True Story: A Novel by Kate Reed Petty (2020)
True Story: A Novel by Kate Reed Petty (2020)
Prologue: Barcelona (2015)
You’ve always been so sure of the story you want me to tell, the story you’ve been asking me for since we were seventeen: the story about the things that happened while I was asleep... But the story is mine only as the victim owns the prosecution, or the whale the harpoon. Telling it has always been the privilege of the perpetrators, who have the actual facts, and of the bystanders-like you-who believe they know (5).
Part II: Final Girl (2000)
Maybe that’s why I’m having such trouble with this essay. Ms. McConnolly says that it’s good to talk about overcoming adversity. But I don’t think you ever really overcome adversity. I think you just figure out how to carry it along with you and continue on your way (85).
My favorite scene in the movie is in that library, though. It’s a beautiful scene, quiet and soaring, even though Somerset is diving into the horrific research about hell and the seven deadly sins. This scene, to me, is the answer to life: When everything seems like too much, go to the library. The best way to confront horror is through study (85).
Part III: Lost Weekend (2008)
He took to drinking like a mathematician to a chalkboard, with a giddy flush of discovery. He had found the place where he would always be the most comfortable, simultaneously the most himself and the best version of himself, and he was very careful to protect that comfort for only when he really needed it, even as he started to need it more and more. For so many years it had been a thing that was always waiting for him, a treat at the end of any challenge, and then, increasingly, at the beginning of every challenge, and now here he was, alone in the woods, drinking all day (138).
Part IV: To Us (2011)
My mother once told me that if a man is at his best when he’s apologizing to you, he’ll waste your life creating reasons to apologize... if a man is at his best when he’s taking care of you, he’ll waste your life creating reasons for you to need his care (192-3).
Epilogue: Barcelona (2015)
The migraine lasted a week. I hoped that it was the worst of my grief, but when the pain finally began to ebb, I found actual despair waiting for me, heavy as a sedative. I tried to run, bisecting the city over and over again. I sat on benches and watched people go by. I went days without speaking. I lingered in secondhand bookshops; I couldn’t concentrate enough to read, but I found it comforting to pace around in the familiar smell of the mystery aisle.
A month passed before I realized I was buried in rage.
God damn Richard for taking so much of my life. For the hours I’d talked to him on the phone. For the years I didn’t speak about what happened-what I thought had happened-and the years it ate me up inside. For the dark nights when I felt so damaged I thought I should die, or so damaged I should be grateful to Q as he took me away from the people I loved. For the work it took to keep that damage inside; for the constant crunch of terror that someone would spot it in my voice. God damn Richard for creating a story that shaped my life, even as he tossed it behind him like spilled salt. He didn’t have to touch me in the back of that car. The story damaged enough.
This is what I wanted to tell you when you showed up in Barcelona for the film festival. When I heard your voice on the phone, my heart leaped. I rushed out the door. I couldn’t wait to see you, because I finally understood how your story was tangled with mine, and why you’d been pressuring me all these years. You were friends with Richard, and Max; you were dating another lacrosse player; you were there the night the rumor began. You’ve been wanting to atone ever since. That’s why you brought me cookies the summer after senior year. That’s why you’ve built your career making space for women to speak.
I wish I could have told you years ago: I forgive you. It wasn’t your fault (318-9).
I wrote it my own way. I made it a thriller, a horror, a memoir, a noir. I used my college essays, emails, and other found documents to ground the story in the truth-they’re the closest thing I have to “evidence,” proof that my memories, however few, are real. I let some of Richard’s transcripts into the text, but when it came to his confession, I turned his voice into a movie script; I didn’t want to give him the last word. I peopled the story with the ghosts and monsters that have haunted me for so long, and then I slayed them; in a way, this book is an exorcism. But it’s also the kind of book I’d want to read. Because storytelling doesn’t belong only to perpetrators, and neither does having fun (322).
I’m hoping you’ll help me publish it. We’ll have to call it fiction, of course (we both know the danger in presenting a woman’s story as truth). But I’m trusting you to see this is true. And even if you don’t believe- even if nobody believes me again-I will know this is true, because I made it; because it’s mine (323).
