“It hurts so bad. Make the hurt go away,” she cries out.
“Are you Morgan?” the petite woman holding my sister asks.
“Yes. Do we need to take her to the hospital?” I ask, feeling inadequate to tackle this. How in the hell do I help Madyson through this?
“Sure, if you’re ready to answer a bunch of questions you don’t really have answers to.”
I come out of my shock at her tone. “Who are you?”
“Dr. Constance Thompson, personal physician for the Regulators Motorcycle Club.” She extends her hand in greeting.
“Dr. Thompson—”
“Connie, just call me Connie or Doc,” she cuts in as she cautiously backs away from the bed, since Madyson seems to have temporarily calmed down.
“What can you tell me?” I whisper, not wanting to take the chance that my sister may be able to hear or understand what we’re talking about.
“I didn’t want to exam her until you were present, since she does have family. She is going through the withdrawals of a cocktail they were drugging the girls with. I think heroine is involved, but I’m not sure what else they used. I need to give her a sedative then restrain her, for her safety and my own, to exam her.”
I nod my head then make my way over to Madyson’s side. Reaching out, I touch her hand, and she immediately recoils at my touch.
“Madyson, sweetie, it’s me, Morgan.”
“It hurts. Please, I’ll do anything to make the pain stop. Anything!” she pleads, reaching up to clutch my shirt with her hands. My heart crumbles into a million pieces.
“Does she know where she is or what happened?” I ask the doctor, scared out of my mind.
“Most of the women that were recovered with your sister seem to be suffering some sort of memory loss. It’s hard to tell. We will do a soft detox where she is given medication to wean her off slowly.”
The doctor comes over, and together, we tie Madyson’s arms to the bed with soft wraps. Doc administers the sedative, and we both wait to see what happens. Once Madyson relaxes into whatever oblivion she has gone into, Doc Thompson begins her exam.
While she draws tube after tube of blood, she explains it is to test for whatever chemicals are running through Madyson’s system as well as any diseases she may have contracted. When she packs the tubes of blood away into her bag, she then opens her kit and removes a sterile speculum from it. I cringe, knowing what is about to happen and dreading that my sister has to endure this, even unconscious. I have had my annual physical at the gynecologist, and virgin or not, the device is not comfortable.
Turning my head away, I refuse to watch as she continues her exam of my sister’s girlie parts. I hate that we have to test Madyson like this while she is out of it. It seems wrong somehow, though I also realize it is necessary.
My need to help along with my need to know causes me to finally ask, “Was s-she …” I stammer over my words before I can continue. “Was she violated?”
“Vaginal scarring and tissue abrasions in the anal area as well lead me to believe that, yes, indeed she was. Also, her hymen is no longer intact if she was a virgin.”
In my haze, I only hear snippets after that. The doctor explains the withdrawal symptoms Madyson will likely have. Abdominal and body pain. My mind scoffs, Of course she will have pain in her body. She was raped. Nausea. Something about keeping the trashcan handy in case she gets sick. I would get sick to my stomach, too, if I was raped. Sweating, chills, anxiety, paranoia, insomnia, weakness, and irritability. Is the doctor really talking withdrawal symptoms here? These all sound like things I would expect if I knew I had been raped.
She continues talking, now about the course of treatment that is needed as I zone out almost completely. I am vaguely aware that a tear is sliding down my face, but in a way, I don’t really feel it. Moving to the edge of the bed, I sit down numbly while Doc Thompson dresses Madyson and reapplies the restraints.
My sister was raped.
My sister was drugged.
My sister was raped.
The ugly marks on her body make the abuse she endured evident and tell a heartbreaking story in their own silent way.
My sister was beaten.
The large, ugly, black and purple blemishes on the insides of her thighs that resemble hand marks speak of horrible, violent acts she may never recover from.
My sister was raped.
It plays on repeat in my head as I feel myself start to shut down entirely.
“Hey, hey!” a commanding voice says sharply as fingers snap right in front of my face. “I know this is a lot to process. She needs you, though. You have to pull yourself together and be strong for her.”