by Sex, Nikki
The waves were coming in gently, barely breaking against the sand. They have a rhythm, the waves—like the rhythm of a song or the rhythm of making love. That's what I like to think is going on. The waves are the sea making love to the land. I've always thought of the ocean as being a "she" and the land as being a "he." Silly, I know, but that's how I've always thought of them.
Anyway. I was out on the beach and I was listening to the waves run up onto the sand, when I heard this gentle scratching sound—just barely over the sound of the sea. I heard it and at first, I thought it was just the wind in the tall grass. Then I realized that there wasn't any wind. The air was still.
I listened and listened and I finally figured out that the noise was coming from the sand right at my feet. I knelt down and looked closely. I didn't see anything out of the ordinary, it was just sand. Yet, the closer I got to the ground, the louder the scratching sound was. I put my head down with my ear against the sand right at that spot and I could hear it loudly. I heard a whole bunch of scratching, coming up from the sand and I could hear little squeaks, too. It sounded like baby birds or something.
It wasn't exactly like the chirping of a baby bird, almost like a high-pitched grunt. I don't know. It's hard to explain.
So I'm listening with my ear to the sand and all of a sudden, I feel this tickling against my earlobe. It was as if I was sitting next to you and you reached out and wiggled your finger against my ear.
It startled me. I certainly wasn't expecting to feel anything. I bolted upright like a shot. I didn't know what it was.
I was about to run away; when I looked down and I see a hole about as big around as my fist just open up in the sand. Then these green things squirm out. I took me a second because it wasn't fully light out yet, but I realized that they were baby turtles. You know the green ones with the flippers—sea turtles? There were dozens of them just pouring up out of the hole, as if it was the world's smallest jailbreak.
They came out and then they all started wiggling straight for the sea. It's as if they knew exactly where it was all along—which I guess they did. Like you said in one of your letters. We all come from the sea and the ocean is our mother, right? That's what these turtles were like. They knew exactly where they belonged. They were like little lost kids running to their mother.
It was a rough trip for some of them. There were rocks, sticks and stuff in the way. They'd go over, around and through anything that got in their way to get back to the sea—their mother.
I felt as if I knew how they felt. They just wanted to be free and to swim all around the world. I feel like that sometimes. I want to be free and go wherever I want, whenever I want.
I was watching them and I noticed a couple of gulls fly down and snatch up a turtle in their beaks. It seemed so unfair. The turtles just wanted to be free and here come some jerks who want to stop them, to use them and to kill them.
That made me really mad. It wasn't right, so I ran at the birds and waved my arms and chased them off.
They tried to come back so I chased them away and sprinted up and down the beach where the turtles were, waving my arms like a crazy person, until they'd all gotten into the water safely.
I was about to go home—I was tired from all of the running and yelling. I stopped to look into the hole before I left. There was one baby turtle who couldn't get out. She was in there all by herself, trapped in the middle of all of the eggshells. She couldn't get herself out of the hole.
It was as if she was stuck in this pile of garbage, you know? Every time she made it up to the side of the hole, the sand would give a little and she'd slide back into that pile of eggshells. That wasn't fair. She struggled so hard.
There was this little girl, who was just trying to get out and have a life, you know? Everything was stacked against her: sticks, rocks and even hungry birds. It was as if she was jinxed.
Right then, I could identify with that unlucky little turtle.
I think it's illegal, but I didn't care. I picked up that turtle and carried her over to the water. I waded out until I was waist deep and I let her go so far out that she was already ahead of her brothers and sisters.
I thought that might even things up for her. She looked so happy when she swam away. It was where she belonged. It felt so good to give the sweet little thing the break she deserved, you know? I think we can all use a little help now and again.
Anyway, stay safe and come back home in one piece. We’re all rooting for you guys out there.
Laura.
Jack folded the letter and put it back in his pocket. He lay back and looked at the canvas ceiling above.
Laura was definitely a sensitive soul. An idealist who obviously cared, almost in a childish way. He smiled as he imagined her soaking wet and covered with sand, running and flailing her arms while shouting at the birds.
It touched him that she felt concern for the little things.
Most people would've just walked on by. They wouldn’t have noticed, or they wouldn’t have wanted to get involved.
Jack recalled his mom. She’d been a strong woman, but also passionate and kind. She would have rescued the turtles, too.
That was the thing about women. The best of them—like Laura—cared.
Jack sensed her pain. It was barely hidden by her writing. It let him see just a glimpse of something deep inside of her, and he wasn't exactly sure what it was. Her husband’s death would be the obvious answer, but he wasn't too certain that was the whole story.
What was going on over there? Jack was curious about her and her life. He wanted to get to know her better. It was frustrating to care about somebody and be so far away. He wanted to be there for her, to help her—just as her letters had been helping him through the tougher times that he'd been facing.
This growing attraction for a woman he’d never met disturbed him. Jack felt extremely conflicted. He had to see her, to return the ring… but that wasn’t why he wanted to see her.
It seemed all wrong to want her—given how they'd met. Life sure could throw some curve balls. Here he was, pining after a widow, the widow of a man who Jack had sent out too soon into a war zone. A man he’d gotten killed.
