by J. Conrad
I’m not prepared. He twitches. That’s all I get, the only warning before his body lurches toward mine. My heart pounds in stark terror of the motion, and I jump, but at the same time, I’m paralyzed like a lump of jelly. I’ve barely moved at all, and I have nowhere to go. I have to run, I have to get out, but he’s blocking the way. I sidle back and forth, trying to anticipate and dodge as he approaches, but I don’t really go anywhere.
Ayden reaches me with a few more steps of his hefty footwear. He thrusts out his hand at me, his fat fingers splaying against my breastbone. The heat of his meaty palm against my damp blouse sickens me. His acrid sweat and body odor burst through failing, cheap deodorant. My stomach gurgles with nausea.
I jerk away from his touch and try to back up, but my calves only bang into a pile of boxes against the wall. I can’t take more than a few steps. As I sidestep toward the corner, my feet hit a stack of plastic buckets, and I knock them over. They hit the dusty plywood floor with a hollow sound, and they roll until they crack into the shelving unit. Ayden shoves his body in front of mine, pushing hard against my chest and slamming me into the wall next to the boxes. I grunt and lose my breath. Then I scream.
30
Fire! Somebody help! Fire!” Yes, “fire” is what I scream, and I scream it over and over again because I’ve always heard you’re supposed to yell “fire” instead of “rape.”
Ayden claps his sweaty palm over my mouth. I inhale his dirty-hand smell—metallic, like a car engine. The man who claims to be my boyfriend’s brother squelches my pleas to a muffled gag. He pushes his pudgy middle against me. He squeezes me between his gut and the wall, and I can barely breathe.
There are things in here. Things I could use. The toolbox is now just on the other side of him. Besides that, there’s a crowbar not far from the door. There are some metal rods leaning against the wall. There are cans of paint on the shelves, and various other supplies, any of which I could use as a weapon. But I can’t get to any of those things because I can hardly keep my eyes open, my head spins, and I can’t think straight—and I have no idea why. My normal self would have got the hell out of the shed the moment he showed up.
I tremble and convulse, still trying to will sound from my lungs through his smelly hand. My voice is suppressed and useless, and my muzzled terror pleases him.
With that moronic sneer on his face, Ayden explains how things are going to be. “Now, we can do this the easy way or the hard way.”
His meaty palm presses my lips against my teeth, and I can’t answer. I stare at him, barely moving despite jerking wildly—it’s like wrestling with a hanging beef carcass. My face smolders like I’m burning with fever, and I realize it’s more than the heat. He’s partially blocking my nose. Between that and him squeezing me against the wall, I can hardly get any air.
“You be real still, and you be quiet. If you don’t, things are gonna get ugly,” he says.
I guess things aren’t ugly now. This must be something else. I don’t know how to answer, so I nod. At least, I try to. I can’t move my head much, but Ayden feels the downward motion of my face against his hand.
“Good,” he says. “Now you try anything stupid, and I’ll kill you.” He reaches around behind his back with his free hand. He pulls out a small switchblade knife. He clicks it open, and for an instant, the blade glints silver in the sun. Then a gust of hot air blows the shed door shut. The small space grows yellow-brown and dark, a cellar-like room that entombs me while my vision adjusts to the change. I nod again.
“Unzip your pants and turn around.”
For a few seconds, my mind races in frantic wondering. I run different scenarios haphazardly through my head, envisioning what will happen if I don’t comply. My cowardice wins, and I do as he instructs. I unzip my jeans and tug them, along with my panties, down to my ankles. My face burns anew, my cheeks all sweaty and red and wet with tears. I want to sob, but the sound lodges in my throat like a cotton ball. I’ve stopped trying to scream. I put my hands against the wall to brace myself for what’s coming.
But then something happens. It’s a pivotal moment, a brief, fortuitous instant when the universe steps in and says, “Here you go. This is your chance to change your mind—if you’re still brave enough to do it.”
