When you're a little girl, the boys at primary school will try to look up your skirt. You don't really know why they do it, you're only 6, but you know it feels a bit weird. Maybe you tell your mum when you get home, maybe you don't. If you do tell her, maybe she'll say "boys will be boys", or maybe she'll sigh in resignation and tell you to ignore them. She's been there before. We all have.
When you're 11, 12, 13, the boys at secondary school ping your bra strap, sometimes undoing it completely. You'll be sat there trying to pay attention to the teacher, and then you'll feel a sharp snap followed by sniggering. Boys will be boys, and if you say anything, they'll be really horrible to you. It's not worth it. You're 15 now, it's summer, you take off your jumper and your Music teacher compliments you on the bra he can see through your school shirt. You have to stay behind with him to do your GCSE coursework. He compliments you on your haircut and says you look like a rockstar. You know that's not okay but he's a teacher, so how can you say anything? Your insides are squirming and you look at the clock on the wall, willing the seconds to speed up so you can get out of there.
When you walk home from school, sometimes cars beep at you. Sometimes men shout stuff out the window at you. When you're at uni, most days you get your arse grabbed on the bus. Once, you're sat in a beer garden reading a book and a man sits next to you and starts masturbating through his trousers, murmuring "let me come on you, please let me come on you". You quietly stand up, trying not to shake - with fear, with disgust - and you go inside and tell the lad on the bar. He kicks the man out and bars him, offers to call the police. You thank him but you tell him not to bother. He asks you if you're okay, you lie and say you are. You're grateful for his kindness.
The cold, dark night air feels like it's about to grow a pair of hands and grab you. You love listening to music when you walk, but headphones aren't a great idea for a woman. You're hyper-aware of your surroundings, every sound from the trees, every crunch of a twig. You texted your mate, your partner, your mum to tell them you're on the way. It's an unsaid thing, an implication that everyone understands. "I'm on my way" means "I'm on my way, if I'm not back when I should be, start to worry". You wish you could just live your life and do what you want to do without setting yourself curfews for your own safety, but it's been this way for as long as you can remember now.
There's a man walking behind you - quite far behind you - but you feel your heart rate start to pick up. Your hands are stuffed in your pockets, and you tighten your grip around the house keys which are poking out between your knuckles. Frankly, you don't know why you do it - how exactly would it help, it'd probably just make your attacker more angry - but you do it all the same, because it's kind of comforting. Your mind is racing with possible scenarios, escape routes, what might be about to happen to you. You hope you just get mugged or raped, and it doesn't go any further than that. Please, God, don't let it go any further than that... but if it does, please let it be quick.
The man - perhaps sensing your discomfort - crosses over to the other side of the road and calls someone, possibly his wife. You release the breath you didn't even realise you'd been holding, and then you start to feel bad. Bad, because you thought those awful things about someone you don't know - he could be a lovely fella, for all you know. Bad, because you can't walk the streets without picturing the awful things you think might be about to happen to you. Bad, because you're scared all the time. Bad, because for all the nice men out there, there's men like Sarah Everard's attacker. Like Libby Squires' attacker.
Then you get angry. And that's all life is, for a woman. Feeling scared, feeling bad, feeling angry. Scared, bad, angry in the knowledge that it could be you next time. Scared, bad, angry because women will continue to be killed by men until the fiery death of the universe, and there's not a thing to be done about it.
My thoughts are with Sarah Everard's family and friends.