Regardless, he'd written her back right away and there he sat, in the desert, eagerly waiting for her next letter.
Chapter 16.
Jonah stood on the street and looked up.
Light filtered through thin curtains, shining out into the night from Laura's window. She was on the second floor so he couldn't exactly see in, but it didn't matter. He was madder than Hell and determined to get his piece of her, one way or another.
He'd been just about to show her what she'd been missing, when that old nigger with a gun showed up and ruined everything.
Jonah would make sure that he'd get his too. Right now, he was horny and Laura was on his mind. But he needed a plan to get to her.
The hallway was no good. That old man would most likely be waiting for him, with his gun. Fool. He probably thought he could white knight his way into Laura's pants. Jonah didn't think that'd work out for him none too good. Fucking old man probably couldn’t even get it up anymore.
She likes 'em young and dumb, don't she, Jonah boy? He asked himself.
Damned straight, he answered right back.
Since the front door was out, the window was his only option left. It was a warm night but there was a cool breeze coming off the water. Jonah knew she'd leave the window open to catch the fresh air. She was always going on about nature and shit.
Just like a God damned hippy chick.
She'd been fun once. She used to be able to party with the best of them. Then she changed—thought she was too good for old Jonah. Ungrateful bitch—that was what she was. He'd taken her in and he'd given her food and a roof.
Laura had been willing to smoke a little pot—but pot was kid's stuff. She was cool until he'd asked her for just one little favor. Just one little thing just to help him out, like he'd helped her out.
Fuck, you'd think that pussy of hers was made of solid gold the way she freaked out.
So what if Jonah was a little short in the wallet? He'd been good for it. But, it's always no pay, no play. Without cash to turn into those little white pills that made everything oh, so good, Jonah had offered his best dealer a romp with Laura in trade.
I'll give you a crack at her crack for some crack.
That was a good line. Jonah had thought of it all on his own, and it’d made Chet smile too.
He took the deal and the trade was made. Only, Laura wouldn't have none of it. As soon as he'd told her what he wanted her to do, she freaked. Yelling and screaming—even throwing shit at him. Jonah found himself dodging plates, bottles and all kinds of stuff. The bitch went fucking nuts!
Laura said she'd kill him if he even thought of something like that again.
Hell, he was just trying to get her to carry a little of the load. It wasn't like he was sitting on his ass all day. He busted his hump down at the paper mill putting food on the table and a roof over her head for Christ's sake.
It wasn't his fault he got fired. Old man Martin, the shift boss, had it out for him anyways. He was always up his ass, looking to catch him screwing up.
Fuck, everybody gets high on the job—that's what made it bearable. When the old man caught him snorting a crushed Percocet in the break room, he was out on his butt and there was Laura not willing to help.
The crap money she made at the bar wasn’t anywhere near enough to get high on.
Selfish bitch, Jonah breathed to himself as he remembered the satisfying sound and sting he felt when he smacked her face with his open hand. He'd done it just to calm her down, but it felt real good all the same.
That'd torn it though, she kicked at him while he laughed and dodged and told her she'd better get out and earn him some money.
Then, before he knew it, she turned around, grabbed her purse, and ran out with nothing more than the clothes on her back—not that she had much anyway. What she did have, Jonah threw whatever he couldn’t sell or pawn into the street.
He'd told himself that he was done with her, but he wasn't. He kept after her secretly, watching her at her job down at the bar. Jonah wouldn't go in, but he saw her come and go.
Sometimes, if it was dark enough, he'd follow her home after her shift.
That she’d managed to get her own place didn't piss him off as much as when he'd see her talking to the Marines from the base. They were easy to spot, they had the same stupid haircut and they all talked the same way.
Sometimes she'd go home with one, and this really made him mad. She wouldn't put out to help him, no sir, not her, but there she was shacking up with the pretty boys in their pretty uniforms.
Faggots, all of them.
Then she landed her sailor, her new gravy train. That really stuck in his craw.
There ain't a bigger faggot than a sailor.
Jonah almost broke in on them, in her new apartment. He was going to kick his ass in front of her to show she'd missed out on being with a real man.
Instead he’d felt too sick. Jonah hadn't had his pills that day, so all he did was get the shakes and throw up on the front steps of her building.
Tonight, however, Jonah didn't have the shakes.
He'd just gotten himself a new supply of oxy from a pharmacist who had a bad habit of looking for dates on the internet. Jonah's advertisement had lured him in like a fish to a big, fat worm.
Oh, how he wriggled and pleaded and begged Jonah not to show his wife and preacher the pictures Jonah had taken from the closet.
The whore had gotten half the pills and Jonah the other half, for the set up. If only Laura had been that accommodating.
She would be now, though. Tucked in his genuine Army-Navy surplus store kit bag, Jonah had a screwdriver, a roll of duct tape, some meth and a ball gag. Like it or not, Laura would have herself a good old time.
Even if she didn't, Jonah was certain he would.
The front door was out, Jonah decided from the get go. That left her window. There was no way that he'd get away with carrying a ladder down the street, even in the dark. It had crossed his mind, but he'd have to be more stoned than anything to give it a try.
