How Long Will I Watch?
Survivors of sexual assault are fighting to be heard. But am I listening? Do I see?
This is a short story painting a picture of my thoughts on an issue that affects far too many people, including some whom I love.
I take my seat in the arena among thousands of spectators. The lights are dim. The event is about to start. Vendors hawk food and drinks up and down the aisles, and I flag one over with my wallet in hand.
“You want a hot dog?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Sorry, no. I was hoping for a soft pretzel.”
He moves on. I slump against the plastic chair. Maybe the next one…
The crowd goes quiet. I turn my attention to the ring at the center of the floor. A man stands with a microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he bellows, “welcome to the main event!”
Some people whistle and shout, some murmur thoughts unheard, but most sit and wait in silence. I’m still hoping to get that pretzel.
“In the blue corners,” the announcer says, sweeping his arm to indicate three quarters of the ring, “we have the reigning champion, Him.”
A trio of large, muscular men flex their biceps and beat their bare chests, smiling and showing off for the crowd. Deep yells of approval echo around the room, but not from everyone.
The announcer turns. “And in the pink corner, our challenger this evening, Her!”
She sits on the stool, head in her hands. Women’s voices ring out in the air, and when she lifts her gaze to the darkness beyond the ropes, I see her tears, even from this distance. Her eye is blackened, and her hair is disheveled. She’s exhausted before the fight has even begun.
“Nachos, get your nachos.” A vendor passes by, but he’s not selling what I want to eat. Why can’t the pretzel guy get over here? I’m hungry.
The announcer clears his throat. He says something about the viewers at home and around the world. Everyone is watching this. The ratings are through the roof.
The referee takes the mic. “All right, you know the rules. I want a clean and fair fight. Take your places, please.”
Him, him, and him strut to the center of the ring. They exchange high fives and shoulder slaps with each other and with the ref. I take in the names lettered on the backs of their shorts: Mr. Law, Mr. Justice, and Mr. Media.
I crane my neck to check another vendor passing by, but he only has soft drinks. When I look back to the floor, she is limping to meet her opponents. Her hand is pressed to her side, and she winces with each slow step. She must have had another fight not long before this one, and I can only wonder why they didn’t choose someone else for tonight.
The ref says something, and Mr. Law extends a hand. She eyes him for a moment, and then reaches out tentatively. Mr. Law shakes with her, then grasps her wrist and twists it hard. I startle at the snap, and she cries out in pain.
My wife leans over. “What just happened?”
“I don’t know.”
The ref beckons for a couple of officials to join him. She clutches her injured hand, but they grab her arms, tape her wrists, and slip on boxing gloves, lacing them tight.
“Why are they making her wear gloves?” my wife asks me.
I shrug. “To protect her hands, I suppose?” I don’t know, but her opponents are waiting and ready with bare fists.
She sets her stance and raises her gloves, but the ref pauses. He calls the officials back over and exchanges a few words. They turn to her, pin her arms behind her back, and put on a pair of handcuffs. Click. Click. Her eyes go wide with alarm, but one of the officials puts a finger to her lips before she can speak.
Mr. Law steps forward and gives her a pat on the shoulder, then resumes his place with the other hims.
Her eyes dart side to side, searching for something. She turns to her corner. Her trainer nods and gestures for her to continue.
The ref looks to him, him, and him, and then to her, and then he gives a signal. The bell chimes. “Fight!”
She steps forward. Mr. Law punches her square in the face, sending her sprawling on her back.
“Oh!” the crowd says as one.
Mr. Law smiles and helps her to her feet. Blood runs from her nostrils.
The ref asks her something. She replies, and he orders them to resume.
Mr. Law grasps her shoulder. He drives a fist into her stomach, doubling her over against the ropes. When she straightens, gasping for breath, he delivers an uppercut before backing away.
She crumples to the mat, but the ref doesn’t start a count. He just watches and waits, and then the bell rings for the end of the round.
My wife nudges me. “That wasn’t fair. She can’t even use her hands.”
I grunt an acknowledgement. “I guess. Have you seen the pretzel guy yet? I want a pretzel.”
“No, honey.”
I scan the aisles for the pretzel guy, but then I notice everyone turning to see something at one of the entrances to the main floor. A group of women is walking in, holding signs. I can’t read them from so far away, and I can’t hear what they’re saying over the noise. Security guards rush over and push them out, locking the doors once they’re gone.
