A crushing blow, cracking bone, a searing pain like a white hot blade digging into his skull. His vision blurs, his right eye stings from the warm blood trickling down. The fresh gash across his brow gushes down the side of his face. It's not going to be enough, he thinks, not tonight. He uses his shirt sleeve to wipe the sweat and blood from his face, his lips pulling up into a wicked sneer as he watches her run down the alley, the sound of her bare feet slapping wet pavement fading slowly into the distance, the staccato 'thap' of each footfall echoing off the buildings on either side. He can barely see her, the torn black fabric of her skirt bobbing with each stride through the darkness. Then she's gone.
His laughter wells up from a place deep inside, a body shaking chuckle. She doesn't know this area like he does, but she'll soon understand that, he thinks.
He takes off at the full run, stooping down at full pace to pick up the knife that had clattered to the ground. He curses, intense pain nearly blinding him... that or the rage. This one will not get away, he thinks. He doesn't know what she hit him with, but she'll pay for it, that's for damn sure.
He slows down so that his feet scuffle a bit on the concrete, throwing more echoes. She'll be around here somewhere, he thinks, while his mind goes over the dead end only a few feet ahead. What little light that does shine back here is obscured by shadows that engulf everything in a veil of darkness. He pans back and forth, looking for a sign of his mark. She'll be back here somewhere, he thinks again, there aren't a lot of places for her to hide, and she won't be brave enough to come at him again. He can't stop smiling, this one is special, she asked for it, that's for damn sure.
He slows his breathing, standing still, waiting for his heart to stop pumping blood through his ears so he can hear again. Just let the adrenaline back off, not everything, the adrenaline is what's important, he just needs his head clear enough to find her, then it can come right back. The rush, that's what's important. He listens, forcing the pain of his skull out of his mind, at least as much as is possible, but even this, he loves. Everything about it, the rush, the pain, the whimpering sounds that bounce all around him. It all makes him feel alive.
None of them have ever fought back. Not like this, this one's definitely special to him. He can't wait to be inside this one, can't wait to feel the warmth, he wants so badly to hurt this one.
There she is. He spots her hiding behind a few empty pallets off to his left. He chokes back his excitement, the evil that wells up within him, it's like opening gifts on Christmas, when you figure out what it is, and just want to tear the rest of the paper off in one big pull so that you can play with your spoils. But he can't rush it, he thinks, he wants to do this right, because this one won't get away. He's going to let her make the first move, he thinks.
Now that he knows where she is, he hones in, but keeps moving forward, looking up and down, left and right, intentionally ignoring the spot where his prize lies in wait. He can hear her ragged breaths; he can almost feel her quivering body, shaking with fear. He sticks his knife into his belt, so that he can grab at it quickly. He moves past her, pretending to be interested in a dumpster just ahead, but he listens, his body tensed, ready to move at just the right instant.
Then it happens. She tears from her spot, throwing the pallets off her body, but it's too late, he's already pounced, and he has her. He holds both of her arms, just above the elbows, forcing her shoulders back violently. He laughs loudly now, a sinister sounds that rolls over her. She screams and cries, begging, and pleading, but he just pulls harder, squeezing.
“It will all be over real soon,” his voice rasps, like a true villain. Her body tenses up, but she stops struggling as hard. She's tired and beaten, and she knows it.
Still facing her away from him, he pushes her body against the wall, almost exactly where she'd been hiding only moments ago. It's darker here, but his eyes adjust quickly, and he sniffs her. The scent of a perfume he's never known fills his nostrils, it mixes with the smell of sweat and blood, a sickly sweet sort of odor that arouses him deeply, for an instant, he thinks he can even smell her fear. Forcing her arms together behind her back, her sobbing becomes more pronounced for a moment, he thinks he might have dislocated her shoulder, but he can now free up one of his hands to get down to the business at hand.
Pulling the knife from between the leather and the denim makes an odd scraping sound that rings in the air, and he puts the knife against her throat, her whimpering getting louder, more desperate, and she struggles a little harder, but he can tell he has her attention.
“Just be still, this won't take too long,” he hisses at her, whispering loudly into her ear, spitting a little bit as he does. “I'm going to have you.”
She says something, but he can't tell what it is. He just loves the sound of fear in her voice, no matter what she's saying. The blade of his knife tears through the thin fabric of the black satin blouse she's wearing, it fusses a bit over the elastic band of the matching black bra, but continues its way down. He drags the blade down her bare back, scraping against her flesh, then reaches down and begins to cut off her tight black mini-skirt, being careful to avoid cutting her skin, yet.
She bends and squirms, but he holds her tiny arms tightly, she can't be more than 100 lbs, and couldn't possibly be more than 20 years old, no matter how old she told the bouncer she was, of course, any man would let this woman in, where ever she wanted to go. The bass from the nightclub still has his hears ringing a bit, of course that could also be the throbbing from his forehead, that still seems to be pouring blood.
She stands there, in the shreds of a top, and nothing covering her perfectly round buttocks, which his knife caresses, her skirt lays around her bare, bleeding feet, covering the wounds from the flight she took just to get here. This is good, he thinks, he doesn't want to see the blood yet. She breaks down in front of him, crying hard now, sobbing, it sounds like she's begging him. For all the good it will do her.
He puts the knife back into his belt, and uses both hands to move her tiny arms over her head, putting her palms against the damp red brick, crosses them at the wrist so he can hold them with one hand again. His free hand reaches down and unzips his fly, and he works his pulsing erection out with a little difficulty. He strokes himself a few times, just taking in the scene. Her exposed back has a soft glow in the little bit of light back here. Her skin is absolutely flawless. His lets go of himself reaches down to spread her legs apart.
Then, in one powerful thrusting motion, he puts himself inside her, and that moment, the one he's been craving all night, takes over him, a powerful feeling. One that is fleeting, he only gets to feel that one moment, once, and then, as soon as it starts, it's over, and he's left there, she's no longer a new feeling; good, tight, but not new, and his anger of losing that moment already takes over. He drives himself into her, hard. He wants to break her now.
“Yeah, this is the best I've had!” He hisses in her ear again, smelling a fruit scented shampoo in her hair, her screams of pain, and anger echo all around him, and he draws on it, pulling back and taking it in. Then suddenly, platinum blonde hair coming straight at his face, and he notices too late.
Another crack fills the air, and his head spins round and round, and he falls straight down in a heap. His World fades a bit, but he focuses to keep himself together, reaching for his knife, the tip of which has penetrated his thigh and cuts deep, at least an inch. He howls in pain and anger now. His mind snaps back, and he knows he will not let her get away at all.
But she's not trying to get away, he sees her heel come down out of his peripheral vision, then he feels it crush against his skull pinning his head against that wet pavement, he can taste copper. His vision swims again, the light fading from his mind. He tries to get up, but she drops her knee down, so that it's now right where her heel was.
“You bitch!” His words are more of a shrieking grate that fly up, and she screams something back at him, but he can't hear it, her knee pushing against his ear. He spits blood.
Suddenly, he realizes that she has his knife, it had been in his hand, but now it's gone. Panic takes over and he just screams now. Fear fills his mind; he can't believe that this is happening. This is not what he wanted. This isn't fun anymore. He sees the flash of the blade from the corner of his eye, which is stinging again from the blood and sweat, but suddenly he sees the tip of the knife closer, as it pierces his cornea and digs back into his skull, a deep crunch of skull and eye socket meeting metal.
Then it's gone, but the pain is still there. He fades out, and back, and then out again. This is pain like he's never felt, pain like he didn't imagine could exist. And he feels the knife tear into his throat, which doesn't hurt, it's just an unusual sensation, but the blade begins to saw its way out of his wind pipe, up and down several times before finally tearing through the last layers of skin, and he feels blood gushing from his neck. He tries to scream, but only feels a rattling gurgle of air and blood mixing in his throat, he can't breathe. The pressure from on his head is gone now, but the strength for him to rise up is gone too.
