Construction Site Steel and Silence
Posted: Thu Oct 24, 2024 3:45 pm
My name is Zariyah Reed, and for the past several months, I’ve been working on a construction crew that sees me as little more than an inconvenience—a joke. I’m the only woman on the site, the only Black person, and every day I’m reminded of just how out of place I am. At thirty-two, I’ve built a life out of enduring, swallowing my pride, and doing what needs to be done. I’m a single mother to Teyana, my fourteen-year-old daughter, and this job keeps food on the table and a roof over our heads. I can’t afford to quit, no matter how bad it gets.
The crew—Rick, Marcus, Jingo, Jerry, and Doug—have never accepted me. From the start, they made it clear that I don’t belong. They see my slender frame, lean, and dark as polished mahogany, and decide I’m weak. They say I’m too small, too fragile for this kind of work. Their voices are like knives, slicing away at me every day.
At first, it was just the usual remarks: “You sure you can handle that, Zariyah? Need a man to help?” They’d laugh, elbowing each other as if their words were the funniest thing in the world. But over the months, it got worse. The remarks became more vulgar, the stares longer, their eyes traveling over me in a way that made my skin crawl. No matter how many times I put on my hard hat and laced up my boots, no matter how much work I did, they never saw me as an equal Just a target.
I went to Jim, the foreman, once, thinking maybe he’d stop it. He barely looked at me as he waved me off. “Guys will be guys, Zariyah. Just deal with it. It’s harmless.”
“Harmless? That’s what they all say. But it’s never harmless when you’re the one enduring it,” I shot back. ‘When you’re the one being stripped down—bit by bit, piece by piece—until there’s nothing left but the shame,’ I thought, unwilling to say that to him.
Today I started like any other day. The sun was just beginning to rise as I showed up at the site, the air was cool and damp. I grabbed my tools and got to wo,k; my mind focused on just getting through another day. But the tension in the air was different this morning. There was something darker about how the men looked at me, something more sinister in their laughter.
By midday, Jim called the crew together. “I’m heading to another worksite with Jingo for the rest of the day to get it ready for tomorrow,” he said, tossing the words over his shoulder like we didn’t matter. “Get that foundation done by tonight. No excuses.”
As I watched him drive off, a sense of dread settled in in my quinine stomach. Without Jim there, I was alone with them—completely exposed. I tried to keep my head down and keep working, but I could feel their eyes on me, watching, and waiting.
“Zariyah, you’ve been quiet today,” Marcus said, his voice taunting, laced with something that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I didn’t respond. I kept my focus on the task at hand, my heart pounding in my chest. I just needed to make it through the day. That’s what I kept telling myself.
But I didn’t see it coming. Before I knew what was happening, Rick grabbed my arm, yanking me backward. I stumbled, my heart slamming into my throat as I tried to pull away. But the others were there, closing in around me, their laughter low and cruel.
“Let’s see what you’re made of,” Jerry sneered, and before I could scream before I could even process what was happening, they were on me. Hands everywhere, ripping at my clothes—my shirt, my pants, my underwear—all torn away in seconds. I fought, kicking and thrashing, but it didn’t matter. They were stronger. They overpowered me with ease, their hands rough and unrelenting.
Within moments, I was completely naked, my body exposed to the cold, biting air. They laughed as they dragged me toward a support pole, binding my wrists above my head with handcuffs attached to a chain that cut into my skin. My chest heaved with panic, my skin prickling with the unbearable humiliation of being completely vulnerable in front of them. I tried to scream, but they shoved a ball gag into my mouth, fastening it behind my head.
My body trembled violently, the cold seeping into my bones as the last of my dignity was stripped away. I stood there, naked, tied to a pole, gagged, and humiliated. They left me like that, their laughter fading as they walked away, leaving me alone in the gathering darkness.
The rain started not long after, cold and relentless. It pelted my skin, turning the ground beneath me into thick, freezing mud. Every drop felt like a fresh slap, a reminder of how utterly powerless I was. My body shook uncontrollably, both from the cold and the overwhelming shame. I couldn’t stop thinking about how they had left me like this—completely exposed my bare skin for anyone to see.
