Citations de Louise O`Neill (52)
There was no one there to hear them scream no. Or maybe there was; but that no wasn't deemed worthy of being heard.
Fantasizing about taking a strange man home with her, hoping he would break her in the ways she needed to be broken in order to forget.
My body is not my own any more. They have stamped their names all over it.
The Ballinatoom Girl. Her story told and retold until it's not her story any more.
She alleges. She claims. She says.
I don't have anything to say, but they want to hear it anyway. Journalists from Jezebel, from xoJane, from the Guardian, from the New York Times. Everyone wants me to tell my story.
I don't have a story.
'No.'
The word comes automatically. No. No. No. It's all I say these days. It is as if I am making up for the time when I couldn't say it. When I wasn't given the chance to say it.
I wish l could tell Jamie that I did her a favour. I wish, could explain to her that she is the lucky one. If could go back, pretend like nothing had happened, I would.
The therapist says it's important to process the memories, it's important to feel your feelings, Emma, but if I don't even know what I actually remember, what are real memories, what are mine, and what's been implanted inside there by the Easy Emma page, and Ms McCarthy, and the guards, and Bryan, and Ali and Maggie, and my parents, and the newspapers, and the outraged callers to The Ned O'Dwyer Show. What if I am just making it all up, like Paul claims? Veronica Horan wrote about the increase in false accusations, how women were claiming that they had repressed memories of sexual abuse, when in fact it was all in their imagination.
'What's prompted this decision?'
"Oh,' I say, and I sound like I mean it, 'you know what the statistics are like for conviction. I just don't see the point of putting myself through all that when I'm never going to win anyway.'
‘Look at what that boy has done to you. Look at what you’ve allowed him to do.’ She pulled Sam’s shoulders back, forcing her to stand taller. ‘You can’t give a man the power to make you cry. That’s what they want and if you’re weak enough to give it to them, they won’t respect you. There’s always one person who loves the other a little more in a relationship.’ Carolyn caught her daughter’s eye in the mirror. ‘Make sure it’s never you.’
Mon corps ne m'appartient plus. Ils ont gravé leur nom partout dessus.
"And don't even start thinking about what a bitch I am," she says. Her eyes are steady, the heat receding from her skin. "this is not my fault. I am just doing what we have been trained to do. This is who we are, freida. This is who we were designed to be."
Living true is the most important thing any woman can do.
You think I live in the Shadowlands because I fear his strength ? No, little one. I live in the dark because I can be true there, and living true is the most important thing any woman can do.
Love is never unnatural, no matter whom you decide to give it to.
I've never cared for beauty. Beauty fades, there's no loyalty in it. My mother told me it was better to cultivate my wit, my intelligence. If I'd had a daughter, I would have told her the same. I would have made her strong. A woman needs to be strong to survive.
You notice a lot of things when you are forced to stay quiet.
It is your father who has insisted on calling me a "witch". That is simply a term that men give women who are not afraid of them, women who refuse to do as they are told.
Mon corps ne m'appartient plus. Ils ont gravé leur nom partout dessus. Emma la Salope. Oui. Ce mot est comme une limace sur ma langue, épais et baveux.
C'est comme un incendie de forêt, hors de contrôle, qui m'embrase sur son passage. Ne les lis pas. Ne les lis pas. (Certaines personnes méritent qu'on leur pisse dessus.) Dans le nouveau lycée, il y aura les mêmes chuuut quand j'entrerai dans une pièce, les mêmes rangées d'yeux rivés sur moi, les mêmes silences qui se creuseront quand je passerai devant une table, les mêmes éclats de rire quand je partirai. Cette pensée me donne envie de m'allonger, m'endormir et ne plus jamais me réveiller.
Emma. (Elle se racle la gorge et reprend plus fermement.) Emma. J'ai surpris deux élèves de troisième en train de regarder des photos indécentes sur Facebook. Les os de mon squelette se déplacent, se resserrent comme une cage autour de mon coeur, en exprimant tout l'air que j'ai dans les poumons. Est-ce que vous voyez de quoi je parle ? poursuit-elle. Tous les murs s'effondrent. Tombent en miettes. (Chair rose. Jambes écartées de force.) Mon corps ne m'appartient plus. Ils ont gravé leur nom partout dessus. Emma la Salope. Oui. Ce mot est comme une limace sur ma langue, épais et baveux. Est-ce que vous comprenez pourquoi je m'inquiète ? J'ignore pourquoi elle ne se contente pas de m'annoncer que je suis virée, que je devrai aller dans l'une de ces boîtes privées en ville pour passer mon diplôme, et que je ne pourrai sans doute pas rester là-bas non plus, parce qu'il y aura quelqu'un qui a une amie d'amie de Ballinatoom, et elle enverra le lien vers la page, cette page, avec toutes ces photos et tous ces commentaires, toujours plus nombreux à chaque seconde qui s'écoule