There’s an interval of a couple of seconds in which Ayden starts to unzip his own jeans. While I stand there, lightheaded and barely coherent, there’s a moment when he isn’t actually touching me. Since my cheek is pressed against the particle board wall, besides the sound of the zipper coming down, I don’t know everything he’s doing. I just know that for a fleeting instant, his hands are off.
My heart plunges, and I drop to the floor. I shield my head with my arm and scoot sideways, where I try to get up and make a run for the door.
“You little bitch,” Ayden says. He utters the words half under his breath like he wants to spit.
I haven’t made it one foot when he grabs me by the hair and pulls me to my knees with one hand. The cotton ball in my throat breaks free, and I start sobbing. My face contorts in a red, tear-streaked grimace, and terror rips through me like lightning. Terror and disgust. And degradation as thick and repulsive as Ayden’s body odor in the swelling heat.
I have to get my mind straight. I have to fight through the confusion and dizziness of this heat exhaustion and figure out what to do. There must be a way to use this chance the universe has given me. To gain an advantage. It doesn’t make sense to get trapped all over again.
Ayden yanks, and the muscles bulge in my neck as it bends backward. Here and now, I decide that no matter what he does to me, I won’t cooperate. With my scalp sore and stinging where he pulls my hair, I let my body go limp. He’ll have to make me stand, or he’ll have to commit his sordid act with me lying down. From a self-defense class, I know a move that might get me out of that.
“Have it your way,” he says. Still gripping a handful of my hair, he shoves my head against the wall.
Splitting pain shoots through the back of my skull all the way to my temples, and I cry out. He still hasn’t let go, and I kneel on the hard floor. Will he stab me now? I don’t see the knife anymore.
Ayden’s shoulder muscles tense, and I brace myself for another blow. This time, he slaps me across the face. I scream, and my body goes board-stiff before going slack. My already spotty vision worsens for a few seconds, and I blink as I strain to see. Glittery stars everywhere. I cradle my torso protectively with one arm and reach for my head with the other.
“Shut the hell up,” he says. With one hand, he shakes me by the hair. He squeezes my face with the other and forces me to look at him. “Shut up! Do you hear me?”
I know he’s saying other things, too, even though I can’t focus. But I know he is. He’s muttering profanity. Calling me names. Giving me instructions. “Lie down,” or “You lay there,” or maybe it’s “Lay down and shut up.” I can’t say which. I can barely hear him now.
“No, please,” I say, choking on my tears. “I’m sorry. I’ll call Korey. I’ll fix everything. I’m sorry.” I would probably tell Ayden anything now, including admitting to cheating on his brother and other things I didn’t do.
Ayden slaps me across the check again. With a crisp thwap, the shock jars me rigid. I get another whiff of his grungy sweat and underarm odor before he lets go of my hair so suddenly that my head whips downward. I throw my hands out to stop my face from smacking into the floor.
“I don’t give a shit about Korey, you little whore,” he says.
I can’t see him because now I’m prone with my pants around my ankles. But I picture him leaning over me, leering with his dull, brown eyes set too close together in his round face. He reaches down and grabs me at the hips before pulling me backward toward him. I squeeze my legs and buttocks together, tensing every part of myself. Bracing for impact. But as I lie here, sobbing so hard my drool makes a sticky puddle, I see the nail.
It’s a decent-sized nail, not the kind for hanging pictur
es, but the type used for decking. At this find, a part of me rekindles. Then for a second, a wave of wooziness hits me so hard I almost pass out. My ears ring, and my head throbs. He must have whacked me enough times to mess up my equilibrium. As I worry that I might not be able to make use of this pointed, metal gift, my hope of escape deflates. My consciousness sinks down, down, down, into some dark corner of myself.
Then, with my stomach somersaulting, I whoosh out. It’s almost like one of those out-of-body experiences, except I know it isn’t. My mind zooms outward and shows me the entire scene and where I fit within it. There I am. And there he is. I imagine I’m looking down on myself—looking down on both of us.
Backwoods Ayden is hulking over me in his crass t-shirt. His upper lip twitches as he gropes me and watches me squirm. My own face hangs poppy-red, so contorted in grief and pain I hardly recognize myself. Now I watch my hand shoot out like a snake’s mouth and grab that nail—that solid, three-inch, gunmetal-gray decking nail—before I twist my body and drive it straight into Ayden’s left eye.
