by Lucy Smoke
When I finally caught up with Erika, she was at one of the bars, flirting heavily with someone. When I caught her attention, she waved me over. Her face was happy, her cheeks flushed, and it was clear she had already gotten herself a drink or two. When she offered me a shot, courtesy of one of the guys, I didn't say no. I took it from her and downed it, letting the liquid fire scorch a path down my throat.
"Who's your friend?" one of the guys asked, motioning to me. Erika grinned and introduced us. As I shook their hands, I learned that they were all centers at one of the local universities. Some of them were more good-looking than the others. We talked. Erika flirted. Within the next hour, I didn't see Grayson again, but I did take quite a few more shots. When my mind blurred and my stomach cramped, I realized I had to pee really bad.
"I gotta go to the bathroom," I mumbled to Erika. Surprisingly, she didn't offer to come with me like she usually would. I didn't mind. I didn't like it when she followed behind me to the bathroom just because.
I made my way through the club, pushing past sweaty bodies. The hot, stale air was heavy and by the time I made it to the bathroom line, I was panting. The line was much longer now than what Erika and I had experienced earlier, and I had to wait nearly fifteen minutes before I even passed the bathroom threshold. No one came in after me, for which I was grateful. I wasn't drunk enough to not care if other people were in there while I was peeing.
When I finished, I exited the stall and washed and dried my hands and strode back out into the club. The door swung closed behind me and as I moved towards the crowds of people, behind me, a small, fragile whimper stopped me. I turned back.
Across the hallway from the women's bathroom was a small alcove where I expected a storage or staff door to be. I moved closer. The whimpering was gone but the small sound of sorrow and fear and pain pushed me to turn the corner.
A tall man with a short crop of dishwater blonde hair moved his pelvis against someone I couldn't see. Slender, dainty hands, nails painted royal purple, were pressed against the wall on either side of him. As I moved closer, the man stopped grinding and reached a hand up to whoever was in front of him. He dipped his head down and I watched as the small, elegant hands balled into fists so tight the knuckles blanched white. I paused, unsure if I was interrupting something wrong. I turned again to go when that small whimper stopped me in my tracks.
A swell of anger rooted somewhere deep down in me rose to the surface. As I turned back, it felt like everything slowed – as if my entire body was moving against a heavy wave of tension.
"Hey!" I snapped, startling the man. Time sped up.
His face whipped around, his dull eyes taking me in before his lips curled into a sneer. "Mind your own business, bitch," he said before turning back to the girl.
I stomped up to his back, grabbed his shoulder and swung him around. The woman behind him was pale and skinny – so skinny that it was a wonder her clothes didn't fall right off of her. Her sunken eyes were glazed over, filled with a deeply rooted pain. I fought the urge to flinch just looking at her. Instead, I lowered my voice, and softening my tone as I shoved the guy away.
"Are you okay?" I asked.
"She's fucking fine," the man was there again, shoving me back. "Get the fuck out of here."
"No," I turned and stood directly in front of the girl, blocking her from him. My hands shook. He was taller than me, not by much, but still...and he was a guy and I was short and not very strong.
The girl behind me didn't leap up, too embarrassed, I assumed, to try to stop me from squaring off in front of the man who – a moment before had been grinding himself all over her. She hadn't wanted it. How had no one noticed she was back here with him? Where were her friends? I glared at the guy in front of me, taking in the skeletal hollows of his cheekbones and his red, clouded eyes. He was completely strung out.
"No?" The man was momentarily confused by my defiance, but that didn't stop him from grabbing me by the shoulders and throwing me towards the hallway. He shoved me again, harder, towards the end of the hallway. "Stay gone, you little bitch." He turned around.
I don't know if it was the alcohol running through my veins or if a wave of brave righteousness swept through me. All I knew was, I couldn't let him go back to her. How did he not see that she didn't want what he was doing? Why didn't he care? I didn't understand how anyone could be so callous. I grabbed his arm and this time, I didn't have to turn him. He turned back towards me with a huff, probably prepared to cut off a warning for him to leave the girl alone or something. But I didn’t have a warning for him. I clenched my fist, pulled back, and slammed my knuckles into his nose.
He choked, shocked, as blood poured out of his nostrils. He stumbled back, knocking his shoulder into the wall. I moved closer before he could stop me, and grabbed his shoulders with each hand, slamming my knee into his dick. He dropped like a pile of rocks, wheezing with one hand over his bloody nose and one over his injured groin; a pathetic, whiny, mess – whimpering and sniveling with tears leaking out of his eyes. Good, I thought. He deserved it.
I skirted around him, back to the girl. She was exactly where I had left her with her legs slightly spread apart as she leaned against the wall. I approached her slowly, and when I raised my hand, I noticed that my knuckles were scraped, but not bruised and my thumb definitely didn't hurt. I guess Knix and Bellamy's self-defense stuff was really working.
I closed the distance between the girl and me, moving gradually toward her so as not to startle her. She didn't give any indication that she knew I was there. "Hey," I said gently, "my name's Harlow. Are you okay?" She didn't reply, so I tried something else. "You don't have to worry about that guy," I continued. "I don't think he'll be trying anything on anyone tonight."
