She remembered standing outside the casualty entrance for a moment longer than necessary, as if her body needed proof that her legs would still move if she asked them to. The automatic doors opened and closed in their own rhythm, letting people in and out as if nothing in the world had shifted.
Inside, the hospital felt too bright. The lights were a flat white that erased shadows. The air smelled sharply clean, that unmistakable mix of disinfectant and something faintly plastic. Monitors beeped somewhere in the distance, steady, indifferent. The normalcy of it all felt almost offensive, like the world hadn’t noticed anything had happened.
On the way there, she had called, asking where she should go, what she should say. The voice on the phone told her to come straight to casualty. So she did.
At the desk, there was a man. Her throat tightened at the thought of explaining to him, so she stood slightly to the side, waiting. When a nurse in white and blue scrubs walked past, she stepped toward her before she could second-guess herself.
“Hi Sister… umm I need… a sexual assault examination,” she said. Her voice sounded flat, like it had been pressed under something heavy.
The nurse looked at her carefully, concern flickering in her eyes. “Okay. Come with me.”
The room she led her to was simple. A bed in the center with tight white sheets. Two small side tables. A couch along the wall. The light overhead buzzed faintly. Everything smelled sterile, like nothing messy could exist there.
She sat on the bed. The crisp sheet beneath her crackled and felt cold through her clothes. The nurse pulled a stool closer and opened a tablet.
“I’m just going to take your details.”
Name.
Surname.
ID number.
Phone number.
Email.
Next of kin.
Medical aid.
She answered each question.
The nurse nodded and typed. The tapping of her fingers sounded unusually loud in the quiet room.
Inside her head, she watched herself answer. She felt split in two... the woman speaking, and the woman observing, cataloguing the way the room looked, the way the light reflected off the metal drawer handles, the way her hands sat too still in her lap.
“I’m just creating your file,” the nurse said. “I’ll bring some forms for you to sign and then we’ll start.”
When she left, the silence thickened. She stared at the floor tiles. Memories flickered at the edges of her mind, but she didn’t let them fully play. She focused instead on breathing in, breathing out. The room hummed around her.
The nurse returned with a clipboard. She signed where she was told. Her initials looked unfamiliar, like they belonged to someone else.
Then the nurse placed a blue gown on the bed. “You can undress and put this on. I’ll step out.”
The door clicked shut.
She moved slowly. Shoes off first, placed side by side. Socks tucked neatly inside them. Her bag onto the table. She folded each item of clothing carefully, more carefully than she ever would at home, as if precision could keep her from unraveling. When she tied the gown closed, the fabric felt thin, barely there. She was aware of her skin in a way that felt foreign, like she didn’t fully belong inside it.
The nurse returned and asked her to lie down to take her vitals. The blood pressure cuff tightened around her arm, the Velcro loud in her head as it adjusted. She stared at the ceiling, at the rectangle of fluorescent light.
Relax, the nurse said.
She tried. Her body felt like it was hovering a few centimeters above the bed, not fully making contact with the sheets.
A finger prick for glucose. A small sting. The nurse recorded everything on the tablet, her voice calm and steady.
“The doctor will be in shortly. If you need anything, press the bell.”
Then she left.
Time stretched. She lay there with her hands folded, listening to distant footsteps, the occasional trolley rolling past the door. Her mind drifted ... flashes of memory, then blankness, then the present snapping back into focus. She felt suspended, like she was waiting for something but didn’t know what.
A knock.
The doctor walked in with the nurse. She had warm eyes and a smile that showed all her teeth, braces catching the light. Something about her presence softened the room.
She introduced herself and pulled a stool close. “If you feel okay, can you tell me what happened?”
The story came in fragments. She had been drunk. She didn’t remember everything. But she remembered saying no. She remembered saying she wanted to sleep. Each time she said it, her voice caught, and she repeated it again, as if repetition might make it more real.
The doctor listened without interrupting, nodding gently.
When she finished, the doctor explained the process step by step. Blood tests. Swabs. Photographs. Preventative medication for STIs. Emergency care. A report she could use whenever she chose.
“If you want, we can document everything thoroughly and you can decide later what to do,” the doctor said.
She nodded. That felt manageable ....not deciding everything now, just letting the information exist.
A trolley was brought in. Needles, specimen bottles, forms in plastic sleeves. Everything arranged with careful order.
“This feels strange,” she heard herself say. “I’m usually on the other side, helping collect blood.”
The doctor smiled softly. “I understand.”
The tourniquet tightened around her arm. She extended it automatically. The needle went in ... a brief pinch, then pressure. Dark red filled the tubes one after another. The doctor labeled them with practiced precision.
Afterward, cotton pressed against the site while the nurse packed the samples away.
Then came the physical exam.
The doctor asked her to remove the gown. For a moment her hands hesitated, then she let the fabric fall. Her arms crossed instinctively before she let them drop.
The doctor examined her carefully, noting bruises, marks, tenderness. Her voice stayed calm, explaining what she was documenting. When asked to turn around, she faced the wall, staring at a small scuff mark in the paint while swabs touched the areas where bruising and bite marks were noted. The nurse took photographs quietly.
Small scratches were cleaned with alcohol. A sharp sting, then coolness. Ointment and dressings followed.
Then she was asked to lie back and place her feet up, knees apart.
Tears rose immediately. Her muscles tightened, resisting. The doctor stood beside her, voice gentle, telling her to take her time, reminding her she could stop at any point.
She breathed slowly, then positioned her legs. Her eyes fixed on the ceiling while her mind drifted somewhere just beyond the room. The doctor spoke softly about abrasions and internal bruising, about what she was noting and why. Swabs were taken. Instruments moved with quiet precision. Tears slid down the side of her face, but she stayed still.
When it was finished, the doctor cleaned the area carefully, warning it might burn. It did ... a sharp sting followed by the cool relief of ointment.
“You did really well,” the doctor said softly.
They stepped out so she could dress. She moved slowly, putting her clothes back on like she was reassembling herself piece by piece. Shoes last. Then she sat on the bed again, waiting.
When the doctor returned, she sat at eye level and explained everything she had documented.
There were bruises and bite marks along her back and thighs, superficial scratches, and tearing in her vaginal area that did not require stitches but would heal with time. There was internal bruising that should resolve with rest and medication. She would likely feel discomfort for a few weeks, and if it lasted longer than three to four weeks she should return for reassessment.
The doctor explained the preventative treatment ...injections and medication to reduce the risk of infection. The nurse prepared the syringes. She felt the brief pressure of each injection, the dull ache afterward, small plasters pressed over each site.
They discussed follow-up appointments, results, support services. The doctor’s voice was steady, giving shape to what still felt shapeless.
Then she handed her a blue envelope. Inside was the report ... the clinical documentation of her body, of what had been found, of what had happened.
“This is yours. You can use it whenever you’re ready.”
They left, and she sat for a moment holding the envelope in her lap, feeling the weight of the paper like it meant more than its grams.
Eventually she stood and walked down the corridor to the hospital pharmacy. The lighting there was softer, the line short. She handed over the prescription and waited while the pharmacist packed the medication into a small bag, explaining how to take each one. She nodded, absorbing only fragments.
Afterward she went to the canteen and sat at a table. The envelope lay in front of her. People moved around, trays clattering, conversations blending into a low hum. Life continued at full volume while she sat in a quiet vacuum.
She stared at the envelope for a long time, tracing its edge with her finger.
Her mind felt empty, but underneath the emptiness a single question repeated softly, not demanding an answer, just existing:
What happens next.