oh, too bad about your cousin. We all loved her. We went out some.” Dude, back off. I’m not interested.

Then about 11?? Maybe earlier. I started to feel a little sick. I went to the bathroom and didn’t recognize myself. I thought, My God! my mother is here! That’s when I threw up the first time and I thought, great, I’m sick. How could I get sick so fast? I had to grab my coat from the table and I left the bar. This guy—Deonn??—wanted to drive me home. No way. Not interested. I got in my car and pulled out of the parking lot wanting to get away from there as fast as I could. Apparently that was too fast. I forgot to turn the headlights on. I wasn’t half a block when a cop car pulled me over. I had trouble finding my ID, but I gave it to him and my rental agreement.

He made me get out of the car. Walk this line. I could barely see the line he pointed at. It’s fucking January and there’s three inches of snow on the ground that the stupid city hasn’t figured out how to remove from the streets. And it’s freezing your tush off weather. He’s making me stand there freezing and shaking while he shines a light in my eyes and asks how much I had to drink. I didn’t have anything to drink, stupid. I’m feeling a little sick. Can I please sit down. He says stay where I am. He gets a kit out of his car and says, blow into this. You have the right not to, but we’ll go have blood tests then. I’m shaking so much and shivering that I can’t get a big enough lungful of air to satisfy the cop. I just want to go home and be sick. Where am I staying. Almost gave  him my address. Said no, with my cousin. She’s dead.

He pulled me around against the car and cuffed me! He pushed me into the backseat of his patrol car and took me to the police station. I threw up in the back of his car. And on myself. My hands were behind my back. He dragged me into a cell and said to sober up.

Then another cop, plainclothes, comes to see me. You Peg Chester? I almost said no. Yes. I am Peg Chester. He says I’ve been cited for DUI, but since I couldn’t do breath test, they want a blood test. Consent? Yeah sure. Just let me go home.

They take the blood and Cop A, B, or C—oh shit, I didn’t even get the names of the cops who arrested me—he says that I’m lucky to have friends and he’s come to take me home. He who? What friends? He points me at this guy—Devon?—who takes my arm and gets me out of the police station. I’m trying to say, no. Something’s wrong. He drives me here to Georgia’s house and comes in with me to put me to bed. No way. He can’t see me like this. I ran to the office and slammed the door and locked it. I moved all the furniture in the little room against the door and he can’t get in. He’s out there. I can hear him going through kitchen drawers.

I should call 911, but I just got out of jail. Did they fingerprint me? Oh no! If they did they’ll match prints to my real identity. They’re on file with my detective’s license. I need a doctor. They wouldn’t even get in because he’s out there. No one would believe me.

Throw up, cry, listen. Is he gone?

I can’t call anyone. He could attack whoever I called. Maybe Lars. He would know what to do. That’s it, I’ll call Lars, as soon as I rest a little.

4:00 p.m.

I’m back. I feel better. A little. I called Lars at 7:00. He gave me instructions to stay where I was and not to pee. I had no idea what he was talking about, but an hour later Cinnamon was pounding on the door. I couldn’t figure out how I’d gotten into this little room with all the crap piled against the door. It took me forever to get the door open. I must have looked a mess. Lars and Cinnamon examined my face and determined that I didn’t have any tell-tale signs of being anything other than what I appear to be. They got me into his car and Lars drove us to my doctor. I could have told him she wouldn’t be at her office, but she was. It was Sunday morning and no one else was around.

She pulled out a rape kit.

Oh my God! what happened? I was so panicked that I hyperventilated and passed out. She ran preliminary tests and insisted that Lars take me to the hospital. She met us there and we did everything over again. They took samples of the puke on my coat, my urine, my blood. Dr. Joan was there the whole time and guarded me from everyone else. They must have thought things were pretty strange that a doctor would stay with her patient waiting for the test results and not let a nurse near me. Preliminary results got back a little after noon.

I was drugged.

That wonderful, friendly little wake for Georgia last night wasn’t exactly what it appeared to be. That guy—Delyn??—must have slipped something into my tonic. Dr. Joan says I’m luck. I’ve got to read up on GBH. Dr. Joan says that if I hadn’t been throwing up so much I’d probably still be passed out and would have gone home with him. Trying to drive could have saved me from getting raped, even though I’m so humiliated I can’t even look at Cinnamon. She’s been right there ever since I came out of that little office. And she’s here now. Says she’s not leaving tonight, no matter what.

Here’s what is for sure. Now that I know that Georgia’s friend—or friends—tried to drug and rape me, I’m convinced that her death wasn’t self-inflicted. I am going to stay here, and I am going to nail their collective asses.