She uses her foot to roll him onto his back, and his working eye sees the hate in her face, sees her half naked, blood soaked body, and everything goes black. The last thought of her disappears into a fear of what comes next.
Caitlin pants, her heart beating faster than it's ever beat in her short 20 years of life, so fast she thinks it might burst in her chest. She clutches at her chest, trying to catch her breath and feels the blood pour off the blade of the knife still in her hand. Some sense of reality sets in and she throws it aside. Watching it bounce off the bricks of the wall across from her, and clattering loudly as it strikes the pavement, blade to heel, then blade and heel at once.
The only sounds she hears are the pumping of blood in her ears and the last ragging exhalation of the dead man on the ground in front of her, a death rattle. Her body convulses slightly, a combination of fear, shock, cold, and the repulsion. Her mind is numb. Her body is numb. Her soul is numb.
She looks back down at the mangled body of her attacker, blood still pouring out of the wound on his neck. His eyes are white, rolled back, and she can see the death in his visage. She has never seen real death before, not that she can remember anyway. She even looks away from things like this in movies, but somehow, this seems fine to her, it doesn't frighten her, she feels content with his death.
She is serenely aware of pain, a lot of pain in a lot of places, and she's aware of her need for some form of guidance, be it her Mother's matronly voice, or just the comforting voice of her conscience, or even the words to a song she'd heard earlier in the day, one that she wanted to remember, but is now lost. Her left shoulder hurts, and she can't seem to move her arm, she guesses that it's dislocated or maybe broken completely. Her feet are sore, and she can feel the sticky blood actually squish between her toes, almost like sand on a beach, but much less pleasant. She feels a fire between her legs, a pain unlike any she has ever really known. She hates herself for thinking it, and is surprised by the thought, but that was not the largest thing that's ever been inside her. The thought makes her want to kill him again. She realizes, probably for the fourth time during her rambling mental discourse, that she's just killed this man.
Her mind battles hard, somewhere deep inside her is a churning, lurching sensation, matching the pitch and frenzy of the thoughts raging through her skull. He's dead, and he deserved it, but she just stole his life from him, but he was going to take hers, and he had already taken so much, he deserved it. You can't justify this, not completely, of course he was evil, and deserved to suffer, but having his life just snuffed out before her, she took it, snatched it away. She realizes through the pain, that she is actually somewhat aroused. She vomits, convulsively, explosively, so hard that her mind swims and she worries that she might pass out, but she doesn't
Somewhere, far away, there are sirens, as if in another world. She can hear them, and somehow she knows they are coming for her. She stands up, embarrassed by the smell of the puke she just expelled, and through all of her conflicted emotions, there is a wry smirk at the thought. She's been raped, she killed her attacker, she's almost completely naked, but she's embarrassed by the vomit.
The sirens get louder, but not clearer, the adrenaline seems to be wearing out, but she still feels like she's under water, and the bricks of the wall in front of her seem to be shifting, and moving, as if liquid. There are tears streaming from her eyes, but she isn't sobbing anymore, she just cries. It's an odd sensation, saline leaks from her face. She knows she is crying harder than she's ever cried before. She still stands there, her left shoulder drooping, held slightly by her right hand, as if making sure it's still there, her legs spread slightly, that's when the spotlight hits her, full in the face, and she closes her eyes tight, seeing a strange purple and red swirl behind her eyelids.
There is some shouting, and slowly she parts her eyelids, testing the light, trying to let her pupils adjust, reflected on the walls on either side of her are red and blue rolling lights, spinning continually. The shouting seems to be commanding something, but as of yet she can't understand it, she is entranced by a grossly over sized shadow if a spider, cast on the brick wall by the reflection of the spotlight off, what she discovers is the oblique surface of the knife she cast away only a few minutes, or perhaps a lifetime before. Her mind takes stock of the way the blood has run away from the oily surface, leaving only a bright shine marred by few stringy lines of blood.
The shouting becomes obvious, “Miss, can you tell us what happened!”
She looks around for the source of the voice. A man in his late 20's, his face covered in stubble, and eyes shining in the various lights is shouting. His skin is tanned, and strong. Nothing about him betrays his emotion. His short-sleeved dark blue uniform shirt is almost black against the lights behind him, but his gold badge and buttons gleam. He wears a hat like in the movies, the brim of which, like his shiny black shoes, also gleams. On his right leg, which is planted slightly in front, rests his hands, both of which are gripping a pistol pointed at the concrete, his finger on the trigger, he leans forward slightly when he says again, “Miss, I need you to tell me what happened!”
She just stands there. She doesn't know what to say, or what to do, at this point, she's only slightly aware that her good arm is trying to cover herself. She stares at the cop, and realizes that there are several more behind him, moving around him, and suddenly all around, and there's the sound of wheels, casters, a gurney is being moved down the alley too. There is a lot of shouting, none of which she thinks is directed at her, but it doesn't matter. She doesn't want to talk. Words are like a memory long forgotten, her mouth doesn't open. She stands there, frozen.
The shouting continues, the cop doesn't move, he stands rigid, watching her closely, his eyes fixed in stare that she can't help but wonder if he is 'covering her' from escaping as much as anything else. Doesn't matter, she doesn't care about that at all, she's content to stand here forever. Her knees shake, suddenly, they shake hard and then she collapses to her knees, it hurts, but the momentum keeps her moving straight down, and she can feel her bare bottom against the blood-soaked soles of her feet. There's more shouting and people rushing.
Suddenly, there's something heavy being wrapped around her, she jerks her head around, toward where the body of the man that just hurt her lay, and one of what must be the paramedics has rushed over to her now, and thrown a heavy black blanket around her, it crinkles, heavily starched and lined with plastic or vinyl, but it's warm, and she doesn't have to cover herself anymore. She feels grateful, amongst the cacophony of feelings, thoughts, and pains.
The sounds around her seem to settle slightly. There is movement past the young paramedic that covered her. They're covering Him up too. One of the other paramedics stands and walks toward a man wearing another police uniform, he's shaking his head, this all happens in slow motion. The woman sitting next to her, the young paramedic, from a few miles away she is telling her something, something about it being alright or maybe that it will be alright. Nothing is alright, everything is not fine.
The scene continues to move slowly around her, her knees throbbing against the pavement, there are now many people in various uniforms all standing around, and they have put yellow tape across the breadth of the alley, on one side it's tied around a chain on a dark green dumpster, and on the other it seems to just be snagged on the brick of the wall, but it's very hard to tell, the spotlights are all so bright, but she knows they are not for her to see, but for them. She feels more vulnerable now than she did with the His cock inside her. She shivers.
The crowd of police part slightly, and the tape is lifted, and a woman his ushered through. She is dressed very well, a neatly pressed grey suit coat and matching skirt, under the jacket is a hanging white shirt, probably a polyester blend, which bunches slightly reveal a very full bosom. Her nylons are dark, and match the black heels she wears, which click which each step. Her hair is done up very well in a swirling bun, curls hang down framing a very pretty face thin and well toned, at this time of night or morning, Caitlin find herself wondering why she looks so good. The woman, who seems to be in her 30's, has her head leaned in while walking, a larger, white haired man in a cheap looking suit is talking to her, and she is nodding her head over and over.
The woman then walks straight to Caitlin, and says something as she carefully crouches down so that she is half sitting on her calves, very close, there is a strange expression on her face, concern, perhaps? For whatever reason, she seems to exude a feeling a safety, and she's so close. Caitlin forces a small half smile, and the woman returns it, the exact same half smile. Caitlin, still on her knees, her legs long since sleeping, leans forward, and then collapse against her, feeling her face press against the soft breasts of this woman, and that's all she remembers. Until the hospital, anyway.
