Storie di donne – Lele

Today we tell the story of great pain of Lele, who in the age of adolescence is a victim of sexual violence.

“Violence is the last refuge of the incapable

Isaac Asimov

LELE

Where did you come from, meteor in my cool days, I don’t remember it anymore.
Maybe it’s because, in this story, the most important thing is where you went.
At the end of it all.
Which is always a start.
Blessed unconscious youthful days!
In the hours that are a rainbow of colors and extreme confidence
in that quagmire of beautiful feelings, of universal love,
though sometimes shrouded in melancholy,
or tears of sorrows that seem eternal, and instead passengers,
always sunrises, never sunsets.
Nice and handsome, you were.
Seen.
Liked.
And so on to see each other and tell it to each other.
There’s no lucidity at that age.
At least I, I still had no clarity, I didn’t know, I floated in light thoughts.
And who thinks about what you are-what you want-what is right when you are still on the path of early youth?
I liked it. I say this without vanity.
I was recognized that sensuality that does not come from beauty.
Blossoming for not long, I began to enjoy the pleasure of being looked at and courted, handling with inexperience a kind of self-management manual.
It was nice to play, joking.
I have never been excessive: I still grasped the potential towards the male world.
Did I miss anything that night?
I acquitted myself right away.

The phone rang in my room-all rooms. So I called it, because I spent almost all of my time there, when I wasn’t idly by.
I slept there, I read, I watched television; I ate there, even.
It was the exact half of a small apartment shared with my father since I came home after a few years of wandering, following the separation of my parents,
and the consequent sale of my nest house, a wonderful one, for me, a palace.
He rang breaking the relative silence of the night disturbed by the tread of the returning cars, or already departing for the impending dawn, and by the engines of the powerful motorcycles of a passage way.
I have confusing memories of that phone call.
The light filtered from the strips of the shutter not closed altogether.
I remember, with a smile on my lips, that as a child, the play of that light produced by the headlights of moving cars scared me, as if they were extraterrestrial presences.
The voice was hers, my friend from those days.
Bigger and weaned he had taken me over to deliver me to the world.
We made every one, together!
Around after dark dancing, drinking, smoking. Rivers of chatter through the steam of rivers of hot coffee.
The voice was his, but altered by that of voicemail.
It took me a while to realize that he was really ringing his phone, and then to answer:
“I didn’t understand much of your message. Take a taxi and come to me. Right away.”
Nothing else.
The order was so peremptory and I was so tired and confused, that I executed without thinking about it.
Then, she, guiding me through the maze of practices, helping me find my way into the nebula of having to do.
She escorted me, without many words along the path of the necessary procedures.
She led me, physically and mentally.
And it was reassuring, her simple safety. An action without delay, as if the way forward, once they entered the dark and swirling tunnel of facts and fear and violence, was already mapped out.
You also learn from the cold, obvious words of a television chronicle at times.

First stop the hospital.
A religious institution where I was treated badly and incompetently.
The fixer for the biological material on the slide was missing. And the doctor refused to give me the next day’s pill, out of conscience.
I was just any, a number. A report to fill out.
A specimen to turn and turn in search of.
But then I didn’t care.
I was elsewhere.
The second stop was the Police Headquarters.
She, my friend, went on to explain.
He in uniform was very sweet, almost, I say, almost, to reconcile.
Sensitive, attentive.
He asked, listened, took notes, wrote.
I didn’t fully realize what was going on.
Then yes; after yes.
Preliminary investigations.
Live comparison due to a namesake.
Meet the lawyer.
The interrogation.
“Ma’am, I’ll leave you a copy of your statements, in case you want to read them…”
“No. Thank you, I remember, I don’t need to study them.”
I relive the entrance to court as if it were triumphant. Immediately, despite the uncertainty of the outcome.
No fear. No hesitation.
Justice was already done for me. Just because you’re there.
I was walking with my head held high.
I read the oath, just like in the tv shows.
And I found myself sure to tell, for the umpteenth time, the intense succession of events of that evening.
The date with the boyfriend to dance. The quiet evening in the company of you and your friends.
And then, that accompanying to my car, which turned into a kidnapping.
The understanding of something that wasn’t going well.
Their demands. The Hand Taken by Force
I squeezed against the window to look for detachment.
And then their moments.
The sudden escape at a time of inattention.
That cry, mine, then retracted by the witness, the third of the gang, arrived, there in that dark street, sideways at the entrance of the highway, for a tribute to his evening.
A closed street, hidden by the large warehouses of mass goods.
(So said the Court, the meeting was scheduled. And who knows, I wondered, without any real interest in the answer, that I would never have, if he was my boyfriend… to deliberately leave me under their control.)
And his prayers not to say… Drop… because it was basically a game.
The return home, still confused…

After those days, marked by the times of justice and its paths,
rinsed by lukewarm paws,
closed everything in a drawer.
I didn’t think about it.
On the day of the trial, he had already from dawn the taste of victory.
And so it was.
They paid.
I had an article in the local newspaper and compensation. Moral more than anything, because with the money I went on par with the lawyer’s fees.
The following years were detached from this story.
Or maybe I should say otherwise.
The strength came to me from doing the right thing.
The courage of the complaint.
And seeing my reason recognized.
And they’re serving their sentences.
Today I am thinking of all the thousands of women who are subjected to violence, of all kinds.
And I would like to tell them that the first step to get out of it is to bring the abuse to light, without fear or shame.
So as not to leave these ignorant men unpunished.
And continue to live fully.
I never cried about that story, then.
After almost twenty years, one day, for no particular reason, while driving, I began to cry furiously… I vomited more than pain, anger for the intolerable surprise.
Disrespect.
It was only five minutes, like a sudden summer storm that gives way to the sun, even stronger and clearer.
Then all of a sudden, I closed the drawer,
this time empty,
this time forever,
and the serenity of my strength gave me back the smile.

storia vera, tratta dal blog: http://blog.pianetadonna.it/lestoriediagatha/lele/

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