she was walking home

She was walking home.

These words that echo in my news feed in sorrow of a life potentially lost.

And words of women are lifting up in unison saying ‘well, yes, we aren’t surprised’, not because we cannot empathise with the horrific nature of what has happened, but because we have rehearsed the very same thing in our heads.

Today, I went to my office for the first time in months, still new, I had a staff induction to the building, a large proportion of which was learning what to do if I am followed into the building when I, a woman, am alone. Which doors to hide behind because they close the quickest, which phone to reach for to call for help, and which areas to avoid.

The image of a axe murderer was used, but my brain was ringing with the news of a policeman arrested, of the knowledge that it is rarely that obvious.

My brain echoes with the lessons from my all girls school of keys in fingers, never taking short cuts and always making sure someone somewhere knew what you were doing and where. It is the lessons of how to check if someone is following you and what do to and not do. It is the knowledge that ‘rape’ is not the word to scream but ‘fire’ is because it gets more attention.

The words of friends, living two streets away, “text me when you get home” and the follow up text 20 minutes later if I have forgotten.

My brain is full of the memories of men and boys who somehow didn’t learn that I am also human. That my worth is simply in the fact I exist.

The bets about sex, the unwanted attention, and ignoring of no until the word holds zero meaning and I give in.

My stories and my voice are not unique in what they hold, or what has happened. I am not the only one. I am one of 97%.

R/