Prologue: Barcelona (2015)
You’ve always been so sure of the story you want me to tell, the story you’ve been asking me for since we were seventeen: the story about the things that happened while I was asleep... But the story is mine only as the victim owns the prosecution, or the whale the harpoon. Telling it has always been the privilege of the perpetrators, who have the actual facts, and of the bystanders-like you-who believe they know (5).
Part II: Final Girl (2000)
Maybe that’s why I’m having such trouble with this essay. Ms. McConnolly says that it’s good to talk about overcoming adversity. But I don’t think you ever really overcome adversity. I think you just figure out how to carry it along with you and continue on your way (85).
My favorite scene in the movie is in that library, though. It’s a beautiful scene, quiet and soaring, even though Somerset is diving into the horrific research about hell and the seven deadly sins. This scene, to me, is the answer to life: When everything seems like too much, go to the library. The best way to confront horror is through study (85).
Part III: Lost Weekend (2008)
He took to drinking like a mathematician to a chalkboard, with a giddy flush of discovery. He had found the place where he would always be the most comfortable, simultaneously the most himself and the best version of himself, and he was very careful to protect that comfort for only when he really needed it, even as he started to need it more and more. For so many years it had been a thing that was always waiting for him, a treat at the end of any challenge, and then, increasingly, at the beginning of every challenge, and now here he was, alone in the woods, drinking all day (138).
Part IV: To Us (2011)
My mother once told me that if a man is at his best when he’s apologizing to you, he’ll waste your life creating reasons to apologize... if a man is at his best when he’s taking care of you, he’ll waste your life creating reasons for you to need his care (192-3).
Epilogue: Barcelona (2015)
The migraine lasted a week. I hoped that it was the worst of my grief, but when the pain finally began to ebb, I found actual despair waiting for me, heavy as a sedative. I tried to run, bisecting the city over and over again. I sat on benches and watched people go by. I went days without speaking. I lingered in secondhand bookshops; I couldn’t concentrate enough to read, but I found it comforting to pace around in the familiar smell of the mystery aisle.
A month passed before I realized I was buried in rage.
God damn Richard for taking so much of my life. For the hours I’d talked to him on the phone. For the years I didn’t speak about what happened-what I thought had happened-and the years it ate me up inside. For the dark nights when I felt so damaged I thought I should die, or so damaged I should be grateful to Q as he took me away from the people I loved. For the work it took to keep that damage inside; for the constant crunch of terror that someone would spot it in my voice. God damn Richard for creating a story that shaped my life, even as he tossed it behind him like spilled salt. He didn’t have to touch me in the back of that car. The story damaged enough.
This is what I wanted to tell you when you showed up in Barcelona for the film festival. When I heard your voice on the phone, my heart leaped. I rushed out the door. I couldn’t wait to see you, because I finally understood how your story was tangled with mine, and why you’d been pressuring me all these years. You were friends with Richard, and Max; you were dating another lacrosse player; you were there the night the rumor began. You’ve been wanting to atone ever since. That’s why you brought me cookies the summer after senior year. That’s why you’ve built your career making space for women to speak.
I wish I could have told you years ago: I forgive you. It wasn’t your fault (318-9).
I wrote it my own way. I made it a thriller, a horror, a memoir, a noir. I used my college essays, emails, and other found documents to ground the story in the truth-they’re the closest thing I have to “evidence,” proof that my memories, however few, are real. I let some of Richard’s transcripts into the text, but when it came to his confession, I turned his voice into a movie script; I didn’t want to give him the last word. I peopled the story with the ghosts and monsters that have haunted me for so long, and then I slayed them; in a way, this book is an exorcism. But it’s also the kind of book I’d want to read. Because storytelling doesn’t belong only to perpetrators, and neither does having fun (322).
I’m hoping you’ll help me publish it. We’ll have to call it fiction, of course (we both know the danger in presenting a woman’s story as truth). But I’m trusting you to see this is true. And even if you don’t believe- even if nobody believes me again-I will know this is true, because I made it; because it’s mine (323).