But when you’re high, stoned, drunk, rolling, tripping, take your pick, time is different. You can move through it, forward and backward, not confined to the rules anymore. Three days can go by, five years can come back. His face can come back. And I can reach out and touch him again. But it’s not real, Rainn. Why not? It’s real to me.
His face is real again. Not quite the way it was, fractured by my memory. A picture of a picture of a picture. Him, but just slightly warped, something slightly wrong, a reflection in a rippling pool.
“Michael!” Jayden rolls over on his skateboard. When did he get here? His face is right. But his Mohawk is shorter, and it’s blue. “Hurry, man!”
Michael jumps on his board and propels himself forward. He looks over his shoulder. “Let’s go, Rainn!” I’m here? I look down. I’m on a skateboard too, my ripped jeans fluttering in the chilled midnight air.
We’re behind a skate ramp. The beams that hold it up offer some false sense of invisibility. Shiloh puts a can of black spray paint in Michael’s hand. Jayden puts a can of red in Michael’s other hand. He goes to work, making long strokes over the wood. The hiss of the can is constant. I look over my shoulder, paranoid we’re being watched.
“Come on, dude. We should bail,” Jayden says, slapping Michael’s shoulder, but Michael won’t stop, or even acknowledge him. The concrete is slick. It’s been raining.
Michael is lost in the paint, spraying and spraying, flinging his arms across the ramp, his focus impenetrable. I look past him, past the mist that separates me from what he’s painting. It clears. It’s mostly black, some more concentrated than the rest, all sweeping diagonally. And there’s a man in the center, a red man collapsed on his knees, reaching for something. But he’s being swept backward, dissipating into the wind, disintegrating.
A light blares on us. “Hey!” It’s a cop. Michael drops the cans of spray paint. Jayden reaches down and sweeps up the red. I reach for the black, but kick it away with my foot. “Shit!”
I take another swipe and retrieve it. We grab our skateboards and run. You know you have an ineffective method of transportation when it’s faster to just pick it up.
“Freeze!” Yeah, they actually say that. We all get to the fence at the same time, fling our boards over, and climb. The cop is at the fence already. How’s a fat ass like that move so fast?
“I said freeze!”
He reaches for my leg just as I’m trying to swing over the top, attempting to pull me back down. Michael is on the other side now, the only one on the ground already. He kicks the cop in the gut through the chain-link as hard as he can. The force knocks Shiloh, Jayden, and me to the ground next to Michael. We jump up and run.
My heart is pounding through my chest. I can hear the guys’ labored breathing and the thud of their feet beside me. A layer of slick sweat covers me. We run and run long after we can’t hear the cop’s fury anymore. It’s Shiloh who finally reaches out for me.
“Rainn, stop.” He has to put some muscle into slowing me down. “Stop.” He’s panting so hard he can barely get it out. I stop, turn, and see Jayden and Michael leaning over on their knees trying to catch their breath. We’re in the woods now, a small little clump of trees on the hill by our house. It’s cold.
Jayden starts laughing first, then we all do. I keep staring at Michael, his colorful hoodie, his gray eyes, slim figure. We look so alike. Everyone says that, but not a thing like our mother. Neither of us have ever been convinced we’re related to the woman, but we are certainly related to one another.
I notice a giant black stain on my hand from the can of spray paint I put in my pocket. I look down; it’s bleeding through the fabric. “Ah, man.” And this is my favorite hoodie.
“Is that one dead?” Jayden asks. I nod. “That’s okay,” he says. “This one has some life.” He pulls out the red can and the paper bag it came in he’s been storing in his pocket. He sprays the paint in the bag and passes it to Michael. Michael looks so young next to Jayden, tiny.
I watch silently as Michael puts the bag over his nose and mouth and inhales deeply. I see the euphoria ripple through his limbs. His posture slumps. His hands droop to the wet grass like a monkey.
Jayden takes the bag next, freshening up the paint even though that’s completely unnecessary. The bag comes to me then. Michael’s face is drooping. I half expect the skin to melt right off.
