My Russian Hero

by Macguire, Jacee

  My Russian Hero

  By Jacee Macguire

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons – living or dead – is entirely coincidental.

  My Russian Hero © May 2015, Jacee Macguire

  Cover Image © Can Stock Photo Inc. / Nejron

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations used in articles or reviews

  He who fears something gives it power over him.

  -Moorish Proverb

  Prologue

  We live in a world were privacy no longer exists. If you believe that your life is private, you are mistaken. Trust me; I know. I lived alongside you in that false bubble, believing that I too had privacy. But I didn’t.

  Many of us are also under the impression that we are safe and secure. We flitter about in our daily lives, following our trusted routines without any thought. We disregard the people on the streets; all those men and women frantically bustling about, in too big of a rush to notice someone watching their every move. It’s a chilling thought; that a set of eyes might linger a little too long and you were entirely too busy to notice.

  Yeah! That shit happens all the time and we just don’t see it or feel it. We are a danger to ourselves because we don’t take the time to stop and smell the roses, take in the things around us. If we’d just slow down, we might notice things that could save our lives.

  I had a wonderful life... a fun and exciting, carefree life that I loved and thoroughly enjoyed. Had.

  Everyone has moments in their lives that define who they are, what they will become, a moment of absolute clarity – my moment scared the hell out of me. I still feel the fear reach out of the darkness, taking hold of me. I’m afraid that fear will never fully leave me. It’s a part of me now, just like he is.

  Almost four years ago, I was living a normal, happy life. I had friends that filled my life with happy moments; moments that are just a memory now. He stole everything from me in the blink of an eye. You’re probably wondering who he is.

  He is the man that changed my life forever… and not in a good way. I still don’t know who he is or what I did to attract him. What I do know is that he robbed me of my life, bursting that bubble of safety and privacy and instilling me with fear that continues to panic me even today.

  I had a stalker… and he was relentless.

  I say I had a stalker but he’s still out there... somewhere. The police did everything they could to ensure my safety but he still managed to get to me. For weeks, I felt his eyes stab me from the darkness. I didn’t even know anyone was watching me... not really. I just had an eerie feeling; you know, the kind that causes goosebumps to rise on your arms or the hair on your neck to stand on ends. Yeah, that kind of feeling.

  He was clever, never letting me see him until that night when he caught me alone. Just thinking about it now frightens me, a stabbing pain twisting my stomach, stealing my breath away, when I think his disgusting hands grabbing hold of me in the darkness. I’ll always ask myself what I did to deserve his attention. It’s a question that may never receive an answer, and I’m not sure the answer would help me anyway.

  The night my stalker made his move, I had been out drinking with my friends. It was a night like any other, except the alcohol had weakened my awareness of my surroundings, dulling my senses. He knew me so well. I paid no mind to the darkened alley near my car, too busy digging in my bag for my keys. I had visited this bar most every weekend with my friends since my first year of college. It had always been safe so I never worried about walking alone on the dimly lit street.

  That’s when he grabbed me from behind, placing a moist, moldy-smelling cloth over my mouth. I tried to bite him through the cloth but it was too thick. My teeth continued to gnash at the cloth, hoping to find purchase on his skin. I can still taste the bitter filth of the material. It was a wasted effort. His arms circled my thin body, crushing me like a vice. My bag dropped to the ground, splashing in a puddle in the alley, barely making a sound.

  I began trying to wrestle my way out of his grasp but he flipped me about like a ragdoll that weighed nothing. His strength was shocking. When the cloth over my mouth fell to the ground during our chaotic struggle, I screamed as loud as I could. The scream echoed, reverberating off the moist alley walls. Gasping for air, I continued flailing against my attacker, biting, clawing, and kicking at his body. He smelled of cheap whiskey and tobacco mixed with sweat, and I’m pretty sure he hadn’t bathed in weeks. I can still smell him; that detestable smell will never leave me. It’s embedded in my memory now forever.

  “Please don’t hurt me,” I pleaded. “I... I don’t want to die.” He growled in response to my plea, dragging me further into the musty dark alley, the mixed smells of rotten food consuming my nostrils, tainting my senses.

  So many girls had gone missing in Houston and I feared I was quickly on the road to becoming another statistic. So many thoughts invaded my mind as an imaginary clock ticked away, counting down to my end. They say your life flashes before your eyes when you think you’re going to die. Mine was too damn short. I was too young to die. There was so much I had yet to experience.

  Cars continued to zoom by the alley, unaware of my dire situation, unable to hear my screams. Horns honked, music blared from the bar, voices from the street were just faint whispers, offering nothing to me.

  “Please don’t kill me.” I begged.

  “Shut up,” the dry raspy voice said into my ear, his breath slicing across the skin of my bare neck. “You should have given me a chance.”

  His words echoed through my head as if he had spoken a foreign language. He flung me against a rough wall, my head banging against the filthy bricks. My vision blurred from the impact. I could smell the metallic scent of blood as it seeped through my blonde hair, running onto my face and neck.

  Did I know this man?