Ayden wails. He screams a cry so excruciated and sharp I think I may have killed him. I expect him to spout more profanity, to tell me again all the terrible things I am, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t utter any words at all. Flailing his arms about wildly, he falls on me several times before attempting to stand up. He staggers backward, his feet pounding the dusty floor like hammers.
After rolling onto my side, for a second, all I can do is stare in silent horror from my place on the floor.
Run. I need to run.
I push myself up and scoot to the corner. Here I crouch down because he’s big, and he’s in my way. I buried the nail so deeply. I drove it in well. I made it count. Only about a quarter of an inch sticks out from his pupil. If there’s any blood, I don’t see it. It’s nothing like in the movies when blood gushes out everywhere. There’s only Ayden’s eye and a nail. He puts his hands over it and teeters drunkenly, banging into the plastic shelving unit. The force of his solid bulk makes a shower of various objects tumble off.
That’s when the cigarette falls. I didn’t see it until now. I was too engrossed with everything else—with Ayden’s body and hands and my exposed bottom and the pain in my face. But he came in with the cigarette and never put it out. He set it on the shelf, and I didn’t consciously notice, even though I’ve smelled tobacco smoke this entire time.
Other things occupy that shelf besides the cigarette. A cordless drill, a watering can, and a plastic container of gasoline for the lawnmower all sit there, right by the smoking butt that flutters to the floor with Ayden’s thrashing. When Ayden hits the ground in the throes of agony and the blinding light of retinal detachment, all those things rain down after him.
Maybe I didn’t screw on the cap properly. All I know is the gasoline and cigarette consummate their marriage in instant combustion. The floor bursts into flames first. After that, it’s Ayden’s jeans. He’s still screaming, but now he’s convulsing too. His arms, legs, and really his entire body writhe in a shivering dance of pain.
With the smell of petroleum and wood in my nostrils, I leap to my feet. But something else draws my gaze like a magnet. Ayden’s ring, the one he removed when he came in, rests nearby on the floor. My brain isn’t working, but the jewelry seems significant. Is there something special about it? He intentionally took it off before putting his hands on me. Maybe it’s a class ring. If so, perhaps it could help the police identify him.
Another wave of disorientation hits me. I can’t pass out. I can’t because if I do, I’ll burn to death. For a moment, my legs won’t comply. They give beneath me, and I catch myself on a plastic bucket. But while I’m halfway to the floor, I reach out and grab Ayden’s thick, gold ring and slide it on my thumb.
Now run—that’s what I need to do—but I can’t with my pants around my ankles. Yanking as hard as I can, I pull up my jeans, grabbing the panties along with them. I tug them to my waist, and without zipping, vault across the two-foot space between Ayden’s head and the wall.
My sneakers flit across the dry grass as I surge out into the dazzling August sun. I inhale the clear outdoor air, so cool and fresh in comparison. I’m free. Seconds tick by with my heart pounding violently, and I slow near the middle of the yard. With my fingers curled around the waist of my jeans, I turn to see the shed. Orange flames devour it—devour the injured man who remains inside the blistering space.
I could shut the heavy door and lock him in. I could.
31
My every nerve crackles with an insane, excited glee while I entertain this dark deed. Then I blink. The thought evaporates, and I’m Aria again. I stand here as a version of myself I don’t recognize, all disorientation, blurred vision, and weak limbs. My unzipped jeans sag, and sweat pours down my face. The shed door yawns open like a window to a fiery inferno, but it’s not for me to decide what happens next. I run into the house, deadbolt the door, and call the police.
“Was—there’s—someone attack me in our sh—shed,” I say to the dispatcher. I lean against the living room wall with the sharp smoke odor still in my nostrils.
“Ma’am, can you please repeat that?” the lady asks.
“Yes. Someone attacked me in the fire—I mean, in the backyard. I got away, and the shed caught fire.” I groan and run my hand across my head. My fingers find a wet, golf ball-sized lump. “I—I don’t feel well. Think I got heat estion—heat exhaustion.”
