Pretty Tipsy, Slowing Down

Loneliness brought disruptive memories to the forefront, and when living alone in a city like Los Angeles where friends tended to live a healthy minimum of ten miles away, the chances of getting one of them to drive over to you were fuck-all to none. For days I looked for new places to sit in my apartment. The futon in my living room was a favored option for being marginally comfortable and for being a good standpoint from which to study everything in that room, lest new passing thoughts required a fresh visual mise-en-scène. I searched for answers in the navy ribbed weave pattern of the futon back as I meditated on the events of the night before. I turned around to face the old CRT TV sitting on the open-shelved console. I took time to appreciate the peace that my beach-themed decorative trinkets offered, and the aesthetic joy my reclaimed vintage table brought to my apartment-observing experience. (One can’t stay angry at a starfish.)
And then there was my room, for the hours when I could no longer weather the futon that offered little by way of lumbar support, but after I had stored enough emotional wherewithal to sit in the location of the crime.
Punishment. Cruel, unusual, and self-inflicted. It was there that the flashbacks were stored. My once-favorite comforter held traces of Eli’s body odor in its fibers; its dandelion yellow shade that prior to had signaled a precursor to my favorite dreams. Even my pillow emanated whiffs of his scent. My reflection in the mirrored closet doors was the same reflection from the night before, minus the unwelcome aggressor. I had a bevy of statistics playing in an inner monologue loop.

I am the 1 in 6 American women who get raped. I am of the 38% raped by acquaintances.
And yes, plural; I am among the 2/3 of re-victimized women.
Once, they were statistics that were objectively infuriating as a card-carrying feminist. Now, I stood in solidarity among them.