Into the Flames

by Multi-Author

  “Call her tomorrow. She’s ready to help. I’m so glad you’re doing this, Jane. You deserve better.”

  I stared at the message, confused by it, then realized how many people must know about this mess—the same number of people who watched me march back into that damn company and work alongside the man who’d raped me and let his friends do the same while he watched. I shuddered. Saliva flooded my mouth. The voices shrieked in my ears—Tease. Bitch. Take this fist, baby.

  I lurched to the sink and puked, which amounted to a lot of liquid since that was about all I’d consumed for twenty-four hours. I stared down at the mess of dishes, silverware, glasses, and vomit—quite the still life and one that fully represented me right now.

  After cleaning the sink out and making a half-hearted stab at the rest of the kitchen, I dropped onto my pillow, noting the whole room smelled a little rank and promising myself that I’d spend the entire rest of the weekend cleaning the place, keeping my phone on my chest. Before I fell asleep, I checked to see if George had replied. He hadn’t.

  Chapter Six

  After the sun woke me, hitting my eyes from the east-facing window, I blinked, noting I’d barely shifted from my falling-asleep position. Once I had my bearings—in my own bed, in a robe, and no strange guy to scurry away from before he did something idiotic like bring me breakfast in bed—I jumped in the shower, humming and making plans. In a bizarre fit of anti-responsibility, I switched my phone all the way off and cranked some tunes—old school via the few CDs I’d kept once streaming music became so much more convenient.

  The musty smell coming from the kitchen was eliminated after about an hour of hardcore deep cleaning, combined with a thrown open window and cool, early fall air that rustled the curtains and kept slamming the pantry door shut. After another ninety minutes spent vacuuming spider webs, mopping wood floors with some horrifically expensive concoction from the installer that smelled like a vinegar and water douche, and doing what my stepmother used to call ‘polishing’ the furniture, I had myself another sparkling clean room.

  I stood, hand to my now aching back, shoving the bandana up to keep my hair in check and surveyed my domain. Wondering why in the hell my head felt like it was about to split open and spill my brains onto my freshly douched hardwood floors. “Coffee,” I muttered under my breath, heading to the kitchen I didn’t want to foul with my caffeine needs—almost.

  As the pot burbled its way toward my relief, I opened my laptop, heart pounding at what I really had to do in the next twenty-four hours. Glancing at the calendar icon, I noted the date—September 8—and the tiny icon reminder on it indicating upcoming events. After making an appointment to talk with my former colleague’s lawyer wife that afternoon at a coffee shop, I leaned over and tugged my briefcase into my lap.

  I only hesitated a moment before reaching into one of the inner pockets, grabbing a handful of its contents and laying them out on my proudly assembled Swedish kitchen table. A motley collection of crap met my gaze—spare tampons, one that had escaped its plastic wrapping and was now an obnoxious glowing pink applicator; a couple of tubes of forgotten lipstick; two pens bearing my current workplace’s logo and three from Harrison’s brokerage; three orphaned earrings; crumpled receipts; five or six frequent shopper cards from various gas stations; mints covered in what looked like pubic hair or maybe fabric samples; a wrinkled looking strip of three unused condoms; and a single business card.

  I tossed the tampons—the shot I took three times a year more or less eliminated periods. After wasting a few minutes trying to match the earrings with the others in my jewelry case, I threw those out too, along with the receipts, frequent shopper cards, and mints. I held the condom packets in my hand a while, pondering them before chucking them into the trash. Damn things probably had a sell-by date anyway and I had fresh ones in my bedside table and in my purse.

  Now, only the business card lay on the table. I picked it up, studying the string of letters after the woman’s name and the claim she was ‘Author of The Unvarnished Truth: PTSD for Rape Survivors.’ My throat closed up and tears burned my eyes. Admitting failure at this point in my life sounded like the opposite of a step in the right direction. It sounded like hell. I didn’t want to relive that night. I did already, every time I tried and failed to have consensual sex.

