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I CAN’T DO IT AGAIN

U ltimately, I decide that I want to drop the charges against Timmy.

I think about it over and over again, and I can’t bring myself to be victimized through another court process. Given the way the detective behaved when he interviewed me, I can only imagine how traumatic this situation would be—the shit that Timmy’s defense team would likely make up about me, even though of course unlike my rapist he wouldn’t be able to afford the most expensive defense lawyer in the country.

From experience, I know that defense lawyers have tactics which include ripping an innocent victim’s testimony and credibility to shreds. And if there’s any alcohol involved? Forget about it. There’s just no point.

I call the prosecutor’s office at the number given, and she just never gets back to me. So I sit and I wait and I toil.

While I wait for a response I never receive, a wave of conflicting emotions floods over me. Relief, regret, anger, and confusion all twist together in a tangled knot in my chest. Dropping the charges feels like the right thing, but also like surrender. Like I’m letting Timmy, and maybe even the system, off the hook .

I end up going into the prosecutor’s office in person, so they won’t have the opportunity to continue ignoring me. They make me wait in a lobby covered with cameras, and I squirm uncomfortably, feeling scrutinized. Someone eventually comes out to see me—an advocate—and she sits with me and speaks in hushed tones about what I’m trying to do.

She explains that someone will be out shortly with the form that will officially record my request to drop the charges.

The woman is nice and asks some standard questions about domestic violence and how safe I feel. I answer without giving too much information, definitely not letting on that Timmy and I are still together.

But I do take the time to explain that I want to drop charges because I can’t bring myself to go through the court system again as the victim of a violent crime. She’s empathetic, and seems unsurprised to hear that part of the reason for my hesitation is the unprofessional, accusatory way I was interviewed by the detective.

When I explain that if the person investigating the case was so judgmental in his questioning, how could I possibly expect the judge and jury to treat me with any fairness—let alone the defense counsel?.

I know people in her role are meant to remain neutral, helping victims to navigate the system while also supporting the institution they work for, but she seems oddly detached by what I have to say. As in, I don’t feel judged, but she doesn’t seem at all shocked by my feedback. The advocate listens kindly, her nods almost too familiar, as if she’s heard this story from dozens of other women.

In this moment, I see the process for what it is. I’m not being paranoid. This is how it is for victims, and I stand strong in my resolve not to put myself through that ever again.

“He’ll be out with the form soon,” she reiterates. “We’ll get it taken care of.”

And then a large, intimidating man with a stack of papers steps in, like a hunter cornering prey. The subtle threat in his body language makes me feel trapped. My throat tightens when I realize what he’s trying to do.

“Are you trying to serve me?” My voice squeaks with outrage, blood pounding in my temples. My body starts that same familiar buzz signaling flight or fight.

“Yes,” he says calmly. “If you’ll just step into this room…” He gestures at the door behind him.

It’s a moment that sharpens everything—reminding me of how broken the system is, how victims are not just expected to survive trauma, but to fight through it again in court.

“No, absolutely not!” I snap at the man, standing my ground. “I don’t feel comfortable.”

When he sighs in frustration, it’s clear how little my comfort means in this equation—to them, I’m just a tool to add to their stats, a case file they can check off as a successful prosecution.

After more back and forth, I snap. “I will leave the fucking country if I have to, but I will not be going to court!”

My words punctuate the fact that I’m not playing around, and the energy in the room shifts.

With a sigh, he finally hands me the form I came for—confirmation that the charges against Timmy are dropped on my end, at least. But the threat lingers—the prosecutor could still pursue the case whether I want them to or not. It’s the state’s case, not mine, and as such, it’s their call. One thing is clear, though—I would prove to be a very hostile witness, and they know it.

During my rape trial back in New Zealand, I felt very strongly that I wanted to stop the rapist from hurting another woman ever again. By having him locked up for what he did. But instead, I was dragged through a humiliating, soul-destroying process, and then he got off scot-free, with what? One night in jail? There’s no way I could go through that again, knowing it likely wouldn’t help anyone, anyway. Bad guys get off either way, based on my experience.

And, since my trial, I’ve realized that it’s not actually my responsibility to stop a man from harming a woman. It’s a broad societal issue and a victim can’t be expected to take responsibility and feel the burden for his actions. So I don’t feel great about refusing to go through the process, but I refuse to let myself feel guilty.

The way Timmy explains the attack away as a one-off incident plays a part as well. “I was protecting you. I really was angry at what that person has been doing to you, tormenting you in your nice new apartment. And I needed to calm myself down, so I took a handful of trazodone after I’d been drinking, and I thought it would make me fall asleep straight away. But instead, it made me insanely angry and full of homicidal rage, and I took it out on you, the person who is most important to me. The person I love and most want to protect. And I’ll never forgive myself for that.”

