By the time the cop called “Lisa Davis”, I’d been sitting in the hard wooden pew in New York City criminal court for two hours. The courthouse swirled with diminished beauty: cracked marble, tarnished brass. It seemed so unlikely that it could feel like an actual hall of justice, that hope could find its way past the bulletproof glass and the metal detectors.
I stood and smoothed my shirt, adjusted the 18 years’ worth of papers in my manila file folder, and tried to catch my breath. Please let today be the day it ends, I silently prayed. Let today be the day I clear my name.
Lisa Selin Davis
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I bent down in the fading light and made out a faint red welt rising on his ankle. “It’s probably a stingray,” I said. Whatever bumped me in the water had felt substantial and solid. After the ray brushed my thigh, Sean must have inadvertently stepped on it.
I had seen people stung by stingrays before and knew how excruciating it could be. So I wasn’t surprised when Sean said, “My head feels heavy. I’m having trouble breathing. Go get help.” He was quiet, calm, coherent.
“Come with me,” I said, looking down at him, his dark hair wet, his long white legs now covered with sand. I’d never heard of venomous marine life in Thailand. I thought he was being squeamish.
“Come with me,” I said.
Shannon Leone Fowler
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Two days – maybe three – and the stubbornly optimistic side of my personality fought its way to the forefront and re-planted its battle flag. The Andie McDowell doctor wrote in my chart: “Patient needs to understand that resealment is highly unlikely at this time and that preterm birth is almost a certainty.” Yeah, well, that’s what she thought. This baby was not coming early. I simply wouldn’t allow it.
Another week in bed went by. Every once in a while, they had me stand up, and every time I leaked amniotic fluid. But still I didn’t go into labour. Nor did I have a fever or abdominal pain, the two greatest indicators of infection. Life as I now knew it went on.
After I had been on bed rest in the hospital for 25 days, there came a time when I stood up and no fluid gushed out of me to splatter on the floor. The nurse and I looked at each other in amazement. “Go take a shower, quick!” she said. “I’ll change the sheets on your bed.”
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The pressure to have sex was supposed to come from the outside world, not within. Christian girls weren’t supposed to want it, or to, God forbid, instigate it. Yet, as I kneeled on the crumby minivan carpeting, I realized I wasn’t sure that I wanted to wait, or that I truly had a choice in the matter. Choice required options. My singular option was to uphold the promise of my purity ring or else deserve eternal damnation. My virginity vow no longer felt empowering. Instead, it felt as though someone else was calling the shots over my body, mind, and life.
The overwhelming desire for something more overcame me. I was astounded with myself but couldn’t stop. I crawled up off the floor and straddled him. Jamie was startled by my aggression but responded instantly. My thighs squeezed his waist.
An incredible feeling radiated through me, but before we could go any further Jamie shouted: “Stop! I can’t!”
Amy Deneson
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