I lost all sense of time as the rain continued to pour down. The sun dipped below the horizon, and the darkness swallowed me whole. The handcuffs around my wrists dug deeper into my flesh, my body aching from the strain. The cold was unbearable, seeping into every inch of me, but it was nothing compared to the humiliation burning deep in my core. The way they had stripped me of everything—my clothes, my dignity—left me feeling like nothing.
Then, in the distance, I saw headlights. My heart clenched with fear. Was it them? Were they coming back? My body tensed, bracing for the worst, but then I saw it—the flash of red and blue lights cutting through the rain.
The police, Relief, and terror washed over me in equal measure. They were here. But they would see me like this—naked, broken, tied to a pole. The humiliation was unbearable, but I had no choice. There was no hiding now.
The officer stepped out of the car, his flashlight sweeping across the site until it landed on me. I could see the shock on his face, and the disbelief as he rushed toward me. His hands were gentle as he worked to unlock the handcuffs, his voice low and careful. “Who did this to you?” he asked, his voice filled with anger and disbelief.
I couldn’t answer. The gag in my mouth held back any words, but even if it hadn’t, I don’t think I could have spoken. The shame was too heavy, too overwhelming.
He pulled the gag from my mouth, and I gasped for air. My voice was barely a whisper as I finally managed to speak.
“It was them, the crew.”
The officer cursed under his breath, shaking his head as he wrapped his jacket around my shoulders. The warmth was a shock after hours of cold, but it did little to soothe the ache inside me. My body trembled as I pulled the jacket tight, trying to cover myself, but no amount of fabric could take away the shame of what had happened.
“We need to get you out of here,” the officer said softly. “Do you want to go to the hospital?”
I shook my head. I didn’t want the hospital. I didn’t want anyone else to see me like this, to ask questions that I couldn’t answer. All I wanted was to disappear, to crawl into a hole and never come out. I searched for my clothes, not that they were worth keeping now being all cut to shreds but I needed my car keys.
He helped me to the patrol car, guiding me gently into the back seat; I knew there was no escaping what had happened. I could never forget it. The cold, the shame, the way they’d stripped me down to nothing—those things would stay with me long after the bruises healed. I was free now, but the scars run deep.
When the police car pulled up outside my apartment complex, a wave of dread swept over me. The rain had stopped, but the cold still clung to my skin, seeping into my bones. I was wrapped in the officer’s jacket, the fabric heavy with the dampness of the night, but it did little to cover the deep humiliation I felt. My car was still at the construction site, along with my clothes, my purse—everything including my car keys. I cannot afford a locksmith if the police are unable to find my keys. They had taken it all. All I had left was this officer’s jacket and the shame that seemed to be etched into my skin.
The officer, whose name I hadn’t even caught, turned off the engine and looked over at me. “Do you need help getting inside?” he asked gently, his voice kind but laced with the same pity I dreaded.
I nodded. My body felt heavy, weighed down by exhaustion and humiliation. My legs were numb from the cold, my hands were still raw from the handcuffs, and I wasn’t sure I could make it on my own.
He got out first, walking around to open my door, and for a moment, I just sat there, staring at the darkened windows of my apartment. My stomach twisted with anxiety. Teyana, my daughter, was inside. She had no idea what had happened, and the thought of her seeing me like this—naked and broken—was more than I could bear. But I had no choice. I had to face her.
The officer guided me up the front steps, his hand hovering near my elbow as if afraid I might collapse at any moment. The closer we got to the door, the tighter the knot in my chest became. The thought of knocking, of Teyana opening the door to find me like this, made me want to disappear into the ground.
I knocked softly, my heart pounding in my ears. Seconds passed, each one feeling like a lifetime, before I heard the sound of footsteps from the other side. The door swung open, and there she was—Teyana, my baby girl, standing in the doorway with wide, terrified eyes. Her gaze darted from me to the officer, confusion and worry etched across her face.
