Elly Danica's mother couldn't meet her eyes, as she stood there taking photos in a room full of men paying to assault her daughter. Eventually she asks her husband for permission to leave the room, presumably unable to witness this. The next day, the mother yells at the father for laughing at their daughter when she confesses she went to the church to pray. "Last night she was not outraged. Why is she not outraged now? I know. Last night was only rape. This is sacrilege."
There is something so poignantly relateable and visceral about the way Danica writes. The feeling of frost under her fingernails, windows of an abandoned clapboard church on the saskatchewan prairie, the pink insulation creating this womb of warmth and healing as she furiously writes. The t-bar of the heat duct, whistling dust. Also, my favourite new expression "Nobody wants anything to do with a disaster looking for a place to park".
Danica is a great, evocative writer. But this was a tough read. A necessary read, I think.