27. “My Rape Kit Was Lost in a Storage Unit.”

Reader Report – They called it a clerical error. I called it evidence.

The room was cold.
The paper gown crinkled.
I lay there still,
like they told me.
While a stranger cataloged my trauma
in swabs and silence.

They said it was for justice.
I believed them.

I didn’t shower.
Didn’t cry.
Didn’t sleep.

I followed every instruction
because I thought it mattered.

They labeled it.
Sealed it.
Promised it was secure.

It wasn’t.

Six months later,
I called for an update.
The detective hesitated.

Then said:

“It was misplaced during a departmental move.
We think it ended up in a leased storage unit.”

Leased.
Storage.
Unit.

Like an old sofa.
Or a stack of forgotten holiday decorations.
Not the thing I gave up my dignity to preserve.

They offered me an apology.
A vague one.
And said I could start over—
If I wanted to go through that again.

I didn’t.

The man who did this to me
is still free.
Still loud.
Still real.

My case?
It’s a file marked “closed.”
Because my body was boxed and buried
under unpaid invoices and chain-of-custody failures.

They lost my rape kit.
But it’s me who feels erased.