Vachon Imagined

He worked in the basement of her barracks, a strapping young man of low rank but considerable strength, with the commander on his side. They were two boys dressed as men, talking about the kinds of things boys talk about when they are together.

He had the keys to her room. As she began to notice things shifting out of their precise order, she wondered: was it him? No—she knew it was him. He was entering her sacred space, the one where Christmas lights draped over her bed and where she left scents behind as markers of identity: this is me. Vachon’s space. Vachon’s small corner of a militaristic frame where men seemed to inherit beer, laughter, rank, and privilege.

The only woman in her barracks, she began placing the key on the other side of the lock—an old, outdated lock that may have protected her life, but not her dignity.

She liked him, but not like that. She had been taught to be careful—how a hair flip, a dress, even a gesture might be misread by men like him. But she was only being herself. She asked him how his day was, not out of politeness, but out of a need to be seen, to make a connection. That familiar game—like me, see me, don’t see me—the way people try to cast off shame by projecting it onto others. Not me. No, not me.

It didn’t matter that he was married. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t interested. And yet, when she found herself pressed under the weight of him, she had no words left, no strength to muster. She became what she had been trained to become in moments like that: nice. Don’t make him angry. Play the role. Perform the scene perfectly.

To this day, she still feels nervous around men. Something was taken—her sense of safety, her sense of self. Her mind races: what do they want from me? She struggles to read their movements, their intentions. And while she would like to say it began with the turn of a key into her carefully carved little world, she knows it was there long before that—like a silent strap of history and fear, whipping through the air, teaching her to be afraid of her own touch, her own mind.