I put the bag to my face and breathe in. Choking. Bleeding lungs. Paint them red. Can’t breathe. Drowning. Gasping.
“Rainn!”
Gasping.
“Rainn!” Cold fingers on my burning skin. “Wake up, sweetie.” I’m covered in sweat still from running. Soft comforters. Not running. My chest still hurts from the paint. Sun rays. I still see Michael. He’s gone.
“Open your eyes.”
Voice of an angel, pulling me from the ground. I open my eyes. Jaselle. Dreaming. When did I fall asleep? My brain hurts, resisting my attempt to recall going to sleep, or anything for that matter.
“You okay, honey? You need to puke or something?” she asks.
“No.” I groan and try to sit up. As I straighten up, whatever’s in my stomach sloshes around and I rethink the throwing up offer. She’s rubbing my back. It feels so good. I’m sore everywhere, tender to the touch.
“Are you okay?” Jaselle asks. I can finally see the room clearly. I’m still a little drunk, I think, dizzy. The sun is bright. It’s late.
“You feel really hot, babe.”
“I’m okay,” I finally answer her. Some fraction of me tingles from her calling me babe, but the sensation can’t overcome the lingering dread of Michael’s face.
“Bad dreams?”
“I’m fine. I should go.” I nod like it’s the best idea I’ve ever had even though just the thought of standing up makes me sick. I start trying to get to my feet and Jaselle bounds up.
“You don’t have to go. Take a shower, have some breakfast. You don’t always have to run away.”
I look at her and catch her eyes. They’re full of something I can’t quite identify. Then it’s covered with embarrassment. She didn’t mean for me to see that much.
“I could use a shower,” I confess. I can use Benny’s any time I want, but he’s definitely your classic man. I bet Jaselle’s shower is clean and has conditioner. She smiles.
“Good. It’s in there. Take your time.”
I resist the urge to rummage through her things. I look in the shower and smile. No conditioner after all. Of course, dreadlocks, she doesn’t need it. The tub is free of the standard layer of slime in Benny’s, though.
The steam is suffocating. There’s black fuzz closing in my vision. I wobble light-headedly, rushing through before I collapse. I turn the water off and wretch in the toilet, my wet bare knees sliding on the tile.
I wash out my mouth and then just sit there breathing, taking in the pain, feeling it flow through my skin. There’s a gentle tap on the door. “You okay?” It’s Jaselle. I stagger to my feet and open the door. I stand feebly in front of her, naked. Her eyebrows weaken and she reaches out and touches my face.
And then something happens. My knees buckle. Jaselle helps lower me to the floor, softening the fall as best she can. She grabs my head with both hands, weaving her fingers through my wet hair, and she kisses the top of my head.
There’s shattered glass in my lungs. Waves of burning fumes. “I should have never let him hang out with us,” I choke out. Jaselle squeezes me tighter. “I killed him.”
“Shh.” She rubs my back. She doesn’t say a word, no questions, just holds me. I wipe away the tears and look up at her. It comes back to me that I’m naked. She seems to remember at the same time. She looks at me. I watch her eyes wander. I can see her desire, almost painful. I stare at her, waiting for her to kiss me, lunge at me, take me. I’m certain she will.
But then she sighs and pulls down a towel from the counter. She drapes it around my shoulders, closing it in front, then touches my face and smile
s unconvincingly.
“I should go,” I say.
Jaselle nods. “Always going.”
She watches me get dressed from the doorframe of the bathroom. It looks like she wants to say something, and I’m moving at a crawl to let her, but the silence just drags through the space between us.
All dressed, I walk over to her again. “Well, see you.”
She nods. “All right.”
I shift my weight awkwardly. I don’t know what I’m expecting, but it doesn’t seem time to leave yet. The silence is unbearable, the distance unconquerable.
“Jaselle,” Noah calls from the other room. I close my eyes and nod irritably. Jaselle just watches me, not answering him yet. She’s right there, within my grasp, waiting for me as much as I am for her, yet I can’t move. Friends. You’ve made it this far. Turn around and leave.