He slunk up to the wall and ran his hand along the rough, red brick. It was the color of old blood in the dim light.
An old blood house. The thought made him giggle a little.
There was a large vine that snaked up the corner of the building, not too far from her window. "Arrowhead vine" his daddy called it. They had one wrapped around and over their porch when Jonah was a kid.
One thing he learned quickly, was that if the vine was old enough, it had parts that were as thick and brown as tree branches. They were strong enough to climb. Jonah could sneak in and out of his dad's place pretty damned easy by shimmying up and down that damned vine. He got caught once or twice, and that led to a Hell of a beating, but it didn't stop him none.
Dad was always finding excuses to whip the snot out of his kids. Jonah was his favorite punching bag, so an extra thrashing or two didn't bother him. It was worth it for the freedom he'd gotten.
At the base of the vine, he looked up at Laura's window. It had a wide sill—wide enough to hold a few large pots full of green stuff. He knew Laura well enough that he was sure it wasn't pot or anything like that—probably herbs and shit. She liked cooking with fresh herbs, as if it made a difference.
Jonah had always thought that pretty dammed stupid too. Why waste your time with growing it if you could just buy the damned stuff in the store?
The vine went straight up the wall and curled up over the roof. At the second floor, it was only about a yard from Laura's window. Jonah was certain he could reach out with his leg and get a foothold on the sill.
Stupid little bitch can’t keep me out.
Chapter 17.
He'd broken into houses before, and he knew that most people didn't lock their upstairs windows. Even if she did, he could jimmy the latch damned quick with the flathead screwdriver in his right hip pocket.
If Laura wasn't in the room, he'd get in without her noticing at all.
If she was, then the taser he had with him—bought on sale at the sporting goods store—would take care of that.
The thought of her, helpless and lying on the floor with him in complete control, gave Jonah a hard on. He rubbed himself absentmindedly, as he thought what he would do to her first.
Maybe he'd hold onto the taser and give her jolt after jolt until she said, "please." Maybe he'd put the gag in first, just to shut her up. Maybe he'd tear open her shirt and bite down on one of her perfect, pink nipples.
Whatever.
Regardless what he did first, he was gonna make sure that she respected him. That's the one thing that Jonah needed to feel from her and anybody else—respect.
He didn't have a fancy uniform with shiny buttons and a chest full of ribbons. Imagine that, a man walking around wearing ribbons like some sort of faggot.
Jonah was a real man, with well-worn jeans and shirt and all. He had dirty, callused hands that she always complained "need washing." Laura liked everything to be clean and tidy. Well, too bad for her.
She was going to learn the real meaning of "dirty" this night, by God.
Jonah stood up to the vine, grabbed its branches with both hands and pulled. It held. Tentatively, he put his foot into the greenery and then the other. It still held. Emboldened, Jonah pulled himself up, hand over hand. He lifted his leg up for another step when he felt it clutched by a strong hand.
He gave a little yelp as he was pulled back off the vine and onto the ground.
"What the fuck—?"
"Shut up," said a voice as a burlap sack was pulled roughly over his head. It stank of cow shit. He didn't have the chance to see who had attacked him.
"Hey, I wasn't doing anything," Jonah started to say, when someone kicked him hard, right in the balls, driving out what little breath he'd had left in him with a grunt.
He'd yet to recover after the shock and impact of his fall.
"I said shut up!"
Jonah saw stars as whoever it was kicked him in the ribs.
He scrambled for his taser, but his hands were suddenly pinned. Through his pain, Jonah could tell that there was more than one set of hands working on him. Quickly, his assailants tied his wrists together with what felt like wire—the kind farmers use for electric fences. He'd strung some as a kid on his dad's farm.
It was tight, and he could feel it biting into his skin. The more he struggled, the more it bit, so he relaxed—a little.
"Better," said the voice. "Now stand up."
Rough hands jerked him to a standing position. Then he felt a push in the small of his back.
"Get going."
Jonah stumbled forward. He wanted to ask what the Hell the men wanted, but he was afraid that might bring another kick, or even a full on beating. He sure as shit didn't want that.
Jonah had seen what angry men with heavy farm boots could do to a person. It wasn't pretty.
The bag that covered his head stunk to high Heaven, but he sucked in air gratefully. His balls ached something fierce, but at least his lungs were working again.
Struggling not to trip, Jonah let himself be led across the lawn and onto the street. He heard a car door open and he was literally picked up by his belt and flung forward. He landed on a hard, metal surface that vibrated from the idle of an engine.
This wasn't good. Jonah guessed he was in the back of a truck or a van. The door slammed shut and the vehicle lurched forward.
It sure as Hell wasn't cops. Jonah had been arrested before—for minor stuff, sure. Cops don't do this sorta crap, even if they'd somehow known what he'd been planning—which was impossible. They don't put a shit bag over somebody's head and tie him up with wire.
Jonah wracked his brain. Think, think, who've I pissed off lately?
There were too many possibilities. Jonah had a way of pissing people off. He was gifted in that regard.
