The Voice by Nicola Clare

I heard a story of a woman who was pinned face down on the floor

By a gang of six or more as others looked on

They pulled and tore at the flimsy nightgown she wore

Hoisted it far up above her waist

Her wounded cries for help merely hastening the attack

Hands grasped and grabbed, weighted heavy upon her back

Until she couldn’t catch her breath, attempts to move met with grip firmer yet

As she felt something rip the skin of bare buttock

Liquid emptied in

Loosened grip

As she shut up

As she went limp.

My friend said she knows the woman who was pinned face down on the floor

That’s deplorable I exclaimed

Surely that’s a tale of lore; or of a time so long ago

‘Is the woman okay, was anybody charged,

I know justice is slow, but if it happened on the street

Or in any public place?’

She looks at her feet, says ‘it’s much worse than that’

Says, ‘it happened in the hospital,

In fact, the place she should be safe,

The place she should be nurtured

Helped to feel and heal, reshape. But now the place that’s meant to help

Another place she must escape.’

I got talking to the woman who was pinned face down on the floor

Surely you complained? Surely there was uproar?

An outpouring of support, debriefs and apologies

Surely someone took responsibility surely someone was on their knees.

No she replied they kept me drugged for days

I could barely dress or stand, everything was a haze.

I plotted an escape, went to the guards to ask for help

He said, ‘I disagree myself, but there’s little I can do

They’ve it all tied into policy, it’s internal complaints for you.’

Said he wouldn’t hold his breath, for success or any joy. I said, ‘I have to try’.

But the might of the establishment was so much bigger than my voice;

I had to put up and shut up there was no other choice

I am the woman who was pinned face down on the floor.