“Mom?” she whispered, her voice small and trembling. She looked at the jacket draped over my naked body, the raw skin on my wrists, and the horror in her eyes deepened. “What happened?”
I tried to speak, but my throat closed up, the words caught somewhere between shame and exhaustion. Tears welled up in my eyes, and I shook my head, unable to find the strength to explain.
“Teyana, baby, I…” My voice cracked, and I felt the tears spill over. I wanted to tell her that I was okay, that it was going to be fine, but I couldn’t. How could I, when I didn’t even believe it myself? Teyana put her arm around me and helped me inside.
The officer stepped in, his voice calm and steady. “She’s been through something very difficult tonight,” he said, his tone gentle but firm. “We’re going to take care of her, and there’s an investigation starting in the morning.”
Tatyana’s face crumpled and she reached out, pulling me into her arms, her embrace warm and desperate. I could feel her trembling against me, but I knew it was more than the cold—it was fear. I could barely hold her back, my body shaking as I clung to her, trying to draw some comfort from the only person I had left.
The officer stood back, giving us space, but after a moment, he cleared his throat. “I’ll leave you to rest now,” he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out two cards. “Here’s my card, and this is the contact for a female officer who will be in touch tomorrow morning to begin the investigation.”
I looked down at the cards in his hand, barely able to focus through the haze of exhaustion. He handed them to me, and I took them with numb fingers, the small pieces of paper feeling like they weighed a ton.
“And the jacket…” He glanced at the damp coat I was still clutching around myself.
I hesitated, but then, with a deep breath, I slowly slipped it off, handing it back to him. I stood there, fully exposed, no longer having anything left to hide. The humiliation of being seen like this—naked, vulnerable, reduced to nothing—was almost unbearable, but I didn’t flinch. There was nothing more they could take from me.
“Thank you,” I whispered my voice barely audible.
The officer nodded; his expression serious but kind. “We’ll get them, Zariyah. I promise.”
With that, he turned and walked down the steps, leaving me standing in the doorway with my daughter. The door closed softly behind him, and the silence that followed felt suffocating.
Teyana looked at me, her eyes still filled with fear, but she didn’t say anything. She just took my hand and led me to the couch, her touch gentle but firm, as if she was afraid I might shatter at any moment. We sat in silence for what felt like hours, her hand in mine, both of us too scared to speak, too exhausted to cry. The investigation would begin tomorrow, but for now, there was nothing left but the quiet and the cold.
When I woke up, the sunlight was already creeping through the blinds, its warmth a stark contrast to the cold that had seeped into my body overnight. I hadn’t even bothered to shower. The thought of stepping into the bathroom, of seeing my naked, bruised reflection in the mirror, was too much to bear. Instead, I had collapsed onto the bed, too exhausted to cover myself, letting my naked body fall against the bare sheets.
I drifted in and out of sleep, unable to settle, my mind replaying fragments of the night before—flashes of hands grabbing at me, the cold, the laughter, the shame. It was all there, haunting me, even in the quiet of the morning. I didn’t know how I was going to face today, let alone the days that would follow. I was still raw, still exposed.
A soft knock on the door broke the silence. I barely had time to lift my head when Teyana stepped inside, her face etched with concern. “Mom?” she asked quietly. “Should I stay home from school today? You look like you need me.”
I wanted to say yes. God, I wanted her to stay. To hold onto her, to anchor myself to something real and solid in a world that felt like it had spun out of control. But I couldn’t. She had her own life, her world, and I didn’t want her to see me like this—broken, ashamed, tethered to the pain of what had happened.
I pulled my body into a sitting position, still naked, the sheets falling to my hips baring my naked breasts to my daughter once again and I felt the weight of it all come crashing down again. My skin felt like it was burning from the inside out, every inch of me screaming with shame. My body, my soul—everything had been exposed. Everything had been taken.