  But Lucy’s accusation ricocheted around my brain. George was messed up, unable to let go of his guilt over his wife and child’s deaths, but at least he admitted it. I, on the other hand, buried my guilt and shame under piles of wine bottles and strange dicks, never managing to truly find pleasure in any of it anymore.

  Bastards. They stole that from me as surely as they stole my dignity.

  I gritted my teeth, already hearing the lame crying sessions and admissions of my own issues about sex and how I’d used it to wield my own brand of power over some men. Oh, and as a bonus, my manic-depressive condition that I liked to pretend I did not have. I put the card down. Then picked it back up. My friend’s voice overrode everything. ‘You can’t work, drink and fuck yourself out of this.’

  With a sigh, I dragged my laptop back in front of me and emailed the therapist, figuring I can at least say I tried to contact her even after she ignored me. I was pretty sure one had to make a phone call to set up a therapy appointment and not on a Saturday at that. Satisfied with myself, I got up and poured myself some coffee and took a few minutes to admire my white-tornado-style handiwork. I spotted some crumbs I’d missed and was sweeping them into my hand to toss into the disposal when an incoming email ding sounded from the computer. Reluctantly, I approached the thing, recalling the many times in the past when I’d had to sneak up on it to view my dwindling bank funds and ballooning credit card balances—all before Harrison Tucker rescued me from that life.

  Sure enough, there was an unread message from Jackie Palmer, she of the rape PTSD book and the zillion initials after her name. Dante had insisted she was the best and it might take some doing to get on her calendar but I should try. This he’d done while I lay in the hospital bed, woozy and barely able to feel below my waist thanks to the lovely drug cocktail being pumped into my system. Figuring it for an auto-reply, I sipped as I opened it.

  Jane,

  Thanks for reaching out. I know about your attack and I was hoping I would hear from you. I would like to meet as soon as you can make it in. What does Monday look like?

  Sincerely,

  Jackie

  I blinked, shocked by this on several levels. I did a quick Google search and discovered she was a New York Times Bestselling Author of three books on my particular topic and a regular guest on talk shows. How in the hell could she know about my attack? And if she was so damn famous and popular, how could she fit me in within forty-eight hours?

  Jackie, I replied.

  Thank you for the quick response. I’m not sure I can do Monday. I’ll give you a call once I’m at work though and set something up for another day.

  Sincerely,

  Jane.

  I shut the thing, determined to stay focused on my stated goal for the day. It took nearly two hours to put the bathroom and bedroom back in order. The sheets and pillowslips were in the wash, the bathroom smelled like a swimming pool, and every surface gleamed in both rooms by the time I made it back for another hit of caffeine. I found a second response from the therapy lady.

  Jane,

  I know how hard this is. Trust me. I don’t speak from some clinical lab or ivory tower. I’m a survivor too. A professor I trusted attacked me the first time while I was in his office for a PhD dissertation consult. He did it repeatedly, even though I tried to convince myself after that first time it was consensual. He held my future in his hands. And he used that fact to rape me half a dozen times. The day I received my Doctorate of Psychology, I washed a bottle of Xanax and a handful of Percocets down with an entire bottle of expensive whiskey—a graduation gift from my rapist. Call me, or barring that, send me an email and tell me h
ow you’re feeling. What happened to you is NOT your fault, but you can’t handle this alone.

  Jackie

  I read her email three times then jumped up and started pacing. Just hearing about her attack had made the familiar, sickening panic steal into my throat, threatening to force the coffee up and out of my stomach. Ignoring her plea for contact, I spent an hour in the tiny spare room I’d been using as overflow for my clothes and other random crap from the old place I didn’t have room for here. Putting that space in order soothed me some. I stood, admiring the newly cleared out room that now boasted my bookshelf, desk, printer, futon, and a pretty little rug I’d forgotten I had.

