Sian.

It was a warm summers day. The kind where you take a jacket out with you but you don’t end up wearing it. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. The day was peaceful and full of possibility.
Sian had just parked her car at the park and ride about a mile away from the city centre, where she was meeting a friend for lunch. It was her day off and she wasn’t in a rush so instead of catching the tram she decided to walk.
Calling her sister on the way, she set off up the path between the trees, their branches so full, she was sheltered, hidden with sunlight peeping through the gaps.
Sensing something was wrong, Sian glanced behind her and saw a male running up to her, he was keeping low as if not to be seen. He reached her and put his hand up her skirt, feeling her vagina through her underwear. He was laughing, acting playful. He was having fun.
Sian’s sister asked if she was okay. ‘Yeah, I’ll call you back’ Sian replied, hanging up. But she couldn’t manage to say anything to her attacker.
It must have only been a few seconds, no more than 10 and then he ran away.
Looking around her Sian saw two cyclists ahead who stopped, seeing what had happened. ‘Do you know him?’ one asked. ‘No’ she replied. ‘Are you okay?’ said the other. ‘I’m okay’ Sian said, to the cyclists, to herself. She needed to call her sister. The cyclist’s checked again that she was okay and then continued their journey.
Sian returned to her walk, calling her sister back to explain what had just happened. ‘You need to call the police’ she instructed. ‘He’s gone’ Sian replied ‘they won’t be able to do anything’. ‘Sian, you need to report it’ her sister said again. ‘Okay’ she said.
9 9 9, a number Sian had never needed to dial before. Explaining what had happened, Sian carried on walking, the closer she got to the city centre, the safer she felt. The call handler asked her to stay where she was, they were sending a police car for her.
As she waited on the side of the road, she felt herself getting annoyed that her day had been interrupted and that she now had to wait for the police to arrive. She was fine, she just wanted to get back to her day.
The officer called Sian to confirm her location and stayed on the phone until he got there with flashing lights. After asking her if she would be able to recognise the male and in which direction did he run off, the officer drove Sian around the city centre and streets near the tram stop.
Feeling their effort was pointless, Sian looked down at her phone, to text her boyfriend. They weren’t going to find him, she thought. And even if they do, would she be able to say for certainty that it was him. The attack had happened 15 minutes ago but her memory of it had faded already. What did he look like? What was he wearing? She could swear he was in dark clothing but couldn’t picture any features. All she knew was he wasn’t white. Not much to go on.
The officer saw Sian’s lack of enthusiasm and asked her to keep looking. After around 20 minutes, he asked her if there was anywhere she wanted dropping off. ‘Anywhere here is fine’ she replied, as if she was speaking to a taxi driver, on a regular Tuesday.
Glad to be out of the police car and into a bustling city centre, Sian walked with the crowds. With every minute that went by she felt more and more disconnected from the attack. She was fine, she could get back to her day now. But she found herself looking for him. Would she recognise him? He would surely recognise her.
Sian didn’t tell her friend at lunch what had happened. She didn’t want them to know. She didn’t want to talk about it, she didn’t want to feel or be treated like a victim.
Her boyfriend text back ‘that’s fucked up. I wish I was next to you right now’.
A few weeks passed and the police called a couple of times to speak to Sian and get her statement straight. The hardest part was retelling the attack and answering question after question. ‘How did it make you feel?’ one officer asked. Not one for liking to talk about her feelings, Sian avoided the question. But on one phone call, she said ‘Like it was my fault’. Except this wasn’t just the cliché talking. It did make her feel like that, like her short skirt invited him. She bought it on herself. She was to blame.
One call lead to Sian going into the station to see if she could identify the male who attacked her. They had picked someone up who matched her vague description and who had attacked numerous women in the same area.
She watched the computer screen as the officer clicked from photo to photo, awaiting her response. ‘No, no, no, I’m not sure’. The last photo looked familiar, but was that him?
Before Sian left, the officer took her to one side and told her he had read her statement and wanted her to know, it wasn’t her fault.
Eventually a letter came which said that the male Sian had identified had been found guilty of the attacks he was charged for, hers was included in that. By the time he was sentenced he had already served his time and was released.
She still hears his laugh.

Photo by Dimitri Houtteman