A deep sleep, a slumber like that on a lazy Sunday morning, when there is no reason to get out of bed, no reason to exist for any reason but the sleep. The sound of machines in the background stirs her throbbing head, and the pain and the lights, and the noise begin to seep back into her mind. She hadn't dreamt at all, it was black for a long time. She realizes that she lying down, her body aches, everything aches. Her eyes flutter slightly, and then she opens them just a bit, the bright fluorescent lights running crosswise on the ceiling above her make her eyes sting a bit. Now, she's aware of a lot of noise, people talking, but out there somewhere, she looks around a bit, trying to find the source. She's in a room alone. She's in a hospital room alone, there are a lot of things all around her, a big arm with a light at the end hangs over top of her, there are cabinets on all the three walls she can see, and she assumes there are more behind her head The counters are covered with jars filled with cotton swabs, tongue depressors, and what look like giant wooden Q-Tips, there are also little diagrams and charts of various human anatomy, and others that seem to talk about different diseases and disorders. At the far end of the left wall there is a door, which is open to the inside, but there is a curtain on a rail over it, so that just outside all she can see is a bit through a gap only a few inches wide. A body moves past and becomes shadows against the light sea foam green fabric, which has some sort of small print, but she can't tell what it is from here.
Her eyes wander around the room some more. There are small bins on the wall to her right, with bio-hazard symbols, one is red with white print, another is white with red print, and the tops are covered with plastic domes with small slots in them. Right next to them is a large poster with a cross section of an eye, and print so small she's certain she couldn't read it even if she were standing in front of it. On the other side, the left wall, where the door is, there's a long counter, at the nearest end there's a large metal basin sink, on the rim of which sits several boxes of gloves in various sizes. Next to that are the jars, spread across the end of the counter, nearest the door are several pamphlets with titles on them discussing things like STD's and Heart Disease, against the wall, behind the spread out pamphlets are several three tier pamphlet holders, filled with more pamphlets of various colors and titles. On the wall, directly in front of her is a light box, which is on, but currently displaying nothing but an even florescent glow. The counter below that has several metal implements, with different plastic attachments in boxes in front of them, things meant for looking in ears and eyes, and wherever else doctors need to look. Along the ceiling is a border, which shows a parade of bears in different colored t-shirts all carrying different colored balloons, trotting around with big smiles on their faces.
All this she notices while she waits for something to happen. But nothing does, and her mind wanders around some more, this time, focusing on herself. There is a lot of pain, searing, stinging, dull, throbbing, and sharp pain reporting in from all around her body. She tries to move, but it hurts too much to do more than shift her weight a little bit. With a great heave she manages to roll over slightly on to her side so that she is facing the door, but this is when she notices how much her shoulder hurts and she immediately rolls onto her back again. There is a tugging on her right arm, and she notices with some amusement that there are several tubes sticking out of her wrist, all of which are taped down around her wrist, but only one of which is actually attached to anything at the moment, a thin clear tube leads up to a clear bag with a lot of small writing on it, she assumes it's probably saline. As she's looking up to the right, she notices a clock on the wall, the big hand points just before the twelve, the little hand points down toward the six. And she wonders which six o'clock this is.
Her mind wanders again, and falls on nothing, she seems to content herself in that, and thinks serenely again of maybe sleeping some more. That thought is shattered by the voice of a woman, a voice that sounds familiar, if only slightly. She rolls her head back to the left, where the voice came from, and from around the curtain the face of the woman from the alley peers in at her, the same 'safe' expression on her face that was there when last she had seen her.
“I didn't mean to wake you,” she says, her voice is soft, what Caitlin thinks of for some reason is a librarian. She waits at the door, as if waiting for some sort of response to this, what response, Caitlin doesn't know, but after a moment, she seems to get whatever she needs, and lets herself in. She walks regally, straight posture, even strides. The clicking of her heels on the linoleum is louder than it was in the alley. She is wearing the same suit as before, although, it does seem a bit more worn now, but perhaps it's just the light. Her face is still very pretty. The makeup is even and gives her skin a soft glow under the normally unforgiving lighting. Some of the hair on the left side of her face has come down a bit from the swirl so that it now makes a lopsided frame. Still, she's a very attractive woman.
“I'm not going to ask how you're feeling,” she says, and pauses, as if letting this statement sink in, or maybe waiting for Caitlin to respond if she wanted, it's a comfortable pause, and then she continues, “Do you remember me at all Caitlin? My name is Dr. Klein, you can call me Patricia if you'd like.”
There is another pause, and Patricia Klein turns her head left and then right, looking for something, her eyes landing on a round rolling stool with a black vinyl seat. She steps over to it and rolls it close to the bed, and then sits down crossing her legs in one fluid motion, “You don't mind if I sit, it's been a long night, I've been trying to track down your family Caitlin.”
She doesn't pause anymore, she just talks, her voice is soft and comforting, she lets her pitch hang in the air, her words are carefully chosen, clearly, yet not rigid, or forced, but very natural, she continues, “I haven't been able to reach anyone left, I have left several messages.”
Patricia re-crosses her legs, smoothing out her skirt, looking at the wool as she does so, her hands moving in pre-recorded manner of a woman used to this sort of thing, she looks back up at Caitlin, looking her in the eyes, eyes that are clearly swollen and wet, but understanding, “Caitlin, do you remember what happened?”
Caitlin doesn't say anything, and for a time, neither does Dr. Klein, they both just sit there, looking at each other. Caitlin rolls her head back and stares up at the ceiling, past the massive light on the end of the arm and looking at the tiles between each 3 foot long light fixture, and she beings counting small black pores in one, silently, in her head. Caitlin doesn't want to talk. As a matter of fact, Caitlin doesn't really want anything right now.
Yet, there is nothing more in the world than the want that Caitlin feels, deep inside, she feels a yearning, a need she can't quell. That feeling, however, while there, certain, is somehow empty, because she can't understand it, she doesn't know what that need is, what it wants from her, how to fill that hole. She doesn't feel anything else, she doesn't want anything else, it's there, and she can't communicate with it, but there is nothing else inside her.
Dr. Klein stays there, by her bedside, for several hours, talking. Patricia Klein's voice is steady, and calm, but urgent. Begging for a response, but Caitlin can't, so Dr. Klein just keeps talking, about what, Caitlin forgets. This is the longest conversation she can remember having in the 20 years of life she's experienced, and she isn't even part of it. The subjects seem to change simply, but smoothly, now Dr. Klein is describing her schooling, then she is on to her first marriage, and then her parents and what they did, always, asking questions, trying to get Caitlin to open up. She doesn't, not yet. Of course, she doesn't yet know how important this woman is going to become in her world. Her entire world will soon revolve around her, her strength, but for now, she is just the woman that brought her away from the alley, and that is enough. Caitlin feels like she did what she needed to do, and now, she doesn't want to do anything else.
The simple faced clock on the wall creeps by slowly, then quickly, then slowly again, and all the while, Dr. Klein's reassuring voice drifts in and out. Now the big hand is point off toward the eleven, and the little hand is resting just below it, and Dr. Klein seems to suddenly notice Caitlin's stare, and then sees the time. Patricia doesn't show how tired she must be, but Caitlin guesses that she must be near as exhausted as she is.
Dr. Patricia Klein reaches her hand out, and gently rests it on top of Caitlin's, her skin is soft, and warm, reassuring, just like the rest of her, Caitlin turns her gaze back and locks into a stare with Dr. Klein's deep green eyes, Caitlin's own grey eyes are watering again, and she can see nothing be love in this woman's face, she clearly cares, she isn't just trying to do job, she's trying to help.
“Thank you.” A whisper, barely audible out of her own mouth, Caitlin tries to say something to let this woman know that her efforts are not in vain. For a moment, only a moment, Dr. Klein's veil of strength fades, and she looks as if she is about to cry, but the moment is fleeting and almost instantly the same face that's been watching her for the last 5 hours or more looks back.
“Rest now, I'll be back to talk again later,” her hand doesn't move, it rests on top of Caitlin's, and they continue to look at each other for a while, then, Dr. Klein seems to find some sort of encouragement from somewhere, she says to Caitlin, “You didn't do anything wrong this morning, when you are ready, we will talk about it, I'll wait as long as you need.”
