by Sharon Page
***
Other than campus security, I don’t tell anyone about the picture. Not Lara—I just warn her to be careful, to not open the door, to watch out for stalkers, etc. Given this last picture, I think this creep’s attention is directed at me. I guess it explains why the earlier emails were sent to me. I also turned them over to Yardley’s security.
They’re taking it seriously. I spoke to the head of the security, a lady named Ms. Marilu Keeble, and while her name sounds a bit fluffy, she looks like I imagine a female prison guard should look, and is just as intimidating. But I realize, after being interviewed by her, there’s not a lot that can be done proactively. Lots of evidence can be gathered after the fact—i.e. after an attack. But I’d really rather not be assaulted to catch this weirdo.
I have to finish my ‘Structures in Architecture’ project for Monday. I’m required to make a model of a floor system. For the last two days, I’ve stayed up until 3 a.m. using a hot glue gun and hand saws to make a replica of a wood joist floor. I’ve also slept in the studio on those nights so I didn’t have to walk home where I might be prey for my stalker. The only bathing I’ve been able to do is to throw water on my face in the girls’ washroom. I haven’t been back to my dorm room in two days. I did call Lara and tell her so she wouldn’t freak out.
We don’t get to use the shops after five o’clock, when the shop supervisors go home, but we can stay in studio as long as we like to work. All night if we have to. The security guards know us and stop in to talk to us. Usually a group of us make coffee and food runs just before the University Centre closes. I’m starting to feel like part of the group in studio, at least.
Dremel tools buzz and the smell of burning hot glue fills the room. On any given night someone will cut off the end of a finger with an Exacto knife. Architecture students are well known at the special nurses’ station in the residence commons building, which is where we head when there’s an accident. Fortunately for us, they’re open on evenings and weekends.
At ten o’clock on Sunday night, I set down my glue gun, a big blog of glue falling to my table. I’m done. I can’t believe it. My model is finished, my drawings are done. And I really, desperately want to get a shower.
It’s not that far to walk back to my dorm.
Except that would be stupid when I have a stalker.
I can’t call a cab—I’d end up walking half the way anyway. I really, really just want to bathe and go to bed. I’m swaying on my feet from lack of sleep over the last few weeks Suddenly, not being able to get to my bed, then take a shower in the morning, feels like the biggest disaster in the world.
And seriously, will my stalker have hung around here for hours or days in the hope that I leave the studio?
That would be totally nuts.
He followed me to the pub.
Or he just happened to see me in there. I didn’t really pay attention to other people in the pub.
I call Lara and she doesn’t answer, so I leave a message, then text her. I also phone Jonathon and leave a message for him. I don’t want to ask anyone from studio to walk with me; everyone is rushing to meet their deadlines.
I do take some precautions. I turn on my phone and stick it in the pocket of my winter coat—it’s cold now, especially at night. My winter coat is a Walmart special from two years ago. Everyone else has stylish wool coats.
The good thing about my coat is that it’s grey, so not obviously feminine. I pull on a hat; wind a scarf around my face. With my hand in my pocket on my phone, I walk outside into a wind that’s a fierce breath of winter. I’ve been studying how Jonathon walks. The long-legged, confident stride of a guy. I’ve noticed that guys walk a certain way, which I suspect is related to the fact they have a penis and a set of balls between their legs.
Doing my best guy walk, I move as fast as I can toward my dorm.
It’s raining. Of course I have no umbrella, but I’m actually pleased. No one is going to hang around in the rain, waiting to attack me.
Anyway, I haven’t had any emails or pictures since I went to campus security. Maybe he was following me then and saw me go into the security office. Maybe he’s given up—
Footsteps slap on the sidewalk behind me.
I’m halfway between the studio and my dorm. Panic hits me, of course.
It could be anyone. It could be someone innocent walking to the dorm. Someone I could walk with.
I doubt I would be that lucky. I turn and this time there is someone behind me. A dark, indistinct figure, but one that is tall and large. Rain glistens on the hood of a dark anorak. When I stop, the figure stops.
