Eviscerating the Snake - The Complete Trilogy

by Ashley Fontainne

  “It’s the dreams. I don’t understand them or have the slightest inkling what they might mean. As I told you earlier, I’m accustomed to dreams and nightmares, but the ones in my past have always stemmed from events that already occurred: my inability to please my parents, my miscarriage, my divorce, my rape. The dreams that followed each of those events, as awful as they were, made sense to me. Lose a child? You dream about searching for them. You experience the demise of a marriage? Your dreams tend to center around your broken heart and abandonment issues. Violently raped? You tend to relive the trauma through dreams and plot your revenge. But these dreams are so different. I can’t seem to shake this overwhelming sense of foreboding when I wake up from them, like there’s some foreshadowing, something I should be learning from them; yet I don’t know what that lesson could be. I don’t just feel alone. I feel forsaken—all the light sucked from me as I trudge through darkness and malevolent, unseen forces attempt to pull me deeper in, plunging me into oblivion. The physical sense I have upon awakening is that of someone sitting on my chest, slowly pushing the air out of me as I struggle to breathe. I’ve experienced fear in my dreams before, but this feeling…well, it’s petrifying,” I whispered, embarrassed to admit out loud how utterly helpless the nighttime scenes in my subconscious seemed to render me as I spoke them aloud. I felt myself sinking into an almost childlike state.

  “Interesting perceptions you have on dreams, Audra. The one that I find the most remarkable, where I believe we should focus our attention for our first few sessions, is your association of being raped with revenge. Your immediate associative response to being raped you compare to revenge, rather than to healing.”

  The silence between us lasted for a few moments as I let that question sink in and stared out her office window into the vibrant, endless blue sky outside, searching for the hidden meaning behind her question. Why did she pick up on that tidbit after everything else I said earlier? I felt a bit of anger rise up inside me. Being asked such a ridiculous question irritated me. This woman obviously had never experienced the humiliation and degradation that the act of rape has on someone and therefore had no right to question my choices of response to one.

  I was surprised at my immediate flare of anger and forced myself to let it subside. After all, it was only a question. Before I could say anything to her, Charlene leaned forward and asked quietly, “Audra, what are you thinking of right at this moment?”

  Clearing my throat, I pulled my gaze away from the vast blue horizon and looked across the room into her probing eyes. I replied, “Surprisingly, anger.”

  “And why does your emotional response to my question surprise you?” Charlene prodded, her pen absentmindedly tapping her strong chin as her own answers were filling her head while she awaited mine.

  “Well, my first assumption would be because it was a simple question, but it invoked an immediate angry thought process from me. My first consideration was that you have no right to question my reactions after being raped. I guess I sort of feel like your question was encased inside some hidden reprimand because I chose revenge over healing, like I wanted that to be my path,” I said, lifting my chin up faintly and leveling my eyes with hers in a small show of defiance, almost as if I was daring her to tell me I was wrong.

  Charlene leaned back in her chair and set her notepad down as she folded her hands in her lap. Her eyes were full of unasked questions as she looked at me, sensing my anger as though it were a visible entity to her trained eye. Her eyes focused on my hands. I followed her gaze and realized that I was sitting like a rigid doll at the edge of the seat and that my fingers were gripping the armrest so tightly that they were turning white. I immediately let go, forcing myself to ease back into the cool folds of the chair and control my pounding heart. I softened up my gaze and said, “I apologize, Charlene, for reacting like such a child. I normally don’t get that angry or have such a lack of control over my emotions, especially over something as trivial as a simple question.”

  Charlene cocked her head ever so slightly, and her eyes bored into mine again. I could almost feel her presence inside my head as she trudged her way through my myriad of thoughts, and I probably felt a bit dizzy from all the twists and turns as she went.