“That was a really dumb and dangerous thing for you to do, Timmy,” I’d said, on one of the many times we’d discussed it. “And you didn’t mention it to me before you did it. Please promise me you’ll never do that again.”

“Oh, believe me. I promise with my whole heart. I love you so much, and the fact that you’re agreeing to speak and meet with me again is far more than I deserve.”

“You tried to kill me, Timmy,” I’d pleaded with him. “That was really terrifying for me.”

“Oh no,” he’d shaken his head, adamant. “If I’d tried to kill you, you’d be dead.”

His words chilled me each time he’d reiterated this, and he’d continued, oblivious. “I was just trying to scare you.”

I’m not quite sure how he intended his words to make me feel better, and they didn’t—it was as if he was simultaneously trying to reassure me while also minimizing his behavior. As if it’s better to make your partner think you want to—and could—kill her, than actually committing the murder. I suppose that’s technically true. I prefer the former over the latter, but it’s also kind of a crazy thing to tell someone.

But he’d followed up with the love and affection he’d promised this whole time .

“I’m beyond sorry,” he’d said, his voice eager, his eyes meeting mine. “I would never ever fuck this up again. I can’t believe things got that far. I truly love you, and I will spend the rest of my life making it up to you.”

Based on his words, and everything else, dropping charges seems like the right thing to do. So I’m prioritizing my mental health, trusting his word, and pushing down any sense of regret.

I leave the office, my heart pounding, and it feels like I’ve run a marathon through my own worst memories. It’s not just what Timmy did—it’s the looming specter of my past trial—the soul-crushing process of being shredded on the stand, accused of being the architect of my own abuse. And I know, deep down, that the same tactics would be used this time, too. The detective’s smug, accusatory tone still rings in my ears. I know exactly how it would play out. And I just can’t put myself through that again.

When I get back, Timmy is waiting, impatient and tense, clearly eager for an answer. His gaze follows me as I walk through the apartment like a ghost, every step heavy with the weight of what just happened.

“What happened? Did you drop the charges?” he asks, trying—and failing—to mask the urgency, the desperation, in his voice.

I look at him, the words tangled on my tongue. I need space. I need time to process. “I’ll be right back,” I mumble. “I need to go to the store.”

I leave without further explanation, my mind a storm of anger, sadness, and exhaustion. I pull my headphones over my ears, blasting music loud enough to drown out my thoughts. As I walk to the convenience store, I focus on my breathing, trying to ground myself in the rhythm of each step. The trauma feels like it’s clawing at the edges of my mind, threatening to overwhelm me.

And maybe, if I’m honest, there’s one tiny sliver within me that makes me feel like—by delaying telling him for just a few more minutes—I get to feel less out of control about everything. That for once, I have a piece of information that he doesn’t. That I get to anchor to what happened without anyone else having the upper hand. That I know what truly happened before I tell Timmy, before he gets the opportunity to rewrite history, recasting the narrative so he becomes the hero of this story once again.

I buy a bottle of Irish whiskey, knowing it’s not the healthiest coping mechanism, but it’s the only thing that feels like it’ll help right now. When I get back to the apartment, I take a shot straight from the bottle, the warmth spreading through my chest like a buffer between me and the chaos swirling in my head.

Finally, I sit down across from Timmy, ready to tell him what he’s been waiting to hear. “I dropped the charges,” I say flatly.

His response comes immediately, relief flickering across his face, followed by irritation. “What took you so long to tell me? Why couldn’t you just say that in the first place?”

I feel a surge of frustration at his impatience. “Because it’s not that simple, Timmy. The guy tried to serve me. It was a trap, and it brought up a lot for me. Flashbacks. Stuff from the trial. I needed a second to get my head together.”

His expression softens slightly, though not entirely. He pulls me into a long hug, his arms wrapping around me in what feels like both relief and possession. “Thank you so much for doing that for me, baby,” he murmurs into my hair.

I close my eyes, torn between the comfort of his embrace and the unease that still lingers. “You need to live up to the promises you made, Timmy,” I whisper. “This can’t happen again.”

He pulls back just enough to meet my gaze, his blue eyes filled with what seems like sincerity. “You can bet on it,” he says, his voice soft and earnest. “I’m ready to become a better person—with you by my side.”

I nod, though deep down, doubt gnaws at the edges of my resolve. He’s so convincing, so good at saying all the right things. But words are easy. It’s the actions that follow—or don’t—that tell the real story. And I don’t know if I have the strength to wait and see which story Timmy decides to write next.

For now, though, it’s easier to let myself believe him. To lean into the warmth of his arms and hope, desperately, that this time, he means it.