Oh god. My brain throws out a million thoughts at once.
I wish Jonathon were here. I really wish Ryan were here. I want to throw myself on a guy, cling to him tight and feel safe. With Ryan, I would be safe. He could handle this guy. Ryan learned martial arts from a MMA fighter who grew up in Milltown, and started a club there. I watched Ryan deal with brawls at the local sports bar. He has the skills to beat someone really badly, but he would never use them.
I know I should be tough in my own right. Able to look after myself. But right now I would love a little help.
Don’t run. That’s the only thing my brain says. I make a plan as fast as I can. It’s basic and desperate: act like you’re so stupid you don’t get it. Just keep walking. When you get close to something safe, run for it.
It’s a dumb plan—once I get close to somewhere safe, isn’t he going to jump me before I can reach it?
I’m scared. Angry. If I were with Ryan, he could take this guy out no problem. Or—now I start to doubt—could he? This guy must be a psychopath, and that means he wouldn’t fight fair. Maybe it’s a good thing Ryan isn’t here. Maybe he would have just ended up dead. My blood is turning to a Slushie in my veins. I’m unspeakably angry because why can’t I walk home from effing studio at night? I have to be in the damn studio to get my work done. Why did I have to risk my life just to do my work?
I keep walking in my long, masculine swagger. Just in case this is not my personal stalker, and he actually is just someone walking home or he’s a mugger looking for a victim. If he is a random criminal, I have to look as little like prey as possible.
Where can I go?
I kept to the roads instead of taking the path that winds between the buildings on campus. But most of the buildings, though lit, are empty. Doors are probably locked.
I take out my phone. I call Lara, but it goes to message. I don’t bother to leave one. Again, the influence of CSI. By the time I get to the important part, I’ll be leaving just a gurgling scream.
I’ve got a few hundred yards before I reach the next building.
My fumbling fingers find Jonathon’s phone number. Click on it to dial. The moment I hear his voice I want to sob with joy. “There’s someone following me,” I say, cutting to the chase.
“Where are you?” Jonathon’s voice is terse, commanding.
I tell him which building I’m near and where I am. Maybe I’m going to get out of this okay. The guy is letting me talk to Jonathon. Maybe he’ll realize I’m on the phone and back off. Then the footsteps sound fast and hard behind me. “He’s running,” I gasp. Now I see the disaster—Jonathon will never find me in time.
I run, the phone against my ear, and shout, “Hello? Hello?” I can’t hear anything. So I let the phone drop away from my ear, clutch it in my fist, and I run as fast as I can toward the building ahead of me. I’m only a hundred yards away, but there’s no one else around. Just me and the guy chasing me.
Who is he? Why me?
Hands grab my shoulders. How easy this is for him. He grips my arm and pushes me forward. I’m stumbling over my feet, driven on by my momentum, and he throws me forward so I fly off the road and go sprawling on the dark, wet grass. I skid along the slick surface and slam into bushes, sliding half underneath them.
Everything hurts. Branches are sticking into my cheeks and my arms and legs. I feel as if I’ve been pelted by rocks. B
ut I scramble against mud and wet grass to try to slide out. I’m out of the range of the street lamps here, hidden by shadow. Slipping and sliding.
God, I can hear him. His hard breathing makes me want to vomit. And cry. And curl up and be afraid.
I can’t do any of those things. I have to get away. I get onto my knees and a fist slams into my back from behind, knocking me down. I’m furious—how could I have let him make me fall again? I have to fight—
Scream, damn it. I used to fall into silence when my stepfather came to me. Maybe if I’d screamed the first time he came into my bedroom, none of the other stuff would have happened.
Scream now!
I start yelling and shrieking at the top of my lungs as I try to crawl away and stumble to my feet at the same time. I think I yell, “Help! Please help me!” Then I remember hearing that you should yell, ‘Fire’, because otherwise no one will come to help you. No one will get invol—
A fist slams into my face from the side. The pain blinds me. God, is my jaw broken? Sheer agony shoots through my body, making my limbs feel numb
But I throw my body forward, scramble so I’m standing.
