Frida woke up early the next morning under the subway overpass. She didn’t remember what had happened or how she had gotten there.
Most likely, they had put some narcotic pills—so-called date rape drugs—in her glass of beer and she had lost consciousness. Her clothing was torn. And her whole body was in pain.
It’s clear that they had sexually assaulted her. But that’s not all. The men she was accosted by were sexual perverts, sadists.
Looking at me, Frida suddenly lowered her robe from her shoulder and I was horrified—her tattooed shoulders, chest, and back were covered in small cuts and bloody burns.
“I knew something was fucking wrong with me since I was thirteen,” she said quietly, looking down.
“What do you mean? What’s wrong with you?” I asked.
“Why else would he fuck me? It’s all my fault he fucked me.”
“My neighbor. I was in eighth grade then, and he was about forty. I fully trusted him . . . After he fucked me at first time, he told me I had to return to him the next day or I would be ‘in trouble.’ I was terrified and I went back the next day, and it happened again. Since that time, always I was afraid that I would be found out. I was afraid, afraid, afraid . . . Shit!” she screamed out and suddenly jumped up from the hospital bed and started pummeling me with her fists.
I covered my face, then managed to get a tight hold on her just as psych technicians ran in.
The psych technicians restrained Frida and started to walk her back towards her bed. A doctor shortly appeared and said, “Help her lie down. I’ll make an order for an injection.”
This is also the face of female addiction. A bloody face.