I reach out stupidly and hug her, my arm sliding around her neck. She hugs me back around the waist, and we linger there for a second. When I drop my arms, it feels totally inadequate.
“Jaselle,” Noah yells louder. We emerge from her room together. I stride past Noah, determined not to so much as look at him.
“See ya, Savage.”
I shut the door hard, only pulling back from the full slam at the last instant.
Chapter Six
The longer I stay away from the alley the harder it is to go back. That’s why I rarely take the guys up on offers to spend the night. It only makes it harder. But tonight is the worst night I’ve had in a long time back here. It’s freezing. And when I say freezing I mean it in the Denver, Colorado, literal way. Freezing.
It’s starting to snow. I look to my flip down storage unit. It’s just big enough to fit in if it gets too intense out here, but I have to take all my stuff out to get inside, which I really don’t want to do. Plus, it’s cramped. I can’t lie flat in there, and it’s pitch-black, obviously. Claustrophobia kicks in pretty fast.
It seems darker than usual tonight. Maybe it’s the cloud cover. Maybe it’s the memory of Jaselle’s warm bed, the feel of her skin. Or maybe it’s the memory of something darker. Benny’s bedroom light flicks on, and I see his silhouette. His window is on the second floor and has a perfect view of me. I roll my eyes and flash a peace sign at him.
I hear people talking, their voices echoing off the walls, bouncing down the alley. I clench up involuntarily, a shiver of uneasiness. No one actually walks past me. The voices just fade away. I take a breath of relief, then hate myself for it. I hate that it only takes a night or two away and this place is as scary as ever. The chance that someone will come within a fifty-foot radius of me sends my heart pounding to a heart attack worthy rate, but usually even when someone does come by they don’t mean any harm.
Usually, it’s just gray, homeless men digging in trashcans and mumbling to themselves, stinking like a dead dog. Sure, you kind of wonder if they’ll snap one day and murder someone for no reason; sure, they like to talk to you even though you can’t really understand them, and sure, they’re a little quirky and often times have a mental disability. But the homeless never hurt me.
Gang members in the alley are the ones you have to be afraid of. They come through, pants falling off, surrendering to boxers, shiny chains, and sports hats. Most of them deal their drugs and move along, but rarely do they go without comment.
I’ve found just the right tone to ward them off, strong, stern, but not insulting and definitely not inviting. Acknowledge but don’t encourage. You’re not afraid. You’re not lonely. You are definitely not vulnerable.
But some of them just can’t pass by a young woman alone in an alley.
So, I’ve been raped. Once.
Ever since then Benny has developed an obsessive and involuntary tic that keeps him peering out the window at all hours of the night, making sure I’m okay. And when he does stop looking out the window, he leaves it open so he’ll hear if anything is amiss, even when it’s freezing. He stopped locking the back door too thinking that if only I hadn’t had to look for my key I would have gotten inside before anything happened.
Poor Benny, stuck in a state of perpetual worry. He can’t stop seeing me the way he found me that day, bloody and broken into a collapsed ball of mush on his back step, shaking in the pouring rain, watching a river of my own blood navigate its way through the alley. It was like I relished the pain in some sick way, the same way I relish it now, reflecting in the heat of my dream about Michael, soaking in the agony, fulfilling some unspoken debt by reliving what they did, by suffering.
I picture their faces, the way they came sauntering through my alley, a backpack full of drugs freshly emptied.
Most people assume I’m a hooker, a drug addict, or a drug dealer when they see me out back; can’t say I’d think different. They almost didn’t even see me they were so elated, fanning out handfuls of crisp Benjamins. But the last one saw me, a short, loud little shit.
“Hold up, hold up, hold up.” He drags the last “up” out forever and stops his buddies with an outstretched arm.
“What, motherfucker? Get your hands off me.” He dusts himself off. The third one says something, but I can’t understand it through his grill.
“Oh shit! Look at this little piece of white pussy.” All three of them head my way. I stand up and back away, trying my best not to look afraid.
“How much, baby?”
“Not for sale.”
“Come on, baby, you seen the paper. You know we’re good.”