“What’s your name?”
“Aria Owen,” I say. That’s easier.
“What’s your address?” she asks.
I tell her. She says she’ll send officers and an ambulance and has notified the fire department. While I wait for them to arrive, she asks about the person who attacked me.
“He said he’s Ayden Nemeth, my boyf’s brother. Boyfriend’s brother.” I stammer out his full description the best I can.
“Have you had anything to drink today?” the woman asks.
“No,” I say. My head pounds, and I need to sit down, but I don’t want the couch. I lower myself to the carpeted floor. Its stability lessens the dizziness.
“No alcohol today?”
“No, only lemonade.” Korey’s oily smile invades my mind. He stood there in the hallway, shoving the bottled drink at me as I passed. “I think it had something—maybe something in it.”
“Did someone give it to you?” she asks.
“Yes. My boyfriend did, before house—before I left him—his house.” Geez. If only I could speak like a human again.
“All right, ma’am. We’ve got an ambulance on the way. Just sit tight until they and the police arrive, and stay inside with your doors locked,” the nice lady says.
“Thank you,” I say.
When we hang up, I remember the ring on my thumb. I glance down at my hand to see it streaked with blood. The red smear shines across the gold and whatever that large jewel is in the middle. Something white and blue. My eyes can’t focus well enough to make it out. That’s okay—all that really matters is having Ayden’s blood so the police can run tests on it if they need to. All I have to do is preserve it until I hand it over as evidence.
I stumble into the bathroom and grab the sink to get my balance. I catch my reflection in the mirror. My left cheek is sooty purple, and there’s a knot on my scalp, but at least my hair covers it.
My gaze alights on the ceramic cotton ball dish. Painted pink and red flowers with green leaves decorate the lid. I open it, toss the cotton balls in the trash, and drop the bloody ring inside. I replace the top and wash my hands. After drying them, I carry the dish to the living room and set it on the coffee table. I’ll give it to one of the officers when they come.
My heart rate finally slows. The drowsiness digs in as I sit on the edge of the couch, my eyelids drooping. No longer having the strength to stay awake, I lie down. My mouth is dry and sour tasting. Within seconds, I’m out cold.
Thud, thud, thud.
Something tugs at my consciousness.
Calls to me. Through a deep ocean of rich, encompassing sleep, the sound finds my ears.
Thud, thud, thud.
“Police,” says a man’s voice.
My eyelids flutter. I blink heavily, and my chest constricts. The police are here. I gasp and sit up, wondering how long it’s been.
Thud, thud, thud. An officer’s knocking.
“Coming,” I say. I stand, and my legs nearly buckle as I stagger to the door. After fumbling with the knob, I get it open.
“Good afternoon, ma’am. I’m Officer Davis,” says the policeman. He’s a youngish guy in his thirties with dark hair.
“Officer,” I mutter, but my gaze tugs to what’s occurring in the backyard behind him. I can’t stop gawking.
In a trance, I slip out the door and stand beside the policeman. All I can do is stare. Through the impenetrable brain fog, I visually devour the scene grim I had a part in creating. It’s all new again, and it’s too shocking to be real.
The fire has spread to the surrounding yard near the greenbelt—thank God it didn’t come toward the house. As I watch, two firemen blast the few remaining flames with water from the high-pressure hoses. The charred remnants of our shed are black and smoking now. Scents of gasoline, burnt wood, and melted plastic carry up to me in the hot breeze.
People huddle around something that lies on the ground outside. There are several officers there, so I can’t see what. Police officers mill to and fro across the lawn with their radios buzzing. Then the small crowd parts and two EMTs lift a stretcher covered in a white sheet. They carry it briskly around the side of the house, out of my view, toward the front yard. Seconds tick by, maybe minutes, in which I block out all else but this vision. Its intensity turns me to stone.
My phone rings. In a daze, I answer it and talk to Carol, but I’m not really present. Then I come back to myself, and the images before me brighten and fade again. I sag, wanting to tumble and fall into a welcoming, mental blackness.
