by Matt Hart
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I lay with my hands behind my head, staring at the ceiling, then turned and stared at the covered windows, remembering. I had woken up in his office, my eyes covered, a hot, foul breath in my face. My mind was foggy, and I don't remember too much. I felt hands on me, and I reached up and scratched and clawed and heard a voice cry out in pain. I kicked and screamed and tore at the blindfold, lifting it enough to see the gym teacher, clutching himself in pain. I stood up and tried to run, but tripped before I could reach the door. I looked down in horror as I realized I was dressed only in my underwear, my pants tripping me. A hand grabbed me from behind and I grasped at it, clawing and screaming. The voice cried out in pain again and released me. I pulled up my pants and ran from the office, screaming.
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I took a deep breath and sighed, then turned onto my back and stared at the ceiling again. The prosecutor said I was “lucky” that the police were contacted so quickly. “Lucky” that I hadn't washed my hands. “Lucky” that my fingernails were so strong from the recent nail job. “Lucky” that Willibrette J. Rilky was damaged in, “shall we say, compromised places on his body?”
The prosecutor had the audacity to smile at me. “DNA match from your fingernails, description of the attack, everything fits like a neat little puzzle.”
Mr. Rilky got charged with all kinds of things. My mom said he'd be a “level three sex offender” for the rest of his life. My dad said that wouldn't be very long.
They had a few arguments about it—the only time I ever heard a cross word between them. I think my dad planned to kill him somehow.
It didn't matter in the end.
I turned over again and stared at the window, barely outlined in the darkness, a tiny bit of light supplied by the clear night sky. I thought about the sky for a moment. My favorite thing to do at night on the boat was to stare at the reflected moonlight when the water was calm. If we were close to shore, the noise of a boat horn would sometimes interrupt the quiet slapping of the water on the boat, carried over the water for miles until it was a single low note, diminishing in the distance but never completely going away.
Rilky was convicted of murder, or manslaughter or something, third or fourth degree, I forget which one. Yuriel killed herself two days after the Incident, and my mom and the prosecutor were able to cast the blame on him. The police had deposed my friend; neither her parents nor me had been allowed to accompany her. My mom was able to go as “her lawyer”, but wasn't able to help her much.
She blamed herself.
Rilky ended up housed with the general population, his murder trial occurring before the sexual assault trial. The other prisoners knew what he did though, and he was found dead in his cell one night, apparent suicide. He was a coward, my dad told me, and likely it was another prisoner that did him in.
He said they don't tolerate child molesters, and it was only chance that he'd ended up housed in the general population.
I closed my eyes and willed the memories forward; focusing only on the martial arts I had started almost immediately. I was excused from gym, so I practiced. I ate lunch quickly and practiced. After school, I practiced. On weekends, I practiced.
Always practicing.
My breathing slowed as I went through the mental motions of my forms, from white belt to second degree black, concentrating on each hand position, knee bent at the right angle, shoulders squared.
I fell back to sleep at the “Diamond” form.
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