Only to be grabbed by a strong arm. It wraps around me like a python, gripping me so hard I feel my chest being crushed. A hand slams into my mouth so I can’t yell anymore. His palm mashes my lips against my teeth; his fingers gouge into my face. He’s wearing black leather gloves, and I pull my tongue back so I don’t have to taste the leather shoved into my mouth.
He’s big and strong—way more so than I expected. I thought I might have a chance to fight, but I’m squirming and struggling and I can’t break free.
He turns to the side to move, so he’s pulling and dragging me. I try to make myself heavy, then try to grab at the branches of the bushes and hold on tight. There’s a small path broken through the bushes and he hauls me along it.
Then we’re on the other side of the bushes, in rain-soaked darkness. Far away from the road. Where no one can see or hear me.
Chapter Nine
Behind the bushes, the ground slopes down to a ravine. I hadn’t thought much about it before—it was a pretty spot on campus where a lot of students sat on sunny days to read and eat. It’s deserted now, on a dark rainy night. The perfect place for me to die…
The guy’s arm is clamped around me, his hand gripping my breast hard. Tears leak from my eyes at the pain of it. Behind me, his body is like a wall. Even in the rain, I can smell him—smell the acrid stink of his sweat.
Against my will, he’s dragging me along and I can’t stop him. The grass is too slick for me to dig in my heels, and I’m small and light compared to him. I still haven’t seen him. He’s just a bulky mass behind me, a strong black-clad arm around me, a hand ruthlessly pressed over my mouth.
Suddenly I realize the slope of the ground could save my life. While trying to keep me restrained, my attacker has to slow down and pick his way carefully so he doesn’t fall.
Use your brain. Use your brain.
First I remember I still have my phone in my hand. I’m scared I’ll drop it and I manage to shove it into my pocket.
Instead of trying to pull away from him or push back against his body, I work with our momentum. I throw all my weight forward.
It works. He loses his balance and in the shock of it, he releases my mouth. I scream as loud as I can, knowing this may be my only chance. But I’m slipping on the grass too. I give into my motion and pull hard away from him. I break free of his arm and start running down the ravine. Stupid, I know, but it’s the only hope I might have of getting away.
It doesn’t work. He races down after me, grabs me, loses his balance, and we both fall. We roll over the mowed, lumpy grass.
I fall in the bottom of the ravine, my face landing in water. Blind panic hits me and I fight to push up so I can breathe. Big hands grip me and throw me to the side, where I land on my back, squishing into the grass of the slope.
I’m going to see him at least—
I shriek.
A monster’s face looms over me. The skin is dark grey and shiny, slick with rain that’s dripping off the weirdly rounded cheeks and flat nose. The eyes are slits and the mouth is a grille. I scream in sheer terror.
It’s a mask. God, it’s a Halloween mask.
He presses his body on top of me and his weight keeps me pinned to the ground. The smell is gross and I’m going to be sick, and I can barely breathe. Rain splatters my face, making it hard to open my eyes. His hands slide between us and I feel his hand tugging at the fastening of my jeans.
I kick at his legs, hammering his calves with my boots as best as I can. I try punching at his arms but my blows feel useless.
“Fuck,” he growls through the grill of the mask.
The voice? Do I know it? It sounds kind of familiar…but with one word, I can’t tell—
I hear a sound. A soft snick. Something cold presses to my throat.
“I’ve got a knife. Lie still. Do what I say. You won’t get hurt.”
His voice sounded really raspy and deep. I think he’s disguising it.
With one hand holding the knife, and his body lying on me, he’s struggling with my jeans. It’s hard to do with one hand. He stops. “Take them off.”
I don’t move. God, I’m not going to help him.
“Take them off or I’ll cut up your pretty face.”
God. God. God. Nausea crawls up my throat. My brain feels like things are exploding in it and fear writhes like a snake trapped in my veins.
I’m going to be raped. I’m going to be forced into doing something awful. Something vile and disgusting and sick. Nothing that happened to me in the past is like this. I’ve been mentally manipulated, I’ve been weak and stupid, but I’ve never been physically hurt and forced.