Ding. It’s the start of round two. She sways and makes no effort to move. Mr. Justice approaches. He sweeps her off her feet into his arms — she can’t stop him — and he lifts her high above his head.
Everyone in the audience leans forward, holding their breath, waiting to see what he’ll do.
He drops her over his knee like a pro wrestler. Her back cracks in the silence of the room, and she hits the mat with a thud.
The ref gapes and stares, but he does nothing as shouts erupt from the crowd — some of anger, and some of glee.
“Pretzels. Anyone want pretzels?”
I stand and wave the vendor over. Finally. I give him my money and take my snack. It smells so good. I’m going to enjoy this.
The ref checks on her. She’s on her side. She hasn’t moved. He pulls her up as the bell rings to end the round, then drags her to her corner. She sits on her stool, surrounded by her trainer and her team. They give her a drink of water. They wipe the blood from her face. They rub her shoulders and talk in her ear. I don’t know what they ask her, but she nods.
Ding. Round three. Mr. Media has a word with Mr. Law and Mr. Justice. The two of them leave the ring. He speaks with the ref, who leaves as well. He raises his arms and waves, as if inviting someone to join him.
I take a bite of my pretzel. It’s soft, and warm, and baked just right.
Other fighters climb into the ring. They all wear shorts just like Mr. Media’s. They all look more or less like him. Before long, there’s no room left within the ropes.
I can’t see what’s going on. She didn’t rise from her stool at the beginning of the round. I chew my pretzel, but then I stop when she appears above them. They pass her limp body over their heads to the center, and then she falls, and I can tell that they’re beating her.
People are cheering around me. Others are sobbing. Most are quiet. I swallow my bite of pretzel, but it doesn’t taste so good. I look to my wife. Tears wet her eyes. I look to the man next to me. He has his head bowed.
Ding. I startle. The round is over. Mr. Media and his clones back away, giving her some space, but they are waiting and watching and ready for their next go at her.
She can’t have survived that, but to my amazement, she’s struggling to get to her corner. Her team picks her up and sets her on the stool. How can she do this? I don’t understand. It’s not fair. It’s not right.
I put down my pretzel and rise to my feet. I scan the crowd. Women are talking. They’re shouting, but their words aren’t reaching anyone. The men are yelling too. It’s a jumble of noise and anger.
I search the faces of the men around me. They display astonishment, confusion, indifference… Some of them are angry. Some of them are shouting. Most, though, are sitting there and eating their hot dogs, nachos, and pretzels as if nothing unusual is going on.
Don’t they care? Don’t they see what’s happening? She’s fighting a fight she can’t win on her own. Him, him, and him are too powerful. The match was rigged from the start.
I make my way to the center of the arena. No one stops me as I approach the ring. The security guards smile and nod. I climb up and hold the ropes at her corner, and my heart hurts.
She’s bloodied and bruised, and barely breathing, but when she turns her eyes my way, there is fight in them. They shine with defiance.
I find my voice. “Why are you doing this?”
She stares at me. Her gaze reaches into my soul. “Because I have to. Because no one will fight for me. Because if I give up, my sisters will take my place, and this will happen to them.”
I look to her trainer, and to her coach, and to the assistants attending her. They’re strong. They’re powerful. They’re just as large and capable as the hims in the other corners. I ask, “Why do you let this happen?”
Her trainer smiles. “Mister, this is her fight. It’s her battle. We support her, but we don’t get involved.”
“Why not?”
He shrugs. “She can handle it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m busy.”
I search the arena. It’s dark beyond the lights that shine down on us. I can’t see what people are doing, or what they’re thinking. I can’t hear what they’re saying. I know they’re out there, but the fight is right here, and none of them are coming to be a part of it.
I slip through the ropes and throw off my jacket. Ding. The next round is here. Mr. Media and his companions are converging on this little corner, thirsty for blood. Mr. Law and Mr. Justice have returned and joined them. Other hims have climbed up and taken their side. But no one has come to her aid. No one.
She looks at me and trembles. She gets to her feet. Her wrists are still cuffed. “Please move out of my way,” she says. Her voice is but a whisper, but she intends to take the fight another round, and another, and another, and another. I can see it. She won’t give up. Even if it kills her.
I take a deep breath, and then I turn around to face the hims. I can’t take her place. I can’t do this for her. I don’t know that I can even make it any easier. But I can stand by her side.
We go forward together. I will not allow her to do this alone. I will not sit and watch any longer.
I am her ally.