  Surely not.

  I couldn’t place the voice but my thoughts weren’t clear. My mind reeled at the possibility of this person having been a part of my life. I knew most victims of stalkers knew their attackers. It was a sickening revelation.

  He reached into his filthy jacket pocket and pulled out zip ties to secure my wrists and ankles. I screamed until my throat was raw but continued to wriggle around, struggling to gain my freedom. The head of the alley felt miles away. My heart beat wildly against my ribs as I couldn’t help wondering how many heartbeats I was from the street. Suddenly, I could make out voices on the street drawing closer to the mouth of the alley. I continued screaming for someone to help me, praying someone – anyone – would hear me. A couple of men heard my pleas and headed toward us. My head was pounding, blood trickling down my face, making its way into my mouth.

  I continued to scream, punishing my already raw throat, not wanting to give up in case the guys were a hallucination. As the men approached, I heard my attacker growl. It was an animalistic sound that cut through the darkness of the alley. A ragged breath escaped my lips as my attacker released me, flinging me to the ground. My palms and knees bounced along the rough, jagged concrete, my flesh ripping as I crashed haphazardly against the pavement. The screech of tires and the smell of rubber filled the air as my attacker sped away.

  Darkness consumed me as my eyes closed, defying my demand to stay awake. The exhaustion of my battle winning over my desire to remain conscious. Laying on the cold ground, the wetness of the alley seeped into my clothing, leaving me smelling like the garbage that was strewn about. I felt s
mall and frail, my head throbbing from the pain of my injury. I didn’t want to pass out, but I didn’t want to stay awake, either. I didn’t want to open my eyes, face the world. Not yet, anyway. I could hear several voices talking back and forth between themselves as I lay on the ground.

  Then one voice broke through to me, a soft comforting voice with an accent I couldn’t place. I let his words wash over me. “Are you okay? The police are on their way.” His voice was so soft and gentle, completely opposite of the animalistic grunts and rough voice of the awful man who had attacked me.

  My eyes fluttered open slowly but I wasn’t able to focus on anything. I mumbled a slurred response, “O... okay. My head... it hurts.” I eased my hand up to my aching skull, my fingers skimming over the blood-caked wound. I flinched.

  “Thank god. The police and ambulance are here. You’re going to be okay,” he said quickly, and then he was gone. My angel had disappeared as quickly as he had arrived.

  In the seconds that followed, I was surrounded by dozens of police officers and paramedics. They sent me to the hospital to get checked out. Other than the head wound – which turned out to not be all that bad – I was fine. The bruises would heal up and, physically, I’d be fine. Emotionally? That was another story entirely.

  At the hospital, a female crime scene investigator collected my dirty, torn clothing and took samples of tissue from under my nails while another female officer asked me questions.

  “I understand that my questions may be difficult,” Officer Dailey said. “Please try to answer them as best you can... if you can. Just take your time and remember that you’re safe now, Caroline. Are you ready?”

  “I... Yes. I think so,” I said, worrying my bottom lip. I didn’t know if I was really ready at all.

  “Did he sexually assault you?”

  “No!” I shouted… but the thought that he could’ve if someone hadn’t saved me sent a renewed panic through me, making me break out in goosebumps.

  “Can you tell me what he looked like?” she asked.

  “I... um... didn’t see his face. But he was tall. I could tell by the way he hunched over me, and he was strong.”

  “Okay,” Officer Dailey said, writing notes on a pad. “Did you see the vehicle clearly? A color? License plate number?”

  “It was a van for sure. I couldn’t make out a color, but it was dark; maybe black or blue. I’m sorry I’m just not sure.” I looked away, tears welling in my eyes.

  The smell probably wouldn’t help any but I shared that bit of information, too. I felt so useless. I should’ve paid more attention but all I could focus on at the time was trying to get away.

  “Caroline,” the office said. “If you remember anything else, please give me a call.” She gave me a card with her name and a phone number on it before collecting her things and leaving the room.

  Officer Blanton had listened to the conversation while organizing several items on a tray table near the hospital bed. She picked up an envelope and something that looked like a nail file. “Caroline, I’m going to collect any trace evidence your attacker may have left behind. Alright?”

  I nodded.

  She gently grasped my hand as she removed debris from underneath my nails on both hands and then looked me over carefully, taking pictures of the head injury and the bruises on my face and body. Before I knew it, it was over.

  “I think that’s it, Caroline.” Officer Blanton said, handing me a pair of scrubs with the hospital logo on them. “Here’s something clean for you to wear home. I’ll need to keep your clothing as evidence.”

  “Sure,” I whispered. “I don’t want them back anyway. I could never wear those again.” My voice sounded old, withered, defeated. I didn’t like it.

  “I understand,” she said, packing up her kit. “As Officer Dailey said, please call us if you think of anything. There’s also a victims support group you can attend, if you’d like. It helps to talk to someone.”

  “Thank you,” I said, sliding off the exam table and reaching for the scrubs as she left. They were a horrible baby shit green color but the color matched my mood. Feeling weak and rundown, I just wanted to go home.