With that last statement, her hand slowly drags across Caitlin's and then across the sheet. Then, just as slowly, she turns and walks to the door, looks back one last time, to see Caitlin's eyes flutter and then close. Dr. Patricia Klein, P.H.D. reaches back and pulls the door shut as she passes through it. Her mind awash with ideas, and feelings. This is not the first time she has ever worked with a rape victim, nor is it the first time she has worked with someone who's killed another person, but this is definitely the first time she's worked with a victim that killed her attacker, and so brutally too.
Now, she had to convince the police and the D.A. that this girl, this Caitlin, was the victim, and that they cannot, under any circumstances press charges against her for anything. She cannot be openly accused of wrong doing. The "what" is obvious, the how, however, is not so clear. It's going to be hard to prove that she was operating on anything but pure adrenaline and self-preservation instinct when she killed him. And all of this, all of it, will be far easier than trying to explain this to her family, and then trying to help them all move past this thing. This is going to be, if nothing else, an amazing challenge, but, if she can make it work, help this young woman overcome this morning and everything that's coming, she will know for sure that she chose the right career.
She wipes a tear from her eye with her right hand, this is the most emotional she's ever been over a patient, and she can feel herself getting attached, but she can't, because that won't help anything or anyone at all. She has job to do, and she has to do it right, for everyone involved. All these things she thinks, her left hand still hanging off the door knob to the room she just left behind.
A life buzzing comes from her suit jacket pocket, a cell phone vibrates in three short pulses, then one long, and she stands up straight, reaches into the pocket, and opens the phone. She presses, the talk button, and says, “Dr. Klein.”
On the other end of the phone is a man's voice, a voice filled with irritation, a voice that is gruff, but speaks in a rough southern accent, Missouri, Dr. Klein thinks, and he asks a lot of questions without waiting for answers, then makes a lot of demands, and then asks some more questions, and Patricia Klein listens carefully, not saying anything, not able to say anything yet, but she will, this is just the beginning, and she's ready for it. She knows what's coming.
The morning is cold. Her bedroom is cold. She left her window open a little, though only a crack. It's an early winter wind that blows through the curtains, lifting them gently from the breeze. It descended upon the city in the early hours the morning, leaving the flowers in the window box white with a frost, and the windows caked with a thin layer of ice, the moisture from her soft snores in the night. She clutches the covers tight around her. It's the cold air stinging of her cheeks is what wakes her. Caitlin opens her eyes reluctantly, unwilling to leave the arms of sleep, but knowing that the sweet embrace is gone. This day is screaming at her to begin the day.
The floorboards are cold, even through the carpet. Her bare feet take her into the bathroom, where she squeaks when they first find the yellow tiles, which are nearly freezing. The landlord hasn't turned the heat on yet, heat costs money, and it's not supposed to be cold yet. It's only mid September. She reaches into the shower and turns on the hot water, then, letting it run, she retreats to her kitchen where she can smell the coffee brewing, the machine's auto-timer making sure that she's always got a fresh cup to wake up to, and this morning she knows she's going to need it. Rushing across the yellow tiled floor to the carpeted dining room on the other side, where she can still reach her coffee pot, but won't have to run the risk of frostbitten toes.
She fixes of cup of coffee, and takes sip, knowing it's still too hot, but not caring, not even swearing when she burns her lips and tongue. She knows it tastes good, even if she can't taste it yet, but it effectively warms her up. Leaving the cup on the dining room table, she walks across her living room, and grabs her laptop off the couch, and takes it out to the dining room table as well, lifting the display and pressing the little power button in front of the screen. She leaves it to start up and walks back across the living room, and down the little hall, past the other bathroom to the front door, where she undoes the deadbolt and the small metal chain, opens it a crack, checking if anyone is outside. Seeing and hearing no one, she opens the door the rest of the way, and darts her satin lavender covered arm outside and snatches her newspaper up, then, shutting and re-locking the door, she heads back to the dining room table to start her day.
The rest of her morning continues like this; she checks her email, and a few news websites from around the world, then she peruses the paper to while drinking her coffee. She stops at one point to make a couple of pop-tarts in the toaster, darting across the kitchen floor back and forth to get to the pop-tarts and the toaster, then she eats her little breakfast, finishes her coffee and puts down her news paper, and closes her laptop. She heads back to the bathroom, from which a steam is billowing, but it's now very warm, and even the floor, although slick with condensation, is now tolerable.
She begins her daily 'beauty regimen', she brushes her teeth and uses the toilet, then leaving her panties on the floor, and dropping her nightshirt next to the them, she reaches into the shower and adds a little cold water, and, satisfied with the temperature, she steps in and takes a long, hot, refreshing shower.
After her shower, she towels off, then leaves it wrapped around her head in a make shift turban. She rushes back out into her bedroom and quickly gets dressed, putting on a pair of heavy blue jeans, and heavier grey socks, and then an almost as heavy sweater, which is a dark hunter green, although for this she has to take the towel off her head letting her long wet blonde hair fall down on her shoulders. By now the bathroom is no longer as steamy, and she goes in to put on her deodorant, and a little bit of make-up. She examines herself in the mirror. This is one of her favorite sweaters, because it's heavy, warm, but not the least bit 'frumpy', as a matter of fact, she thinks it looks pretty sexy on her, the way it hangs off her breasts, but is just tight enough to concave in toward her stomach.
The last step of her long daily ritual is her hair. It's mostly dry at this point, and she brushes it out, and pulls the curling iron down from on top of her vanity. She makes a funny face at it, scrunching her nose up, and then finally deciding that she didn't want to do her hair today, she puts the curling iron back on top of the wooden box on the wall and pulls down her hair dryer. Ten minutes later, she's back out at her dining room table and she lights up a cigarette, the first one of the day, which she feels is the best one of the day, and many times for her these days, it's also the last one, because she is trying so hard to quit.
She opens her laptop again, and signs in to her email account again, this time with the intention of actually answering a few of them. Although there was nothing interesting there the first time, just a few reminders and ads, and one from Dr. Klein reminding her about having to re-schedule their session this week, they are only meeting weekly now, but now, there is an e-mail from 'xebrayx', Eric Bray, and this, she thinks, this is something worthwhile.
Eric Bray, a junior at the same college Caitlin attends, in many of the same classes, is working on the same degree in Criminal Psychology, and, of course, is a very attractive, funny and sensitive guy, who seems quite fond of Caitlin. Eric Bray had been relentless at first. He would try to talk to her whenever he got the chance, whether it was before, or after a class or lecture, or when she was in the campus library or at the diner across the street from the quad. He seemed to be everywhere she was. At first Caitlin did what she did with everyone. She ignored him, giving him only curt responses, and moving away, and just giving him the cold shoulder. This was a little over a year ago. Dr. Klein, however, suggested that maybe it wasn't a bad thing that he wanted to talk to her, and that maybe she should try talking back.
That suggestion proved easier said than done. Caitlin didn't know what to say, she wasn't sure how to respond to him. She'd been closed off to the world for so long. She felt an emptiness that she couldn't explain, but she was certain that no one was going to help her fill it. That changed one day when she sat down in the library at her table, on the table was a piece of lined paper, folded in half, with her name written on the outside, inside the paper was written: Do you like me? Yes No. Eric.
She hadn't laughed that hard in as long as she could remember. She wasn't sure if she'd even laughed before.
He sat down at the table across from her. She was amazed at how beautiful he was. She looked at him for the first time that day, and saw his soft boyish face, deep blue eyes, and mousy brown hair. He always wore the same sort of skate-punk outfits, various trendy PacSun skate company endorsing button down shirts and baggy chinos of all colors in the spectrum. He watched her, she was still laughing, almost hysterically, but he didn't waiver, he didn't move an inch. When she finally calmed down, which probably took another fifteen minutes, and several people shushing her, he asked her if she wanted to get coffee, she said yes, and they'd been 'seeing' each other ever since. It took several months, and a lot of probing, and prodding from both him and Dr. Klein, before she was willing to come clean to him about everything, she told him about that night three years ago. To her surprise, he didn't hate her. As a matter of fact, all he said was: “that makes a lot of sense.” Although he'd never pressured her to move their relationship faster before, he certainly didn't afterward. She hated to admit it, but this guy seemed perfect.