  After shoving the window open onto the dank alley between my building and the next one, I headed back to the kitchen. Coffee in hand, I sat down and described in unnecessarily graphic detail the exact facts of the attack, or as I was careful to call it—the gang rape. I didn’t cry or even really feel like it. No voices snuck in to accuse me of being a cunt tease, even though I made sure she knew that these guys were narrators and had nasty-talked me through the whole process. I ended it with how a friend had coaxed me out from under the half crumbling steps of that building and got me to the hospital.

  “I guess I deserved it,” I wrote, feeling the first prickle of tears at the back of my eyes. “I’m not exactly what’d you’d call careful or picky when it comes to my sexual history. I did tease the one guy. I’ve been diagnosed as manic-depressive by a different doctor, and have pills I don’t take because I don’t like how they make me feel. It’s my choice, I think. But…” I stopped, realizing I couldn’t see the screen. Confused, I touched my face and felt the wetness on my cheeks

  “Fuckers,” I muttered, wiping my eyes and continuing to tap out what ended up being a virtual novel-length confession.

  Her reply was brief and to the point.

  Jane,

  None of it was your fault. Please come see me in person Monday. You pick the time.

  Jackie.

  Jackie, I responded.

  How in the hell can you possibly just fit me in whenever I want? Don’t you have other patients who make appointments the normal way?

  Jane.

  Jane,

  I’ve been on retainer waiting for you to contact me, with the understanding that I would clear whatever schedule I had once you finally reached out. I want to help you and someone pretty damn worried about your state of mind has been paying me for almost a month just to wait for that moment you decided you needed my help. You’re a lucky lady in that regard.

  Jackie.

  I frowned at this bizarre revelation. George had been at it again, superhero cape firmly attached and flapping in the wind.

  I shut the computer and sat, gnawing on my nails and steaming mad. After a while, the condo started closing in on me, so I put on shorts and a sweatshirt, tied up the single pair of athletic shoes I owned, and headed outside.

  After walking all the way downtown and along the river, I found myself at the construction site, staring at the mounds of rubble divided into piles indicative of their final destination, that had once been a falling down house where my entire life had changed in the blink of an eye. I sat in the dirt, unable to move, taking in the rotten wood and old wiring that was separated from the slabs of creamy floor marble and the stones that had been part of the outer fascia. Huge sheets of leaded glass lay nearby, along with neat stacks of bricks and a beautiful art-deco mantle piece I vaguely recalled from the lobby. Everything that could be repurposed would be as part of the development plan for this strip of former mansions.

  But for some reason, the half flight of steps remained, poking up into the air as incongruous as a shaking fist. I got to my feet and made my way around the fencing with signs demanding I have on a hard hat and safety glasses past this point. Jaw clenched, I approached it, putting my hand on its smooth banister, worn down by many years and hundreds of hands. The sick irony of the situation—that the reason this building and all the others were being torn down and replaced would make me fully, financially independent thanks to my hard work, but at the expense of my mental health—didn’t escape me.

  I walked around behind it and crawled underneath, squishing myself into a corner, making myself small as if hiding from more attacks, more pain, more fear. I sat there for a while, thinking it would bring on the voices and force me out. But the only voice I heard inside my head was George’s.

  My phone dinged, reminding me of my appointment at the coffee shop with the attorney. As I crawled out from under the steps, my hand landed on something. I closed my fingers around it, held it up to the daylight, and then put it to my nose. My shirt, ripped from me and forgotten, about to be turned into the dirt and made a part of this new building, still smelled faintly of the perfume I no longer wore. I held it to my face and screamed into it until my throat was raw, then dropped it back onto the churned up ground. I liked the thought of it remaining a part of my project, built with my blood, sweat, and tears, right here where I’d made a decision that would change everything.

  I ran all the way to the coffee shop, which left me breathless and with a terrible stitch in my side. When I spotted the woman who’d said she’d be the one in the purple yoga pants and pink pullover with the laptop, I grinned. Dropping into the seat opposite her, I said, “Okay, Marianne, I’m ready to nail these assholes to the wall. What’s it gonna take?”