“That’s great, take it ’round the corner then. There’re some nice girls on 15th. I’m sure they’d love it.”
“Maaaan, youz a grmmm shaw crra mmmm bras shaw,” the inaudible one with the grill says.
“I didn’t hear a word you just said, man.”
The short little thing gets in my face. “He said take your mother fuckin’ clothes off, bitch.” He gives me a strong shove to let me know he’s not playing around anymore.
The other one, the one that isn’t grill guy or short shit rushes up on me and slams me against the wall and presses his forearm against my throat, hard.
My arms are acting instinctively, swatting at his face, scratching, flailing, trying to relieve the pressure that’s threatening to crush my windpipe.
He grabs my jeans and his hand slithers inside.
He’s rough, pressing too hard. He forces his fingers inside me. A surge of power pushes me off the wall, but he slams his forearm into my throat to control me.
“That’s my pussy.” Flakes of spit fly out of his mouth as he says it.
Short Shit and Metal Mouth are laughing and slapping hands next to me.
“What you gon’ do to her, Ice?”
He doesn’t answer Short Shit. Instead he looks at me. “Should have taken the money, bitch. We woulda paid. Now don’t be a cunt about it and it won’t hurt.”
He pulls my pants down as far as he can, which is only halfway between where they started and my knees, but that’s plenty. I slap him as hard as I can, only slightly satisfied that it connects.
Both of his hands close around my shirt. He pulls me toward him then slams me back on the wall. My head snaps back from the momentum and smacks on the brick. I’m dizzy and certain I’m bleeding. I’m shocked at how completely ineffective my struggle is. I always considered myself so much stronger than this.
“I said quit fightin’ it, bitch.”
“Fuck you!”
He punches me. He punches again and again. He pulls my neck down and knees me in the gut. I absorb the pain of each blow knowing it’s an extra second he isn’t inside me. Maybe something will save me if I can just keep him busy hitting me long enough. Then the blow that knocks me out cold, an elbow to my face.
I’m only out for a second, but when I come to his jeans are unzipped and he’s already on his way in. I flail around trying to stop him but it’s too late. He uses his entire body to pin me to the wall and shoves himself inside me. Pain erupts, a pain I’ve never felt before, and it’s not just
where he forces himself in. No, it’s everywhere, like an electric shock, spreading to every inch of my body.
I’m crying, not sure when I started. And for the first time, I scream. I beg them to stop, and I mean beg. I hear the sound of a gun cock by my ear. Short Shit has a 9mm pointed at my temple.
“Shut the fuck up, bitch, or I’ll put one in you. No screaming.”
I silently endure it, trying to focus more on the cold tip of the gun against my burning skin than the shooting jolts of pain that come with every thrust “Ice” makes. I can feel him getting close and I feel like there has to be a way to stop him. I have to stop him.
And like Short Shit reads my mind he presses the gun against my head harder. Ice starts moaning a little and pulls me against him by my waist, going deeper yet, and then he comes. He comes inside me, no condom, nothing, disgusting little piece of shit Ice semen inside of me.
He kisses me and pulls out, finally, and then just for fun grabs the gun from Short Shit and pistol-whips me.
“Your turn,” he says to Short Shit and now Ice is holding the gun. I cry harder as I take in the fact that all three of them will be inside me, passing me around like a damn joint.
To be completely blunt, at least his cock is smaller, but he’s got this triumphant look on his face and keeps making comments about how at least I’m not so dry anymore (because I’m bleeding) and how I’m his slut.
He grabs a handful of my hair and kinks my neck in a strange and aggressive way the whole time he’s fucking me. He comes a little faster. I guess watching Ice got him halfway there.
And last, Metal Mouth. He’s a little gentler, but by now I’m so destroyed it doesn’t really matter. He comes quickly and gets out.
Ice and Short Shit still aren’t done. They pistol whip me again, which sends me to the ground. They each kick me several times, and I’m convinced they’re going to kill me now, beat me to death, and the funny thing is the only thing I think about it is, I should have just taken the bullet.
Shadows of a Dream Page 6