Now she read his email. All it said was, 'good morning beautfiul.' He never used capital letters in his emails, and always misspelled at least one word, she sometimes just wondered if he did it on purpose. She made a big deal about it one day when he sent an email that simply said, 'hi'. She told him she was proud of him, because he'd finally spelled every word in his email right, until he pointed out that the subject was, 'hye there sweet thing!’
She stared at the screen, having already hit the reply button, a black cursor flashed on a white canvas, and she wondered to herself how to respond. It wasn't as if she hadn't written to him a million times before, but she always had to ponder before responding, and if you asked her why, she'd never be able to tell you why. She sat in front of the flashing cursor, over and over she spread her hands out to type, finger tips touching the home row keys, massage them, then retreating away.
Finally, taking a deep breath she typed: 'Morning sweetie, what are we doing tonight, you said it was a surprise... you know I hate surprises!' She read it a few times, making sure it looked alright, then, finally satisfied, she drug her finger across the touch pad in one motion and then tapped it gently while the cursor hovered over the 'Send' button. She watched the little animation pop up showing her message being folded up into a paper airplane, and then being tossed off into oblivion.
Satisfied with this, she stood up, shut the lid of her laptop, and walked back into her kitchen, her thick socks now protecting her feet from the bitter cold of the tile, she poured the remaining coffee into a large thermal cup, poured in some French Vanilla Coffeemate, and a little sugar, stirred it and put the lid on tight. She carried it over to the hallway, grabbed up her little pink pocket book off the small table there, and slipped it into her black leather purse, checking as she did that her cell phone was inside, hanging from a coat hook, slipped her tennis shoes on, while bracing herself on the wall, put on her gray Patagonia fleece vest. She amused herself with the thought of all the work she just went through to leave the house, grabbed her keys and purse and went out the door.
Four floors down on the elevator, she checked her mail from the previous day at the bank of mail boxes just inside the building lobby, but finding nothing of interest, she crammed it all back in and re-locked the small metal door, and continued her journey out of the building where she lived.
Once outside, her breath in the air told her how cold it was, she thought about going back upstairs and digging her scarf, gloves and earmuffs out of the closet, which she had bought in a cute set the winter before, having left her previous set in a coffee shop down the street. She had actually hoped someone would have turned them in, but the evil in people was too strong. Sometimes the temptation to steal is too much for anyone it seems. Deciding the work was more than the gain, she consigned herself to being cold for a couple blocks to the subway entrance. Although she wasn't running late, far from it, she was the type of person who just wanted to get where she was going.
Caitlin walked. Her steps carried her down the sidewalk, which was bustling in the early morning. Everywhere are people in suits. Men and women are hurrying to jobs in every direction. Then there are the other people, just walking casually, pointing at, and going in and out of the various shops up and down the street. Some people were on cell phones, talking loudly, other people seemed to be talking to themselves, and still more were just talking to each other. Here and there a person was standing just outside the flow of traffic, in front of a dry cleaner's store front, or a dress maker's window. In the street, traffic milled by, now just after 9 A.M., cars in four lanes roll by, heading to and from various places. She smiles a little bit, this is her city, these are her people, and she's happy.
Descending the stairs, and considering the waves of people going both directions, she wonders in a daydream sort of way where everyone is going. This keeps her attention while she digs her subway pass out of her purse, swipes in and goes through the automatic turn styles. She fumbles a bit on the other side, trying to get the pass back into the slot in her pink pocket book, which takes her a surprisingly long time. She notices that the transit cop standing at the entrance gate is watching her with mild amusement, as she switches her coffee back and forth. She flashes a weak smile and finally gets her purse straightened out. He smiles back, and tips his cap to her with a sparkle in his eyes. An older man, looking a bit out of time, he has the weathered features to be someone’s grandfather, and very likely is. She flushes a bit at the gesture and continues on her way to her platform, a maze of escalators and course-ways leads her a few tracks over, where she stops at a little new stand and picks up a new issue of Glamour, which is the only thing that catches her eye, a cover story lists something about Rachel Rhey. She folds it over, and sticks it under her arm, and then goes to wait for the next train.
There's a big red lit sign that flashes arrival times, which tells her the blue line is running 'On Time' and will arrive in '~4 Minutes'. She stands and waits. This is not every morning for her. Normally she would be waiting for the yellow line, which she takes to the university campus, but today she is off classes, like every Wednesday, and today she is taking an early shift at the crisis center where she works part-time to pay bills. It pays surprisingly well, actually, which she marveled at when she first found the job. She set out expecting to volunteer, when they told her she would be making almost $11 an hour, she nearly laughed at them, but felt that it wouldn't be proper on an interview, to laugh at the interviewer. It turns out that they have very good funding, and weren't able to support the operation without training and paying the call center staff. It was too good to be true. She would be able to quit her job at Starbucks. It was like killing two birds with one stone.
The train arrived, and she felt the crowed surge her in with them, she imagined water through a crack in a dam. Once on the train, a kid in his teens stood up and let her take his seat, another marvel. She thanked him cordially as he stepped forward a bit on the train to grab an open strap, sat down, and opened her Glamour magazine. The article she was hoping to read turned out to be more of a blurb about a new show Rachel Rhey was hosting on the Home and Garden Network, but paging her way through, she found a few other things of interest. Before too long her stop came up, and she followed the surge out, sidestepping the surge in.
The subway train actually stopped under the building she worked in, which was an impressively large downtown office building. It housed many law firms and broker houses, accountants and architects, and a slew of other offices that Caitlin didn't really understand. She went up the stairs, emerging from under the ground into the bright morning sunshine reflecting off of the various glass buildings that towered over her. It's just as few short steps and she's in the lobby, and just a few more to get her in front of the elevators, all 8 of them. She waited with a small group of people, mostly in suits, drinking coffee and reading papers, or talking into headsets about deals, telling people they would soon lose them, they were about to get on the elevator, they'd call them back, apparently. Caitlin sipped her own Coffee, still hot, and just watched the numbers descend on the displays above each door, trying to predict which one would open first.
Ding, and the doors opened, with was the second to the last on the right, and they all made their way toward it. She got in and asked a young Hispanic woman at the front to press '29', half shouting over a particularly loud man in a pinstripe suit and tie who was shouting to the person on the other end of the phone that they were breaking up. The woman smiled, and pressed the button for her. Soon the doors closed, with an almighty lurch the car lurched up, only stopping three times before reaching the twenty-ninth floor, where Caitlin had to push a little bit to get out from the back.
She makes her way down a long, beautifully lit hallway, track lighting along the ceiling illuminating several art prints hanging on either side, all of which had colors that perfectly matched the multi-toned carpeting, every floor was a slightly different color, which is how she knew when she got off on the wrong floor. The office that the Women's Crisis Center Hotline used as a call center was about halfway the next hallway on her right, the door was plain wood, and only had the suite number on it. She went inside.
“Caitlin!” Florence was always happy. Always.
“Hi Florence,” Caitlin takes off her fleece vest and hangs it on the coat rack just inside the door, over top of a few chairs that served as a makeshift waiting area, not that anyone really waited there, but when they did, they were ready. Florence sat at the front desk. She was the 'Office Manager', which meant that she was the woman that took care of all of the administration duties in at the call center. She mostly just took calls when they were busy, and took care of the paperwork and coordinating with the Crisis Center when they weren't.
The call center was an independent entity from the crisis center. The call center was where all of the hotline calls went, there are about 40 people who took those calls, on rotating shifts, 24 hours a day, seven days a week, helping young women deal with everything from health concerns to depression, to domestic problems, and pregnancy issues. They mostly just referred them to the crisis center, or various clinics, but it was good work. They helped a lot of women who just didn't know where to turn, which is why Caitlin liked working there. She would gladly do it for free, but the money was still good.