  “Audra, do you realize you just apologized to me, the therapist you hired to listen to and hopefully help guide you through your thoughts and emotions? I’m here to help you to understand yourself better, to give you the tools to assist you in coping with the tremendously difficult emotional and physical stressors from your past, as well as the ability to overcome these tragedies and be a stronger person for them. I am not here to judge you for anything you say to me or for any actions or ideas that you may have thought of or acted upon. I am also not here to solve your problems; rather, I’m here to walk alongside you as a steadying force as you learn to work through them and peacefully coexist with them—to accept them for what they are, incorporate them into your being, and move along with your life in a healthy direction. However, my questions are specifically designed and chosen to make you ponder what you truly are feeling, why you are feeling that way, and how best to work through those emotions. Therefore, what I’m saying to you is that apologies are not needed or necessary. After our session today, I would like for you to contemplate why you felt the need to apologize. Also, consider the reasons for the anger you exuded toward me when the word ‘revenge’ was brought up. We can discuss at our appointment next week.”

  As I sat there and listened to Charlene speak in her best professional drone, I couldn’t help but wonder, even though I hated to admit it to myself, if she had a point. Why did I become immediately defensive when the subject of revenge came up? What was it about that word that triggered such a quick and angry response? Maybe it was because, for the first time since the attack, I allowed my inner thoughts and emotions to be spoken aloud to another person (other than Steve, who was only aware of the surface issues, not the deeper seated ones, since I wouldn’t allow him to be). Maybe it was because the old Audra was trying to break through. Was she trying to reach out of my subconscious, my inner voice from the past? The small voice of reason and sensibility that seemed forever lost, buried under tons of hate? The voice that whispered to me that night, telling me I should have called the police and had the bastard arrested instead of shutting myself off and releasing the dormant animal that resided in me? Maybe it was the fact that I knew, somewhere deep down, that I sensed the feelings of regret and remorse for the entire last five years of my life, yet I had buried them. I abhorred the snakes and their slithering ways and could only concentrate on making them pay for what they had done to me, but really, I ended up sinking down to their pond scum level and rolling in the stagnant muck right along with them as I did things that I never knew I was capable of. Was it possible that the realization that I was no better than those I hated with such a passion had just hit me? Was that what had made me so angry?

  It was too much for my already overtaxed brain to focus on, so I stood up quickly and grabbed my purse. I whipped out my checkbook and said to Charlene, “How much do I owe you for today’s visit?”

  She smiled awkwardly at me and quietly said, “One hundred and fifty.” The look on her face, those questions that loomed silently behind her eyes, were just too much for me, so I scribbled out the check and twirled to leave as Charlene asked, “Audra, would you like to schedule another appointment for next week?”

  My hand was on the doorknob and I stared at the silvery circle without blinking for a few seconds before I answered her. As I twisted the knob and opened the door, my voice barely above a breathy whisper, I said, “I’ll be at Olin’s trial, and I don’t know how long that will last.” Hanging my head in quiet shame, I continued, “But even if I were free, I’m not sure I could come back.” I fled her office like someone, or something, was chasing me.

  ONCE INSIDE THE RELATIVE safety and familiarity of my car, the sweat on my forehead beginning to dry under the forced air from its vents,
I closed my eyes and tried to control my breathing. I had known before I walked into Charlene’s office that morning that the session was going to be difficult since she was going to ask me to delve deep into my life and open up wounds that I had covered with hidden gauze long ago. The reaction I had expected to experience from airing out my “dirty laundry” was a few shed tears and maybe some pent up anger, but the overwhelming sensation of fury that had engulfed me was shocking.

  Try as I might, I just couldn’t understand the reason behind my response. I thought back to the day of Gina’s memorial service and the sense of relief and finality I’d experienced when I watched her ashes float into the wind-swept meadow. That feeling stayed with me for months as I convinced myself that I had accomplished what I initially set out to do. Honestly, I didn’t have much time to contemplate my actions as I was immediately immersed in the day to day struggle of running Winscott, along with all the chaotic occurrences that fell into my lap from day one. Maybe it really was the upcoming trial that was bothering me; I knew I would be required to dredge up those dark moments again, and my life would become an open tablet for not only the judge and jury to witness but also the entire nation. Every word that came out of my mouth would most likely become the newest morsel to be picked apart by the scavenging media.