“Teyana…” My voice cracked, and I swallowed hard, trying to keep it together. “I don’t… I don’t know what today’s going to be like. I haven’t even been able to think straight since last night.”
She looked at me, her eyes soft but worried. “I can stay if you need me. I’ll just tell them at school…”
I nodded but then shook my head. “No, go to school…, just… let them know that something grave happened to me yesterday.” But don’t give details. I wasn’t briefed on everything yet. Just say I’m still…” I hesitated, the words catching in my throat, “…I’m still raw.”
She gave me a sad smile, her eyes searching mine like she was trying to figure out how much I could take. “Okay, Mom. I’ll tell them.” She paused, and then added, “Do you need anything before I go?”
I shook my head again, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill over. She leaned down, kissing my forehead gently, and for a moment, the touch of her lips was like a balm, soft and warm, easing the jagged edges of my pain. “Call me if you need anything,” she said, her voice full of love and concern. “Anything at all just call the office if you or the police need me.”
I nodded again, unable to trust my voice. And then she was gone, the door clicking shut behind her, and I was alone again with the silence, the shame, and the memory of the night before.
I crashed back down onto the sheets, my body still tethered to the rawness of everything that had happened, my mind spinning as I replayed the horror, the cold, and the helplessness. There was no escaping it. It was all still there, just under the surface, waiting to pull me under again.
For now, all I could do was lie there, naked and exposed, hoping that somehow, someway, I would find the strength to face whatever was coming next.
I sat there, naked and exposed, the sheets around me feeling like the only barrier between me and the outside world. The police and medical team were coming, and with them, the invasive scrutiny of what had happened to me. I wanted to crawl into a hole, to hide from the world, but all I could do was wait.
Every minute felt like an eternity, each tick of the clock a reminder of my vulnerability. My body, my dignity—everything had been stripped away, leaving me feeling raw and utterly exposed.
The walls of my apartment felt like they were closing in, suffocating me under the weight of everything that had happened. I sat on the edge of my bed, my body aching from the violence of the night before. My reflection in the mirror was a stranger—broken, unrecognizable. Dark circles clung under my eyes, my shoulders slumped beneath the unbearable weight of humiliation, and every inch of my body ached, both physically and emotionally.
Then the sound came—sharp and insistent. Then it hit me—the officer who had been here earlier. She had said I could call if I needed anything. When she was at the door, her voice calmed but concerned, I could barely get the words out. “Officer, it’s me. My voice wavered, barely holding back tears. “I don’t know what to do.”
Before I could say anything else, she cut in, her tone firm but reassuring “Stay where you are, Zariyah. I’m on my way, and I’ll bring a few officers with me. We’ll be there in a few minutes.”
The relief that washed over me was overwhelming, but so was the fear. Even though help was coming, I still didn’t know how to face the ugliness of what was happening.
Officer Sandra Sanchez arrived sooner than I expected her presence a strange mix of comfort and dread. As I sat there, the chaos of the messages still swirling in my mind, she crouched down beside me, her voice soft but steady. “I’m so sorry you’ve had to endure this, Zariyah,” she said, her eyes filled with empathy. It was the first time in hours that someone had looked at me like a human being, not a problem to be solved or a spectacle to be ridiculed.
“I’ve got a name for you,” she continued. “There’s a defense lawyer I know—one of the best. He’s worked with victims in situations like this, and I’ve already spoken to him. He’s willing to help you, knowing you can’t pay upfront.” Her tone is serious but reassuring. “You’re not alone in this.”
I took the card, my hands still shaking, barely able to focus on the name printed on it. A defense lawyer the idea felt surreal, but it also gave me a sliver of hope, a lifeline to hold onto.
A crisis counselor, who had briefly been with me earlier, was sitting nearby. She asked again if I wanted to slip into something—anything—to cover myself. Her voice was gentle and patient, but something inside me snapped. Without thinking, I blurted out, “No. It just reminds me of being stripped.”
The words hung in the air, raw and painful, and I immediately felt exposed all over again. My body had been on display for their cruelty, and now even clothes felt like another reminder of that vulnerability, that loss of control.