“Honey, you should be wearin' a scarf or something, and gloves, my goodness chil' it's cold out there today!” Florence was a round woman, she was round woman, not fat, but plump, which was made doubly so by her massive breasts, Caitlin had guessed once they were at least half way through the alphabet in cup size. She always wore the same sort of floral patterned dresses older women wore to church on Sunday, today was no exception. Even scolding Caitlin', her bright white teeth gleamed in stark contrast to her rich brown skin.
“I didn't expect it to be this cold, Florence,” Caitlin shrugs and continues, “It wasn't so bad, I wasn't outside long.” It was hard not to smile when you were talking to Florence. She was just one of those people, always making the room brighter by just being in it.
Florence says, “Well sweetie, yer a bit early, but I don't see no harm in gettin' started right away.”
“Been quiet today?” It was always quiet in the mornings, which was why she'd bought her magazine. There wouldn't be much else to do at the little desk, except maybe play solitaire, the one with real cards, not the one with mice.
“Of course chil',” and Florence laughs, and then gets back to work, Caitlin walks past her into the office. Caitlin's desk is shared, they only have 15 places for people to sit, since there's never need for more than 10 or so people at one time anyway, they all share workspaces. No one but Florence, and a couple of the older ladies work full time anyway. She sets down her coffee and cleans the desk off, Sarah sat there last, and for some reason she always leaves papers covered in doodles and little quips on the desk when she leaves. Caitlin doesn't mind, Sarah's actually pretty talented, and she told Sarah that once, Sarah laughed and said that was why she was going to art school, which was never going to get her a real job, but at least someone noticed. In the top drawer of the little desk is a plastic Ziploc bag, in which lays her headset, which she puts on around her neck, clipping the cord to the neck of her sweater, thinking now that she should have worn something underneath, it's very warm.
Caitlin takes her coffee mug into the little break 'nook', which is a small folding table with a coffee maker, a water cooler and a mini fridge. She tops off her coffee cup and walks back over to her desk, noticing through the windows that the sky outside is now overcast. She sits down. Thap! A wadded up piece of paper hits her on the cheek.
Jared smiles and waves at her. One of only 3 males that works in the crisis center, Jared is an interesting character, although Caitlin doesn't really know him all that well, she does know that he's in his mid-twenties, married, even if he has some homosexual mannerisms, has a young daughter. Jared is also a very devout Christian, and a big goofball.
Caitlin just rolls her eyes at him. She grabs the ball of paper, which had caught on her sweater, and lobs it back. He covers his head as though he were about to be hit with a boulder from above and answers a call. Caitlin feels sorry for him, because all too often he has to transfer the call to one of the women in the center, a lot of times the callers don't want to talk to a man.
Caitlin takes a sip of coffee, burns her already burnt lips and hears three long high pitched beeps in her ear.
“Woman's Crisis Hotline, this is Jane,' she says, they never use their real names, everyone in the center has to pick a plain, short name to use. Caitlin liked the idea of being Jane Doe when she started.
“Hello,” the girl on the other end sounds nervous, she also sounds young, early teens is Caitlin's guess. There's a short pause.
“Hi, how can I help you,” Caitlin has long since learned the various scripts and responses to the callers, but she rarely uses them, instead she just talks to the girls that call in.
“Well,” the girl seems to be searching for words, there is another pause, and just as Caitlin is about to prompt her, to tell her that it's ok, she finally continues, “I think I might be pregnant...”
The voice on the other end of the line trails off, Caitlin can hear something like a television show in the background, it sounds like 'The Price is Right'.
“Ok, what can we do to help?” Caitlin once made the mistake of telling a caller that there were a lot of local abortion clinics right away after hearing this, she didn't use the correct term of 'Planned Parenthood Centers', the girl on the other end, in horror told her she wanted to keep it and hung up. Caitlin nearly cried.
“Well...” the girl seems to be concerned about saying it, “I- I guess I don't know, what's the right thing to do?”
Caitlin's taken this call many times, “Well, I can't really tell you that, not yet anyway,” she waits a second, listening for those audible clues, thinking it safe she continues, “there are a lot of options, the hard part is discovering which one is right for you.”
The girl on the other end warms up, “Well, how do I figure it out, I mean, I'm scared to death.” Her voice betrays her, fear in every word.
“Most women are in your position. It's ok to be scared, it's a big deal.” The girl on the other end of the line cries a little. It's just one or two small sobs, and Caitlin says, “It's going to be ok. We're here to help you through this, to help you make the right choice.”
Through a ragged breath, the girls whispers, “Thank you.”
Caitlin's heart always feels a small tug at times like this, “the best thing is to come in and talk to someone. You have a lot of options there too.”
The girl on the other end of the line doesn't say anything, she's listening, Caitlin continues, “Can you drive, or get a ride with someone you trust, to come talk to someone?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Good, here at the Crisis Center,” they always talk as if their right there, “you can come in and talk with a counselor, they can help you make the right choice, otherwise you can go into one of the local Planned Parenthood Centers, which are there to also help you make the right decisions, they specialize in working with women, and even men, through their pregnancies, it's up to you.”
“Well, maybe I could go there, you think they can help me?” This girl, like so many others, feels alone, scared, and always as if they are the only person in the world in their position.
“Of course,” Caitlin talks with her for a little while, answering some questions, and eventually telling her how to get in touch with a PPC close to her, she hangs up and feels good. She's confident that she's helped.
It's the next call which tears her apart.
There's a crackle of her head set when she moves, kinking the wire, so she can get more comfortable and ready to read an article or two. Then suddenly there are three short beeps and it's on to another call. Caitlin, as Jane, greets the caller again, careful not to sound too cheerful, it sometimes upsets the callers. Sometimes when you're particularly emotional and you want help, you don't want it to sound like you've just called someone who's just got off a ride at Disneyland.
“Hello,” the caller says. Her voice is calm, even, and very young, Caitlin guesses that she must be another teen, but it's hard to say from the one word, she has to remind herself, judgment over the phone is a bad idea. The girl on the other end is silent, waiting for Caitlin, waiting for something.
“Hello, how can I help?” Caitlin listens, intently, trying to pick out the clues to help her help this girl.
“I think...” the girl’s voice trails off, and Caitlin lets it go, in her own time she says to herself. It's another few moments before the girl speaks again, “I think I was raped...”
Caitlin feels herself flushing, her ears burn hot. She can taste fire. To call it anger is an understatement. She is amazed at the gentle, calm quality of the girls voice, as her mind flies back and forth over the situation, she never deals well with rape cases, they make her angry in ways she can't describe, and often she has to escalate the calls to someone else, like Florence, who is better at keeping their heads. She wonders who did it, when, how, why? She wonders why the girl isn't sure, why she sounds so at ease, is she just looking for attention.
Caitlin tries to keep her voice calm, trying to remember the script for this, “have you contacted the authorities, is it safe to do so?” By the book, she thinks to herself.
“No, I'm.... I'm scared,” she says it in such a way that Caitlin can feel the fear in her voice, yet somehow she sounds as if one commenting on a painting of a serene landscape at sunset, “I just don't... I don't know.”
“What don't you know?” Easy, she tells herself, to her headset she says, “Can you tell me what happened?” Here there is a long pause, one Caitlin doesn't want, but expects. It's always hard to get these girls to talk about a rape. Generally, she was taught, that it's best to ask, and then stop talking, don't give them the opportunity not to answer.
The moment stretches on, painfully long, forever there is breathing on the line, and the both of them sit in the silence, a tension so tight it could snap at any moment, Caitlin could snap at any moment.
“My step-brother,” Her voice is quiet now, very quit, Caitlin as to turn the volume all the way up on the little box her headset is plugged into, “My step-brother came home from college for a few weeks...” She stops again, or maybe she's talking so quiet that Caitlin can't hear her.
