Thesis Writing 4

The nurse took a picture of my face. I imagined a vault somewhere in the hospital with the pictures of hundreds, maybe thousands, of rape victims.  I wondered if they were smiling.  It’s strange not to smile for a picture, but it felt stranger to smile for this one, so I just looked into the camera.  I wondered if I looked sad or scared. I wondered if some women have mascara tear stained cheeks or big puffy eyes in these pictures.  I wondered if some of them have bruised faces.  I thought about all the pictures we take in our life.  Family photos, yearbooks photos, Facebook photos…  And now there was this: my rape photo. 

I had never let a boyfriend take naked pictures of me.  But now there I was lifting up my hospital gown for the nurse to photograph my butt, my hips, my thighs, my knees, my ankle.  My skin.  My bruises.  Now somewhere, stored away for years, there will be pictures of my naked body.  And a picture of my face to accompany it.  All of my rape evidence was being placed in a rape box.  Maybe that’s where the pictures would go – into a box labeled with my name, my social security number, my date of birth and the day’s date.  If only it was as simple as sealing one’s rape off in a box and tucking it away inside a cupboard and locking the door.