Good Girl

Standing up

*Irene*

The lecture hall at Oxford buzzes with an early monday coffee high as Professor Harris takes the podium. Today’s topic is one that strikes a chord deep within me: s****l assult cases and consent laws. It is a topic close to my heart and one of the main reasons for me studying law.

I settle into my seat, the old wooden bench pressing against my thighs. I am still a bit worn out from the weekend, if I am to be honest… studying, taking care of dad and getting a bit of hobby time in on the side can be exhausting.

The professor begins with a brief overview, outlining the importance of consent in every interaction, every relationship. How a lack of consent is legally to be seen as a no, but also how hard these things can be to prove in a court. I’m nodding along, whishing there was some easier way to bring justice to the victims that the law fails.

As the lecture continues, I notice a guy sitting a few rows ahead of me. He’s leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, a smirk playing on his lips. I know his type all to well and I can’t help but roll my eyes as he raises his hand, interrupting the flow of the conversation. “But what about all the false accusations?” he challenges, his voice dripping with disdain. “Women can just cry rape when they regret it the next morning or their boyfriend finds out. It’s totally unfair to men.”

My blood boils. I feel a fire igniting in my chest, a mix of frustration and anger bubbling just beneath the surface. I know I have to speak up. “That’s such a misleading perspective,” I interject, letting my voice cut through the room. “The statistics on false accusations are incredibly low. In fact most women don’t report their assaults at all because they fear not being believed.”

He turns to me, his smirk widening, clearly thinking he has an actual point here. “Maybe it wasn’t that bad then. I am just saying that if a woman regrets having s*x and claims rape, she should be held accountable for lying about it..”

I feel my hands clench into fists, my nails digging into my palms. “If someone actually lies, yes.. but you’re completely missing the point,” I say, forcing myself to remain calm. “Consent isn’t just about saying yes or no. It’s about clarity, communication, and mutual respect. No one should feel pressured to make a decision about their body just because they were in the heat of the moment.”

He shrugs, his arrogance palpable. “But what if she changes her mind later? Shouldn’t there be consequences for that?”

I’m practically vibrating now, the anger coursing through me like electricity. “What if she didn’t change her mind, and you’re just too arrogant to see it? And consequenses for changing her mind? Consent can be revoked at any time. Just because someone says yes once doesn’t mean they’re obligated to say yes again. It’s about understanding that every individual has the right to their own body.”

The room is silent, and I can feel eyes on me, I am not someone who spend much time with me follows students, but at least I have their attention now.. My heart races as I continue, “Your argument reduces a woman’s experience to mere regret, ignoring the complexity of consent. It’s not just about s*x; it’s about power dynamics, societal pressures, and the trauma that comes from being violated. You can’t just throw around accusations of lying without acknowledging the real pain that victims face.”

He opens his mouth, ready with another retort, but I’m not done. “And let’s not forget that it’s not just women who are victims of s****l assault. The conversation around consent needs to include everyone, regardless of gender. It’s about creating a culture where all individuals feel empowered to express their boundaries.”

“But If the charges don’t stick, she should face consequences and get the same jailtime as the man risked due to her lies,” he says, clearly grasping at straws, but sadly some of the guys nod in agreement, making me feel slightly murderous.

“So you seriously want to jail women if the police fails, or their simply isn’t evidence?” My hands flexes, blood roars in my ears and I almost see red, I really have to focus to seem collected on the outside. “Basically you want rapist to roam free, and women to have no rights.”

I can see the gears turning in his head, the momentary flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. “No, I didn’t…”

It’s satisfying, but I know it’s not enough. “If we start punishing victims for coming forward, because that is what your suggestion would do… we're going to silence countless voices. We need to be creating an environment where survivors feel safe to share their experiences, not one where they’re met with skepticism and blame, and definitely not one where they risk jailtime.”

The professor interjects, trying to steer the discussion back on track, but I can’t shake the adrenaline coursing through me. I’m ready to take on the world, to fight for those who can’t fight for themselves. This moment, this discussion, it’s just a taste of the battles I’m determined to wage.

As the class wraps up, I catch the guy’s eye one last time. He’s still sitting there, arms crossed, but the smirk is gone. There’s a flicker of something… hate maybe, it is clear that he doesn’t like me debating him.

I grab my bag, heart still racing, the weight of the conversation hanging in the air and the anger towards this guy still boiling inside me. As I step out of the lecture hall I am happy I only have this one class today. All I have to do before driving backs to turn in a paper to my psychology professor.

The drive back to Southall is a welcome distraction, my favorite playlist blaring through the speakers as I grip the steering wheel. The familiar streets feel comforting, helping me calm down.

I pull up to our modest house, its brick façade warm in the afternoon sun. I know I am a bit old to live at home, but mom needs my help with my dad. As I step inside, I’m greeted by the familiar scent of my mum’s cooking, a blend of spices that instantly soothes my frayed nerves.

“Hey, sweetheart!” my mum calls from the kitchen, her voice laced with that ever-present hint of anxiety. She peeks around the corner, her eyes scanning my face for any sign of distress. “How was your day?”

“It was fine, no one hurt me,” I reply, forcing a smile despite the tension still wound tightly in my chest. I can’t bring myself to share what happened in class, especially not with her.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” she says, turning back to her cooking. I can see the slight tremor in her hands as she stirs a pot, her nerves always on edge, amplifying my own anxiety. “Your dad will be up soon.”

As I walk into the kitchen, I can hear the soft sound of my dad struggling to move in the other room. My heart aches for him. His condition, PSP, has taken so much from him, and yet he still fights every day, an inspiration in his perseverance. I grab a couple of plates and silverware, trying to channel my energy into something productive.

Just as I set the table, I hear the familiar creak of the old wooden floor. My dad emerges, leaning heavily on the railing, his face breaking into a gentle smile when he sees me. “Irene,” he says, his voice slow but filled with warmth. “My brightest star.”

“Hey, Dad,” I say, rushing over to help him steady himself. His strength is fading and his balance grows rapidly worse, but his spirit is unyielding. “How are you feeling today?”

“Better now that I see you,” he replies, his eyes sparkling with affection. I guide him to the dining room, where he carefully lowers himself into his chair, the one with the arrests to support him. I can see the effort it takes him, and it makes my heart ache.

“Dinner’s ready,” my mum says, bustling about the kitchen, her hands moving quickly despite the anxious energy that surrounds her. “I made your favorite. Chicken tikka masala!”

“Perfect,” I say, beaming at my dad. “Just what I needed after today.”

As we settle in for dinner, I feel that the warmth of the moment is bittersweet, a reminder of the normalcy we cling to on the outside amidst the challenges we face as a family.

But as the plates are cleared and the dishes washed, a familiar thought creeps back into my mind. I can’t shake the feeling that I need to do more, not just in class but in life.

After dinner, I grab my notebook and retreat to my quiet corner of the living room, with my phone. I have a new message saying, I need your help, this guy raped me.