Then she says again, “They were all here last night, Ross brought some of his friends from school, and they were drinking, and I was here, and Ross says, 'Hey kiddo, wanna drink?', and I never really drank before...” her voice falls away again, but this time, there are small sobs under the hiss of the phone line, and feels her anger rising inside her, like a bubble coming from deep under water. The girl gathers herself up, “they were all here, and I was drunk, I think, and Ross said I should dance for them...”
“It's alright,” Caitlin lies, she knows it's not alright, it never is, she's breathing heavily, her teeth clenched, she's ready to punch a wall, to break it, to put her fist right through his head, she says in a voice filled with forced calm, “you need to go to the police, they can help you, just dial 911, it's considered an emergency right now.”
“They held me down, I knew what they were doing, Ross went first, and they were all laughing, and they... THEY FUCKED ME, and I was crying and screaming....” her sobs get louder, and Caitlin, not knowing what else to do, presses a little red button on her phone, and a little red light turns on the phone, a recording of the call, from the beginning will be saved, and a number 09 on Florence's phone lights up, within a few moments, Florence is standing next to Caitlin, trying to plug her headset into a second port on the phone.
The girl is still going on, “there were 8 of them, all of them were taking turns, over and over, they just wouldn't stop,” her sobs grow to a point of near hysterics, Caitlin can't quite understand what she's saying, and she's crying so hard that she keeps having to gasp for breath, but she's still talking, spilling details of the previous night, and telling them everything, even though most of it is unintelligible. Those words that come through, the one's that Caitlin understands, make her nauseous, and weak, her hands shaking in rage, tears welling in her eyes.
“It's ok, it's alright sweetheart, you have to listen to me now, you need to get help, from the police, we can get help for you, we can call from here, and I can stay on the line while you wait for them to come, it's very important that you call as soon as possible.” It's everything that she can do to keep from breaking down, even this late in the call, Florence, already certain of what's happened, listening through her own headset is already over at the next desk, her own headsets cord stretching as far as it can, Florence is dialing the police.
The calm seems to return in the girl’s voice, “I can't, my dad... my dad is a cop, the police can't know, it would kill him, I can't.... I just want to see a doctor maybe, can I do that?”
“No,” Caitlin blurts, thinking after speaking, then quickly trying to correct herself, “Yes, you can, but the best thing is to talk to the police, let them take you to a hospital, we can help, maybe get someone from...”
“No!” She almost screams it, “daddy can't find out, it will kill him, and he'll kill them, he'll kill Ross, I know he will!”
Caitlin doesn't know what else to say, now Florence is explaining the situation, giving the emergency operator authorization to tap the lines, and whatever else it is they can do now days, Florence mouths something to Caitlin, something like, 'keep her talking.'
“Ok,” then she asks, “Can you tell me your first name?”
The girl on the other end thinks about it, and then she says, “It's Hannah, Hannah -”
Caitlin stops her, “Ok Hannah, I'm Caitlin, and I want to help you.”
“I thought your name was Jane,” Hannah sounds more than suspicious, she sounds almost angry, and all that goes through Caitlin's mind is 'shit, shit, shit'.
“Yeah, we don't use our real names here, for safety reasons. There are some bad people out there.” No kidding she thinks, don't hang up Hannah, please don't hang up.
“Oh,” is all Hannah says, for another excruciating moment. Then she says, “I'm scared, what if I get pregnant?”
Caitlin is seeing red, a velvety curtain of sheer red, through which the rest of the world, the office she sits in, the world outside the window, everything is cast in a deep red, anger welling up within her, fury, she says, “You need to go to the police, they will help you.”
“No, it's done... it's over, I just need a doctor, that's all,” Hannah cries again.
“How do you know it's over,” Caitlin says, she's speaking quickly now, trying to get the girl to listen to reason, “how do you know it won't happen again. You can't let them get away with this, you need help, it's the best thing for you, and them. They need help!” She's not even aware of how loudly she's yelling. She just wants Hannah to listen.
“No,” it's the last thing Hannah says. With a deafening click, the line goes dead, and there are a few clicks before Caitlin tears the headset off and screams, a mixture of the word 'fuck' and a pure guttural roar that tears her throat apart. She sobs, hard, her body nearly convulsing, a mixture of a deep well of sorrow and a deeper ocean of rage.
She stands up, kicking her chair from under her, and turns, and puts her fist cleaning through the drywall behind her. Then, withdrawing her arm, Florence shouting something behind her, she punches again, every ounce of strength goes into it. The office is filled with the sound of simultaneous crunching, as bones, most of them, are broken at the exact same moment, her hand finding a stud in the wall, which also cracks under the strength of the blow.
Caitlin crumples into a heap, cradling her right hand, and sobs, every part of her going into the sobs.
Florence is there, and she just holds her for a few minutes. Why was this girl so important? This isn't the first call like this she's taken. She wants to destroy the world. She wants to snap it like a matchstick. And just like that, she shuts down. The world becomes a blurry movie that passes around her in a haze, like looking through a fogged up window.
Several hours later, still hurt, but much calmer, Caitlin, Florence and Dr. Patricia Klein emerge from the automatic sliding doors of the St. Catherine's Hospital Emergency Room. Caitlin's hand is wrapped in a cast, which is a light purple color that somehow clashes horribly with her hunter green sweater. She's broken four bones, and each had to be set in a very painful way.
Now early afternoon, Caitlin wants to go home she says. She tells the two women that she's ok, she'll just take a cab, she wants to get home and rest. She's tired she says. Dr. Klein asks her is she's sure she's ok to be alone, and Florence says that she'll go with Caitlin, to be sure she gets home alright, and after a few minutes of adamant assurances, Caitlin is walking down the street to hail a taxi.
The day is only slightly warmer in the late day sun, which is shining brightly overhead. Patricia talks to Florence. They discuss Caitlin, both women concerned about her, both women feeling a maternal connection to her. They agree that she'll be alright, but just the same, they both agree to call her later in the day, just to be sure.
Caitlin floats home, not aware of the taxi ride, or the elevator right. She doesn't think about which key to use on her apartment door, and is only vaguely aware of pulling a purple envelope taped on her door, her name scrawled across in Eric's handwriting. She lies down on her couch, and falls asleep. She sleeps deeply, dead to the world, and she dreams.
She's in an alley, a dark alley late at night, she's covered in blood, and she's laughing, laughing hard, and it echoes all around her. She can make out faces in the darkness all around her, not faces, but eyes, and the places where faces should be. The eyes are bright, glowing, in the shadows all around her, and she turns round and round to look at them all. Still she's laughing, blood dripping off her hands, covering her from the chest down. She feels good.
When she wakes up, it's dark. Very dark, and it takes her a few moments to figure out where she is. Caitlin's head pounds, groggy, like she's hung-over, not that she's had a drink in years. She sits up on her couch, her vest bunched halfway around her, cutting into her arms. There is a throbbing pain in her left hand, which is heavier than usual, and un-wieldy. She squints in the darkness and as she sees the cast, she remembers what happened. She thinks to herself, in a voice not quite her own, she thinks 'damn'.
Sitting up causes the pain of her head to roll, down, it pounds deeper, in her temples, and she slowly remembers the pain killers the doctors that the E.R. had given her, Percocet. She stands up, and tries to make her way across her living room in the dark, her hand out in both sides until she reaches the wall and finds the light switch. The sudden illumination makes her flinch and she has to squint for a moment, her eyes not quite used to the dark, are even less prepared for the light.
After rifling through her purse on the stand in the hallway, she takes the opaque brown bottle to the kitchen, gets down a small tumbler and fills it with water. She takes two, per the directions on the label, and stands at the sink for a moment. The pills are large, at least for her, and it takes a few swallows to get them down, and she leans over her sink, the cold water still running, and uses her right hand, the one not in a cast, to splash a little water on her face.