She blinked at me, long slow blinks, as if she was just coming back from somewhere else, and began to shiver when I reached for her. She let me take her hand and pull her behind me. The guy was still there when we rounded the corner. I must have kneed him harder than I thought because it looked like he had completely given up on trying to stop the blood flow coming from his nose and was focused on holding his family jewels. I scowled at him as I pulled the girl behind me and into the empty bathroom before slamming the door closed behind us and locking it. I turned back to her, but she wasn't looking at me.
Her pale face was turned towards the row of mirrors on one side of the bathroom and she stepped towards them, her hands gripping the short dress she wore. I began to wonder if I was too late, if the guy had already done something before I arrived. I hesitated, still standing in front of the locked bathroom door. There were voices outside after a while. Someone had found the pervert. I listened as two guys talked, asking him questions that he didn’t answer. After a while they sighed, and I listened as they hauled him up and carted him away, musing aloud about how stupid people get when they were drunk.
It was several minutes after they had left that I finally moved towards the girl as she stared at her reflection. When I stood behind her, her eyes flickered towards me before she finally spoke. "Thanks," she rasped, turning her gaze away.
"You're welcome," I replied.
Something told me not to turn around and walk out. She was fine now; the guy was gone. Still, I hesitated. Whoever had carted him away had surely made him leave the club entirely. But I couldn't force myself to leave her to what felt like a private moment. I also knew that I couldn't force her to talk. I took a breath and I moved towards the back wall where a small settee was shoved next to the furthest sink in an effort to make the bathroom look more elegant. It didn't succeed, but at least it gave me somewhere to sit while I waited.
I watched the girl stare at her own reflection. Her face was tired, though still beautiful. She looked like a watered down regal queen. No one could deny the elegance of her movements, the way the light fell across her perfectly symmetrical face. Despite that, there was a darkness in her features. She stared at herself for a long time, hands white, fists knotted. I didn’t k
now if she recognized that I was there or if she just didn’t care.
After her initial bout of thanks, she didn't say anything more. She moved closer to the sinks and I watched as she gripped the edge with both hands, her knuckles turning white again. As if realizing for the first time that she wore a tiny purse attached to a gold chain that was slung over her shoulder and rested over her flat chest, the girl began fumbling with the small purse, trying to get it open. I waited a few beats before offering my assistance and she managed to pry it open. Her trembling hands reached inside and retrieved an orange and white pill bottle. I frowned but didn't say anything as she yanked it out and popped it open, slapping a few of the little white pills into her mouth. She turned on the sink with jerking movements where she cupped her hands beneath the running water, and lifted it to her mouth to help her swallow.
"Why are you still here?" she finally asked, her voice sounding slightly stronger than it had earlier. "What do you want?"
I shrugged. "To make sure that you're okay."
"I'm fine."
I waited in silence before sighing. "You don't seem fine," I admitted. "I... don’t know exactly what to do in this situation, but I thought maybe you'd want to talk. So, I'm – "
"I don't want to talk," she cut me off.
Our eyes met, and I knew she was lying. Her face was pale, her hands still shaking even as she put away the suspicious pill bottle. What was I supposed to say? Could I call her out on it?
"Why are you still here?" she snapped again after a few moments more. "I told you I'm fine and I don't want to talk."
"Why don't you leave?" I countered. Her eyes narrowed, and she straightened her posture.
"Fine," she said. "I will leave." She turned to go, and I jumped up.
"No!" I called after her. "I'm sorry, you don't have to go. I'll leave. I'll let you...um...do whatever." I couldn't take away this private, safe place for her. It didn't feel right. I moved to the door despite everything inside of me telling me that I should stay. I couldn't force anything out of her if she wasn't willing. As soon as my fingers brushed the lock above the door knob, she spoke.
"He didn't..." she began. "If that's what you're thinking...he didn't do it...he hadn't gotten that far, yet."
I turned back to her and I leaned against the door with wariness in my expression. Our eyes met and held for several moments. Then, without much fanfare, she turned and moved towards the settee. I relaxed slightly when she sat down and turned to face the door. I let my shoulders sag as I leaned fully against the cold bathroom walls.
When the sniffling started I kept my gaze trained forward, sure she didn’t want me to see her with tears in her eyes. I waited patiently, knowing that if I did so, she might finally open up. I was a stranger to her. Sometimes, it was easier to tell someone you didn’t know the darkest parts of your life. It was getting easier to talk to the guys because they were becoming more important to me, but not everyone operated like I did.
“Sometimes, I can’t talk,” she finally admitted. “It’s even harder to talk around guys.” I wanted so badly to look at her, but I didn’t want her to stop talking. “I don’t know why it happens,” she continued. “I just can’t seem to open my mouth. I shut down and I go away.”
“Somewhere inside?” I asked. I had taken a beginner's human psychology course in high school. I remembered discussing coping mechanisms of people who had experienced some sort of trauma. I felt, more than saw, her nod.
“I can’t...stop myself…” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “I can’t stop anyone else. I just...want to close my eyes and pretend nothing’s happening.”