No. No, I won’t let this happen.
Give in, let him do it, maybe he’ll let you live, screams a voice in my head.
I can’t. How in hell could I live with that? That’s what I did years ago—I let him do to me what he wanted. I did it so he wouldn’t leave mom and me, so we wouldn’t end up thrown out of the house with nothing. I didn’t run away because I was afraid I’d end up in something worse—becoming a prostitute, having sex with strange guys, maybe getting killed.
There was always the fear of something worse.
That terror kept me obedient.
My old way of dealing with stark fear is trying to take control of me. Maybe if I play nice, my brain says, he’ll get what he wants and move on. And he won’t hurt me.
Or maybe he will. Maybe the whole point to this for him is his sick fun when he kills me in the end.
Go along with what he wants. Buy time. It’s your only chance.
No, I shout to the voice that’s telling me to be obedient. I can’t do it. I can’t treat my body like it’s nothing. I can’t treat me like I’m nothing.
“No,” I scream and I struggle helplessly underneath him.
The knife slices along my jaw, along the bone. I feel coldness, then a stinging sensation. Then pain. I’m bleeding, I think, or maybe I’m just feeling the rain on my neck. If only I could get my knee up and I could slam him in the nuts with it.
The knife presses to my neck. I don’t want my face carved up or my throat cut. But I won’t let him inside me. I’d rather be dead.
“Fuck you, asshole,” snarls a male voice from somewhere in the dark and I see a black shape swing over my head. It connects with the temple of my attacker and there’s a hellish crack and the guy flies off me. As he falls, he’s still gripping the knife, and it cuts my cheek as it slides across my face.
The weight is off me and I try to scramble to the side, but I find he’s still on top of my leg and I can’t get free.
The attacker lunges over me at the legs that are beside me—the legs of my rescuer. My rescuer loses his balance and falls. But he jumps up and I can barely see him, but I realize he’s punching my attacker.
He has black hair, a leather coat
, and he’s tall.
Jonathon…He came for me. He found me. Sobs rise in my throat, then I take control of my wits and shriek, “Jonathon, watch out! He has a knife.”
The knife slices at Jonathon. But to my shock, Jonathon grabs the bastard’s wrist with speed and calm. He makes an abrupt jerking motion and the knife falls from the guy’s hand. The guy is taller than Jonathon. Much larger.
I don’t want to stand like an idiot. Is there a weapon around?
My phone. I haul it out of my pocket as the attacker runs at Jonathon. They’re wrestling, locked together, each trying to get in punches.
I slam in 911 to my cell phone with my index finger. In movies, the guy would get Jonathon into a choke hold and break his neck.
“911. What is your emergency?”
I’m trying to be coherent for the 911 dispatcher. “I was attacked. My friend rescued me but know he’s fighting with my attacker. There was a knife. Please send someone. Now. It has to be now. I don’t know what he’ll do. Maybe he has more knives—”
“Stay call, ma’am. Where are you located?”
I’m babbling with fear. “On campus. Yardley. Near the Biology building. Baxter building. Main campus drive. There’s a ravine behind it. We’re in there.”
The sicko with the mask has his arm wrapped tight around Jonathon’s neck. Where’s the knife? Desperate, I search the ground for it. I’ll drive it into the guy’s arm. Into his neck.
Jonathon reaches behind him, shifts his body with fluid grace and the guy goes flying over his shoulder and slams into the wet ground. Jonathon gets him in a hold, pinned against the grass.
He knows martial arts. Like Ryan.
Then I see the knife. God, it is right near the guy’s outstretched hand. I bite back a scream of panic and try to get there, sliding over the grass. But he sees it, grabs it, and I shout a warning to Jonathon.
Jonathon jerks back as the knife drives at his thigh. The guy misses, but he manages to jerk out from under Jonathon, who skids in the wet grass and falls back. The guy runs toward the bottom of the ravine, then races along it, jumping rocks and splashing through water, toward the back of the biology building.