  Chapter Seven

  The following Monday morning, I did a few yoga poses, had coffee, and tried unsuccessfully to choke down a piece of toast. I’d filled Lucy and Dante in on what was about to happen, but despite the extreme compulsion to do so, I’d not said anything to George about it. He had enough to do as his Gala Opening Gala was happening the next day. I would be in attendance with an ultimatum for him, thanks to my newly discovered backbone. I’d even made a real appointment with Jackie for Friday afternoon.

  Resolved, I looked around the spotless condo. “I’ll be back here by noon if all goes to plan,” I said out loud, shouldering my purse and briefcase. “Fuck it.” The door made a satisfactory slamming sound and I headed down the stairs to the parking garage.

  I breezed by the receptionist and dropped my stuff at my desk, sending a quick text message to trigger the necessary cascade of events. After marching over to the closed door of my boss’s office, I knocked once, and then opened it without waiting for his reply. I was sweating through my blouse and jacket. My ears were ringing so loud I could barely hear. My vision had narrowed, making me want nothing more than to bolt, to flee, to sit down and work and pretend I wasn’t being bullied in addition to being violated in the most horrible way possible.

  My boss looked up from his computer screen with a frown and a bit of openmouthed shock at the sight of me. There were two men sitting in the chairs in front of his desk. One of them—Rick—got to his feet and stood in front of our broker’s desk, his face blank and his eyes dark and cold.

  Cunt.

  Tease.

  Whore.

  Bad PR for the company.

  I shut my eyes for one second and then reopened them. “I quit,” I said.

  Rick blinked, obviously not expecting this particular announcement. He seemed to relax, which gave me a nice shot of anger-fueled adrenaline. I stood glaring at the two men I knew and the one I didn’t for a split second. I heard a commotion in the lobby behind me and smiled. When I stepped aside, two uniformed Detroit cops walked in.

  “You’re under arrest,” they said mildly.

  Rick started to speak. The strange man in the room put a hand on his arm, which clued me in as to his role. “Go with them,” he said in a distinctive and sickeningly familiar low growl. “I’ll be right behind you.”

  The cops handcuffed Rick, read him his rights, and lead him past me. I heard him mutter ‘fucking slut’ under his breath as he passed. I gave him my widest smile and put the phone to my ear.

  “Come on up,” I said into it before turning to m
y jerk-off of a boss. “Might want to freshen up. We’re about to be on television together.”

  “You…can’t do that,” he spluttered, glancing around wildly as if there were camera crews already trained on his rapidly reddening face.

  “Au contraire,” I said, continuing to smile even as my heart pounded faster. “I’m telling my story all the way through, including the fact that your attorney”—I pointed out to the lobby where that guy stood with his client and the cops—“was the man who asked me if I wanted his fist shoved into me that night right before he gave it to me without my permission, and jacked off on my face. His DNA was taken off my skin. And now, luckily, I’ve seen his face and heard his voice.” I gave a little flip of my fingers to disguise how much I was shaking. “How convenient.”

  I turned and walked back to my cubicle, past the stares of the men. When I sat, clutching my fingers in my lap, my hearing cleared somewhat except for a strange, steady, smacking sound. I whirled around to find the six women in the office, two agents and four admins, standing behind me clapping loudly.

  Then all hell really broke loose in the form of several TV cameras, three well-known journalist/bloggers, my attorney, and two early-morning show hosts, complete with make-up artists and hair stylists. They set up in the lobby. I sat in front of the camera and given my full story. No detail went unmentioned including the fact that while I knew that there were those that would judge me based on my past choices in my personal life, I refused to accept that I deserved to be brutally attacked by three different men—two of whom were employed by my company—and then threatened with the loss of my job if I ratted them out.

  I was crying by the end of it, which pissed me off. As the kind-eyed female host patted my shoulder, I heard her male counterpart make a surprise announcement welcoming Jackie Palmer, my therapist and super famous rape-inflicted PTSD expert. She sat on the lobby couch, put her arm around me, and I lost it in front of God knows how many people.