  I leaned back in my seat and thought about Steve’s worries in terms of my inability to discuss my innermost thoughts with strangers. My actions had just proven him right; I couldn’t even make it through a measly one hour session with a counselor without becoming angry and running for the hills, so to speak. How in the hell was I going to make it through my testimony, which was less than a week away?

  Starting my car, I made my way out of the parking lot and to the freeway, planning to get back to work and prepare for my Friday meeting with a potentially huge new client. God knows I wouldn’t be able to concentrate on much for the next few weeks once the trial started, but I decided I just couldn’t bring myself to put on my game face for the office. I grabbed my cell and called Gabrielle.

  “Audra Tanner’s office…Gabrielle speaking,” said her chipper voice through the phone.

  “Gab, it’s me. I have a few other things I need to do today that I’ve put off for way too long, so I won’t be coming back today. Will you please tell anyone that calls for me that I’m out of the office and won’t be back until tomorrow? If it’s urgent, tell them to email me, but don’t let them talk you into forwarding their call to my cell because I won’t have time to answer it.” My voice started trailing off as I was distracted by the road that I had been aimlessly driving on for the last few minutes, and then my brain registered the fact that, judging by the familiar scenery on Highway 93, my body had decided we were heading to Summerset.

  I could hear the worry in Gabby’s voice as she replied, “Sure thing, Audra. If there is anything you need me to take care of on this end, let me know. Did you want me to relay your messages to you, or would you prefer to wait until tomorrow?” she asked, slyly trying to see how I would answer her question so she could assess the likelihood of my completing any work today.

  “Unless there’s a major fire that needs tending to, no calls,” was my clipped response as I slowed down and pulled into a gas station, dreading the thought of stepping out into the heat to fill up.

  “Well, no, nothing pressing. But Janette Lancaster called to confirm your appointment for tomorrow night at 6:30. She was rather adamant about getting an answer from you today. I told her that the meeting was still on your calendar and that you had not informed me of any changes, but she wanted a firm commitment today. I can call her back if you like,” Gabby said.

  Good grief, this woman was sure pushy. But, then again, she was going through a really messy divorce and a lot of money was at stake for her, so I could understand why. I knew I really needed to be the one to call her back and confirm, but I just didn’t want to listen to her drone on again about all of her soon-to-be ex’s business ventures and all of their homes that needed to be valued. Although grateful to have the chance to score a huge new client, I pushed the call off to Gabby.

  “Would you mind? Please tell her that yes, we’re all set for Friday and that I will see her at Zargenta’s,” I said, immediately feeling a twinge of guilt for peddling off something that was really my responsibility on Gabby. She had been such a godsend to me the last few months, working tirelessly right alongside me, all the while planning her elaborate wedding. “Oh, and once you finish talking to her, take the rest of the day off, Gab. Go pamper yourself; you deserve it. The next few weeks are going to be rough.”

  Gabby’s voice was a mixture of glee with a little bit of wariness mixed in as she said, “Gee, thanks, boss! You’re sure?”

  “Go, girl. Just please remember to call Mrs. Lancaster first. I’ll see you tomorrow.” And I quickly hung up before I could change my mind or she could start asking me questions that I didn’t want to answer.

  What I wanted was to see Mrs. Milligan, for if there was one person that I could truly open up to and entrust with my darkest fears, it was that blessed soul. There was something so open and inviting, so warm and tender about her, so tangible that it was almost physically pulling me toward her. I was about an hour into my drive through the mountains when I decided it would be rude not to contact her before I just showed up on her front stoop unannounced. As I hoped, she was delighted that I was coming to visit, and she told me to drive safely and she would be patiently waiting on the porch with her special blend of iced tea.