With each file they examined, it felt like they were taking away the last pieces of my control, leaving me exposed differently. And then, finally, evidence now. My only connection to the outside world is gone. It felt like another layer of isolation wrapped itself around me.
The door closed behind them, and the apartment was suddenly too quiet, but thankfully, they had left before my daughter got home from school. That was one small mercy. She didn’t need to see me like this—broken, unraveling.
For what felt like an eternity, I sat frozen, the weight of the day pressing down on me. My heart raced, and my chest tightened. But then, after a tense inner struggle, I forced myself to move. My daughter would be home soon, and I couldn’t let her see the wreckage of what had happened. Somehow, I managed to pull on a light dress, my hands fumbling with the fabric. It felt foreign on my skin, but it was all I could manage. I couldn’t think about anything else except holding myself together for her.
Each step was an effort, but I kept moving, knowing that soon, I would have to face her and pretend everything was okay, even though nothing was.
Epilogue: A Year Later
It’s been nearly a year since that day, and the nightmare hasn’t ended. What started as a moment of chaos became a slow, humiliating unraveling of everything I had left in this world. The investigation, which should have held someone accountable, failed miserably. The courtroom became a stage for legal theatrics, and I was the spectacle—powerless to stop the inevitable.
One by one, the charges against the crew were dropped. Each time, it felt like a slap in the face, as if my suffering meant nothing. Their lawyers dismantled the case with ease, turning even the most damning evidence into meaningless details. Witnesses were silenced, and legal loopholes were exploited at every turn. Eventually, all charges were dismissed. What made it even worse, though, was how the construction company’s lawyers twisted the narrative completely against me.
They painted a story so convincing, so humiliating, that it felt like the ground was ripped out from beneath me. They claimed that what happened was my own decision as if I had chosen to be put in harm’s way. They turned my pain into something I had supposedly brought upon myself, portraying me as reckless, irresponsible, and ultimately the cause of my suffering. It was like watching myself be stripped bare in front of everyone—no defenses, no protection. The shame was unbearable, like I had been publicly undressed, exposed for the world to see, not just physically but emotionally.
As if that wasn’t enough, my car was taken almost immediately after the incident. Impounded. I fought to get it back, but the fees piled up faster than I could keep track. Without my car, I had no way to get to work, and within weeks, I lost my job. No income, no support, nothing to stop the fall.
Without a job, I couldn’t afford rent, and soon enough, I lost the apartment. All I had left were the clothes on my back—and even that wasn’t enough. The moment the eviction notice came, my daughter and I were thrown out onto the streets with barely enough time to grab what we could carry. Most of it was nothing. We had nothing.
The cruel irony of it all was that we were left with next to no clothes. My daughter had only the thin, worn outfit she’d been wearing that day, and I wasn’t much better off. What little dignity we had was stripped away, piece by piece. I can still feel the shame of walking through the city with nothing but rags clinging to our bodies, trying to shield my daughter from the stares, the judgment, and the cold. We were naked in every sense of the word—exposed, vulnerable, and humiliated beyond measure.
The shelters were overcrowded, and every night felt like a desperate scramble to find a place to sleep. I tried to hold on, for my daughter’s sake, but it became harder to hide the truth from her. I watched as her innocent smile faded, replaced by confusion and fear. She began to ask why we didn’t have a home, why we didn’t have clothes like everyone else, and why people were staring. I had no answers for her. Only a shame after several attempts to regain employment and some stable place that wasn’t acceptable to the courts, my daughter was taken from me and placed in the state foster system where I lost custody of her.
Everything that could go wrong did. What should have been a fight for justice spiraled into a cruel joke. We were left with nothing—no home, no security, no dignity. The legal system didn’t just fail us—it stripped us bare, leaving me and my daughter naked in more ways than one. A year later, the memories still burn, but the hardest part is that, in the end, we were abandoned, left to stand alone, utterly exposed in the wreckage of a broken system.
The End
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