  An officer knocked on the door to my room to let me know she would drive me home. I was thankful for that. I didn’t want to call any of my friends. The idea of having to talk to anyone else about what had happened made my pulse race, tied my stomach in knots.

  The fear I felt in that alley followed me home that night. It swept through my apartment like a tornado, touching everything in sight. My stomach lurched and I ran down my hallway, throwing myself on the bathroom floor. I heaved into the toilet for what seemed like an eternity. Tears filled my eyes as I realized he was still out there. I had been naive and thought it was over, but it wasn’t.

  I had survived the attack and thought my life would continue as it always had. It didn’t, and it wasn’t going to! No longer was I just a daughter, a college student, or a friend; now I was a victim, too. And I had to deal with everything that came with it. I learned several things during the first few weeks after the attack.

  1. I was the victim of a stalker.

  2. The attack was only the beginning.

  3. My life was over (fun was a thing of the past).

  4. Fear was my new friend.

  5. I couldn’t trust anyone.

  Fear dined on me like I was some kind of sick buffet special. Months went by, and my attacker continued his assault on me. There were phone calls, cards, flowers, packages left on my doorstep, emails, and I could still feel his disgusting eyes glaring at me everywhere I went.

  One week after the first attack, I had begun to receive cards in the mail. Nice little greeting cards on the outside but, once flipped open, revealed darker, more disturbing messages. The first card arrived in a beautiful yellow envelope. I had smiled at the happy color and thought of daisies. The card was a different story. Inside was a message from him.

  Caroline,

  You escaped me once but you will NOT be so lucky the next time.

  Your Admirer

  I gasped for air, suddenly feeling like a huge weight was crushing my chest. “No! Not again!” I whimpered. A sudden chill washed over me, my grip on the card loosening, causing it to flutter to my feet. Tears streamed down my face. I knew then that he would never leave me alone. His words cut like a knife, my lungs so tight I could barely draw a single breath.

  What had I done to attract him? Would he ever leave me alone? What did this bastard want from me? All of these questions ran through my mind as I punched three numbers on the keypad of my phone.

  Within minutes, there was a knock at my door. With trembling hands, I reached for the doorknob, hesitating long enough to check the peephole on the door. Seeing the police officers, I released a ragged breath and unlatched the locks.

  While sitting on my sofa, my knees drawn up to my chest, I watched the police officers meander through my apartment, touching this and that. I knew they were trying to help but each touch of my possessions felt like another violation. I couldn’t stand it. I just wanted my quiet life back.

  Officer Blanton snapped on her gloves and looked at the envelope and card with worried eyes. The snap of the latex almost made me jump out of my skin. “Have you received anything before today?” she asked, studying his ‘gift.’

  “No. Just this,” I said, trying to fight back tears. “I’m so scared.”

  “Is there anyone you can stay with? Family? Friends?”

  “Friends,” I said, dashing a hand across my face to wipe away some tears. “I’ll call them and pack a bag.”

  Officer Blanton put the despicable greeting card and envelope in an evidence bag as I called my friend, Amy. She arrived before the police departed, and sat with me for a while. It was comforting having her with me. I felt normal, if only for a moment.

  The next few weeks, he sent more packages, letters, and notes, with the occasional flower delivery; all with messages that rattled me. The phone calls in the middl
e of the night were worse. He enjoyed tormenting me. After every incident, I called the police, jumping through the necessary hoops in hopes of his capture. He wasn’t scared of the police, though. Of that, I was certain.

  I feared this horrible creature that had attached himself to me. I had never been so frightened in my entire life. In a way, it even scarier than the actual attack because he had been real then, a physical force that could be felt, seen. Now, he seemed to be nothing more than a shadow, impossible to catch, impossible to predict.

  I had overheard several officers talking about the escalation of the crimes against me, saying that men like him didn’t usually give up. I stiffened at the thought of what he might do next, nearing the point of agoraphobia, afraid to be out in public because he might find a way to whisk me off, never to be seen again. I knew he was out there, watching and waiting for another chance to get me.

  I quit my job and stayed inside as much as I could, only venturing out for necessities. My friends were concerned, often trying to get me to come out with them to dinner and parties. But I couldn’t. I didn’t feel safe. Every man I saw could be him. It always caused me to panic.

  The final attack was what pushed me over the edge. I went for pizza with my friends, only to return to my apartment and find the door ajar. Stepping away from the building, I ran to my car and locked myself in, my hands – my whole body – shaking as I dialed 911 and waited. Staring into the dark night, the voice of the dispatcher droning on in my ear, I wondered if he was still in my apartment. He probably wasn’t; not now, anyway. He was too careful, always eluding capture. But I was still too scared to go inside.

  A tap sounded on my window, the sound making me jump away from the door. A uniformed officer stared at me through the glass separating us. He had a serious yet kind face, but no matter how much I wanted to open the door or roll down my window, I just couldn’t. It wasn’t safe. If he could get in my apartment then... then he could get me anywhere.