  As I ascended higher up the mountain and away from the heavy traffic of Phoenix, my jumbled thoughts centered round my sanity—or lack thereof. My immersion into the rancid depths of retribution’s sinkhole had perhaps been too long, and I wondered if I would ever truly be free of its lingering stench. I was quite adept at fooling myself (for short periods of time at least) that I no longer harbored any ill feelings toward Olin and the other pit vipers, that I was past all the rage and had finally come to grips with what happened to me, and that I had let it all float away with Gina’s ashes.

  But that wasn’t the truth.

  Although I didn’t seem to be inundated as much by the all-consuming thoughts from before, the rage still reared its ugly head at seemingly insignificant times, like today. A simple, introspective question immediately ignited internal combustion. Before, all my emotional responses tended to hone in and set up residence with the anger, not allowing me much room for any other emotion. Now that other emotions were trying to surface, my brain seemed to resort back to its previous state, which I despised. I didn’t want to feel angry or any emotion associated with it, but it was almost a comfort zone for me and more familiar than the newest gut wrenches that I felt upon waking up from the lonely dreams.

  My hands shook a bit as a thought finally emerged from the shadowy corner of my brain and stepped out into the bright sunlight, causing me to drive faster and faster through the mountains. I was so confused at this sudden turn of events, for this was the first time I realized that was the core of what I was feeling—anger’s distant relative, guilt. And I didn’t like it at all.

  I turned the radio up full blast to drown out this disturbing revelation as I careened down the road, forcing myself to only concentrate on the lyrics and the road to rid myself of this moment of self-discovery. I was screeching at the top of my lungs to Runnin’ Down A Dream by Tom Petty when I realized I had almost missed my turn into Mrs. Milligan’s driveway. I hit the brakes harder than I intended, causing dirt and gravel to kick up all around my car as I swerved into her drive, barely missing her quaint little country mailbox. I came to a complete stop amidst the gritty cloud I had stirred up and shut the engine off. As I stepped out into the blaring heat of the sun, I heard a small snicker coming from the direction of the front porch, which I knew was there somewhere behind the dust, and I heard Mrs. Milligan’s gentle voice call out, “Well now, that is sure some way to make an appearance.”

  I couldn’t help the wide grin that ma
de its way across my face at not only her soothing voice, but also the fact that, despite its numerous critics, music did seem to have the ability, even if just for a moment, to soothe the proverbial savage beast…or at least to cause my beast to hibernate for a bit during my drive.

  I made my way to the porch and sat down on the front swing next to Mrs. Milligan. All it took was one smile and her gnarled hand gently wrapping around mine, and for the next few hours, she listened while I opened my mouth and let the words that had been trapped inside me for so long tumble out.

  IT WAS WELL AFTER dark when I finally hugged Mrs. Milligan goodbye around her frail, soft neck. As our embrace ended, she clasped her strong, gnarled fingers gently around my face, her cloudy green eyes beseeching my own, and said, “Don’t forget, child, what you learned today. Forgiveness is what truly cleanses the soul and wipes away all tears. The tumor of hatred needs to be removed. Anger and fear will never stop festering inside you if you never remove them. What has happened is in the past and cannot be changed. You can only look forward now; but please, dear, don’t drag these heavy bags behind you, for in the end, they’ll become too much for you to carry and will pull your forward progress to a dead stop. You felt your pain, lived out your anger, sought your revenge, and it’s over now. I told you once to ‘Let it go,’ but neglected the most important part: Let it go, and let God handle this.”

  I nodded in silence, grateful for her no nonsense words of wisdom. Of all the years I had been on this earth, I had never once experienced someone crawling inside my heart and soul like she could, immediately locating the source of my struggles and pointing them out, making me come to full terms with them while she gently stood at my side for moral support.