I finally chanced a glance at her and my heart squeezed at the tears on her cheeks. That red-hot rage from before barreled straight back through my chest again, making me want to both hit something and cry. I held my breath for a beat or two, hoping that it would disperse. The girl cracked when I looked at her, a rushed sob escaping from her chest. I jerked when she leaned over and shuddered as she placed her hands over her face. Her whole body shook with the burden of her grief and pain. My skin felt electrified. I wanted to touch her and comfort her; it was what I knew how to do, but if she had been...raped...I knew she wouldn’t want a stranger to touch her, right? I thought I had read that before in class. An article somewhere?
My mind drew a connection – thinking of Mr. Spencer and his stepdaughter, of everything I had talked to Marv about. This girl wasn’t acting out. She was coping, or trying to, at least. I wondered if I should mention the pills. Something told me that even though they came in a prescription bottle, they probably weren’t meant for her. If she was here, in a dance club, where guys like the perv I’d left outside the bathroom could corner her and hurt her, I wondered if she had sought any kind of professional help. I decided to ask.
“So,” I began, “am I the first person you’ve talked to about this?” She nodded, her sobbing easing minutely. “Have you thought about talking to a therapist?”
“My parents have suggested it,” she admitted, sniffing hard. “God, my mom would be so fucking pleased if I did.”
“Maybe you should,” I replied. “Talk to someone, I mean.”
"I can't," she said.
"You're talking to me," I pointed out gently.
She shook her head quickly. "No, this is different. You don't know me. If I told a therapist everything, they'd...well, the police would get involved and I can't...they can't..." Her breath came faster, and she hiccupped once before closing her mouth and breathing heavily through her nose, trying to calm herself. She was hyperventilating, I realized.
"Why would the police get involved?" I asked. "Is it because...of the person who hurt you?" I hoped I wasn't botching my attempt at being understanding and gentle. I had no clue how to comfort someone like this. I couldn't touch her, hold her, hug her. My arms hurt from trying to keep myself from doing so. That’s what I knew. This wasn't. I had no clue how to help except to just be there.
"Yes," she said. "Sort of. I–" She paused and looked at me. I think this was the first time that she actually met my gaze and I realized her eyes were the palest shade of blue. Her face was blotchy from crying, but her eyes were extraordinary – like colored diamonds set into the saddest of faces. "You're not going to tell anyone," she stated firmly. I don't know if she was trying to convince herself or if she was giving me an order. I hadn't said anything about keeping her secrets, though it was an unspoken trust she put in me and I knew that. Unless it was absolutely necessary to break that trust, I would keep them.
She took a long shaky breath and then sat back, leaning against the wall like I was, clutching her purse in her lap. "My family's rich," she said. "They're not Bill Gates rich or anything like that, but I won't have to worry about college–" She flinched before continuing. "If I even go to college, but if I do, I won't have to worry about it. We go on vacations once or twice a year. Last winter..." she paused again, closing her eyes. "I'm sorry," she said. "I can't look at you while I... while I..."
"It's okay," I assured her. "I understand."
She nodded once. "Last winter my mom sent me to this debutante prep course. She's a southern lady, born and raised – my mom. It was supposed to be this two-week course for how to eat, sit, and dance properly in front of gentlemen. It's one of those old etiquette things, you know?" She kept talking, not waiting for me to answer. My heart rate picked up the moment she said the word "etiquette" and I knew whatever she was hiding – or revealing – was important. This was too coincidental, I thought. There was no way...
"Ms. Enders' is supposed to be this elaborate camp meant to churn out debutantes and social elites. I didn't care for it, but my mom was ecstatic that I even got in. It's very difficult. I couldn't say no."
My blood turned cold and as I stared at her, all I could see were the edges of my vision turning steadily darker. I sucked in breath after breath. Her words poured into me as she kept talking.
"Everything was fine," she said. "For the first week, every
thing was great. The other girls were surprisingly nice. It's a smaller group in the winter course. Most girls take the summer course."
She seemed to be rambling, telling me every little detail as it came to her. She took a pause that echoed throughout the cold bathroom. The silence was stifling and overwhelming. A part of me wanted to stand up and leave. Just unlock the door and slip away and forget she ever existed. I didn't want to stay to hear what happened to her. I knew it wouldn't be good, and like a child watching a horror movie, I wanted to close my eyes and plug my ears and still pretend like the world was a safe place. My hands shook, and I squeezed them together so hard that my fingers turned pale against the dark fabric of my shorts.
“It was the last night there,” she said. “There’s always a big party on the last night. It’s supposed to be a practice cotillion because a lot of girls leave and go off to become debutantes. Those things are big with debutantes – the cotillions, I mean. Those dresses…” she trailed off, pinching her lips closed in an effort to hold back a stronger emotion. A shadow crossed over her expression and I knew it was something dark. It takes her another moment before she’s able to continue. “The dresses are to represent young women being presented into society. Ready for marriage.” She spat the last word as if it was vile and distasteful in her mouth.
I looked down at her clothes and noticed for the first time that she wasn’t wearing a speck of white. No filigree or embellishments on her dress, no pinstripes, and nothing on her heels. Everything she was wearing was dark colored and, somehow, I knew that was purposeful.
