*Warning: Sexual Abuse*
Thomas paces in his quaint living room, growing frustrated from yet another dead end. He slouches on the blue worn out sofa across from me, running a hand through his ink black hair.
"At least more people are coming forward. Someone will talk soon." My reassurance doesn't settle him.
These passed two weeks we've been spending every free moment together. He made an anonymous site called tell-all-tell-none.com to get tips about other possible assaults. He never gave a name, just let people comment freely about their experiences. We're hoping someone will step forward about Dan, and luckily it's been getting some buzz.
Some are the expected obnoxious comments, and some we suspect to be fake. Every now and again we'll land on something promising, but then the commenter goes awol.
"They'd be chattier if they had some motivation." He's in plaid pajama pants and a white t-shirt, lazing up his Saturday.
"What do you mean?"
"If someone spoke up about him, others would follow."
"No," I say, decidedly.
He practically pulls out his hair. "Well, then this is pointless. You're asking these people to do something that you can't even do. It's a bit hypocritical."
That burns me into a flashing rage. "Easy for you to say! You pretend to understand, but you don't care about me or any of these other girls. As long as your friend gets justice, it doesn't matter who puts themself on the line!"
I grab my stuff, and flick him off. I'll just dial Sam for a ride.
"Oh, don't run off now!" He steps in front of me, unfazed with his arms crossed.
This is common. We run out of leads, he asks me to post my story, and I storm off only to be confronted.
"Of course I care, but you know I'm right. It's the only way to help any of you."
"I don't care."
He doesn't buy it. It doesn't take long for me to cave.
I groan, pressing my skull. "You're right. Happy now?"
"It's not about me being right. It's about getting justice." His ocean eyes are relentless, forcing me to see the truth.
I ease up my tone. "I'm not ready. Can you just back off?"
"Sure. I'll back off."
A ping from the computer distracts us from our bickering. He's in the chair before I know it, scrolling at the speed of light. I know he's got something from the excitement on his face.
"Ace!"
I join him, looking over his shoulder to where he points the mouse. There's a new comment on the page. I read it out loud.
"I know something about jersey number twelve."
Now I'm the one pacing. "How do we know it's for football? It could be a coincidence."
"I'm asking them to message the email we set up," he says, firing away on the keyboard. After a moment the computer pings again. "They said okay!"
He opens the email. It feels like forever until a new message pops up. I'm squeezing his shoulder for support, borderline clawing it.
We give each other odd looks when a video pops up. He clicks play, and it shows two guys at a party. I recognize them instantly, Ed Jacobson and James Colbert.
They cackle down the hallway while the person recording shoves the camera into random people's faces. We can't see the cameraman, and I don't recognize his voice. Their commentary is immature, but people join in on the laugh.
James puts a finger to his mouth, signaling for Ed and the cameraman to be quiet. They stifle their chuckles and bust open a room door, exposing some couple making out. They get a few curses, and a shoe thrown at them before leaving.
Still in the mood for some fun, they tip toe down the end of the hall to repeat the same operation door bust. When this door flies open, their laughs die out immediately.
I cringe at the sight of Dan on top of some poor unconscious girl. I want to puke from the repulsive act. When Dan notices them he jumps up, struggling to put on some clothes. Their shouts make her come to, and her groans grab their attention.
She asks what happened, but then seeing that she's undressed, freaks out. Her cries and their hushes are the last thing that we hear before the camera drops, cutting off.
"That bastard...I'm going to be sick," Thomas says, lifelessly. He's pale in the face.
He drops his head into his hands, breaking down shortly after. His shoulders tremble, breaths unsteady. "Knowing what my Delilah went through was one thing... but seeing it?"
This breaks my heart. "I'm so sorry. I know that's hard to imagine."
"I don't have to imagine anymore." His voice shakes with every word.
"What do you mean?"
"That's her." He sobs. "Delilah... She's the girl in the video."
I'm completely frozen.
Before I can speak, he's off vomiting in the bathroom.