She decides that since she's up right now, she might as well be awake. To be awake, though, she needs coffee, and for coffee she's going to go to the place down the street. It's a little coffee house, a trendy place that plays modern 'eclectic music' while students surf the internet without wires, and people discuss politics and the modern world. She has to write a paper and figures tonight is a good a night as any, she's awake without distractions.
She goes to the closet to get the laptop bag. She gets it have loaded when she realizes she only has one good hand, she's been able to write with both since she was a little girl, but the thought of typing with only one hand turns her off. Instead she snatches up her school bag, her purse, and her keys and heads back down to the street.
Outside it's even colder than it was in the morning, or maybe it's not. It's hard to tell. The street is a very different place at night, after the bars close. There aren't near as many people walking around uptown at night, most of the shops are long since closed for the day. A car will amble by occasionally, but at this point, she’s effectively alone. She steels herself against the wind and heads down the street, it's only a couple blocks to where she's going, she says to herself in a voice that feels very far away.
She walks, one foot in front of the other, noticing that she still feels very tired, but that the headache has more or less gone away already, the Percocet must be working. Her foot falls echo quietly as she walks, passing the darkened store fronts and empty cars, windows white with frost. Her mind wanders a bit, she thinks about the girl on the phone, Hannah, and she feels a tug deep inside. She wonders why she never felt so strongly about her own experience. She thinks about one of her classes, and various terms and ideas stream through her mind, but none of them seem to fit quite right, she thinks, maybe, it was because she had more control then, and that, in the end she one. The man who hurt her, who, she found out later, had hurt many women. The evil had been defeated that day. But still, why was this girl so different?
Her mind says something, she asks it kindly to repeat itself, but too late, the shadow out of the corner of her eye flashes for a moment, and a pair of hands, powerful and full of purpose grabs her by the shoulder. She doesn't think to yell. She just falls backward and is caught up by the neck, and drug into the alley. She's pushed forward into the bricks that make up the wall of a pharmacy.
A voice behind her, accompanied by a small, but firm pressure in her back says, “Gimme yer money bitch, or I'll fuckin' shoot you right here bitch.” The voice sounds agitated, like in a hurry, and she thinks to herself, offhandedly, why say bitch twice?
“Alright” she says, “my wallet's in my vest,” and he turns her around forcefully, so that her backs against the wall, she sees him clearly, a street lamp just outside the alley provides enough light. He's a small man, probably only a few inches taller than she is, but skinny, like a rail, which is obvious because of the tattered clothes he wears, revealing thing arms. His right hand holds a gun, a small pistol, his left hand is held out, waiting, in his eyes is a gleam and he looks her up and down, a little smirk breaks on his lips, which are a deep crimson color, his skin is a light brown, like a milk chocolate candy bar.
The man looks her up and down, and in that moment, the moment he's not paying attention to mugging and starts thinking with his penis, that's when she hits him, her left hand coming down on his skull, the thick caste causing a resounding crack and thud sound to bounce around the alley's close walls. The little man, who looks like a hobo trying to get money for more liquor, he just crumples and falls to the ground, letting out a low groan as he falls, his head smacking the pavement nearly as hard and Caitlin smacked him. His chest rises and falls slowly, and she stares down at him. He lies on the ground, a heap of a man. She feels pity for him, and at the same time, she feels revulsion unlike any she can remember.
She stands over him, watching him struggling to breathe, and she wonders, ponders, what's next for him. She thinks about the way he looked at her, he was moments from becoming a rapist, or maybe he's done it before. A switch in her mind flips, from someplace where she stores her pain, fuel for a rage she hasn't felt in a long time comes pouring out, lighting a flame behind her eyes. She wants to end him.
He groans and stirs. It’s a sound that makes her thrill in his pain. But it's more than he deserves, she thinks. The black pavement hides her attacker’s weapon, but she wants it. He rolls over and she spots it, and the rage explodes. All she sees in her mind is the round bolt, maybe six inches long, she's crushing his skull, her caste breaks, her fingers scream their protest, but it's muffled, like in another room, where she is now, she wants him over and done with, and nothing could stop her. The strength of her arm gives way, and the heavy squishing sound of her blows subside, his head nothing more than a mash of bone and flesh.
She collapses on the ground, breathing heavily. She will call the police. It will be self-defense, and a previous attack that will have them believing that she thought her life was in danger. The bruises on her should, no, will stand testament to her attacker’s ill will. She'll win this, she'll make it through.
A summer breeze lifts her curtains, the sun playing across her face. She awakes, feeling utterly content. Her day begins. The apartment is almost the same, though she's moved some of her furniture around. Caitlin thinks; today is the first day of the rest of my life. She floats lightly about, starting her day with coffee and a cigarette, and a bowl of generic Cocoa Puffs, the box says 'Choco Puffs', but its plain orange and white packaging, the colors of the private brand of the grocery store she bought them from.
She checks her email, and showers, shaving her legs, figuring that it's been about a week, and that's long enough. She curls her hair, puts on her make-up and then re-curls her hair, not happy with the summer humidity's effect. She leaves her bathroom, wearing a bath towel, and finds the black work suit she pressed the night before; a thigh length black skirt and matching suit coat, a lighter cotton blend, and a plain white silk blouse with a small bit of a lace around the neck. She dresses quickly and checks herself out in the mirror over her dresser. She winks at her mirror self, and makes her way to the door.
The phone is ringing in the kitchen, and she checks the caller-id before answering, “Hey babe, I'm about to head to work.” She cradles the phone between her shoulder and her ear, while she makes sure everything that should be in her purse, is.
Eric Bray's slightly nasally voice, somewhat crusted with sleep cracks over the earpiece, “I know, I just wanted to tell you 'Good Luck',” he leaves the words hang for a moment, then, as if he forgot, “and that I love ya, you'll be great.”
The smile on her face can probably be heard on the other side, “thanks hun, I'll see you tonight?”
“Wouldn't miss it for the world,” he kisses into the phone, and she kisses back and they both hang up, she sets the black handset back on the charger. She grabs up her purse and a black briefcase, pulls her keys off the hook on the wall and walks out the door, locking it behind her.
The street outside is just as busy as it always is, people rushing around, people walking slow, just people, and a lot of them, doing what people do. She heads up the avenue toward the subway, and gets on her train directly. She stands the whole way, having to switch her bag back and forth when it gets too heavy on one side.
When she emerges into the bright summer sunshine, the light stinging her eyes, but not detracting from the good day she's decided to have, she walks up the block, moving with the crowd heading the same direction. They stop and wait at a crosswalk, the traffic rolls by and around them, no one taking any notice of anyone else. People talk on their phones, or they look around, but each one of them is essentially alone.
She reaches the building, and walks in, going to the elevator and up to her new office. She thinks to herself, this is what all those years of school were for. The elevator rises through the bowels of the building, and crests near the top floor. She takes a deep breath as the door opens, and exits the elevator directly into the lobby of Schmidtler and Grolier, Inc.
The world seems new, colors are more vivid. This is the first day of the rest of her life, she thinks again. The receptionist smiles at her while asking someone on the other end of her headset to hold for a moment. Caitlin returns the smile and asks, “It’s my first day, and I’m not sure where I should be going.”
The receptionist looks closer at her and says, “Mr. Timms on the line for you, sir,” and after a pause she says, “Alright, I'll put him through. Thank you for holding, Mr. Irondale is on the line.” She presses a button on the phone, still looking at Caitlin, “Caitlin, right?” Caitlin glances down at the counter surrounding the middle aged brunette's workspace, and spots a name plate that reads, Margaret Anne.
“Yes, that's right, Margaret?”
For a moment, Margaret Anne's gleaming smile falters, but she quickly recovers with an obvious shake of her head, making the tight curls on her head bounce slightly, “Margaret Anne, yes, you'll be going down the hall to the left there, room 7B, it's a conference room. There's some paperwork on the table, go ahead and start filling out the new hire forms and I'll let Mr. Fontane know you are here.” With that, the conversation comes to an, Margaret Anne turns to her computer while pressing buttons on her phone.
Caitlin is left to walk down the hallway on the left.
