ZIG-ZAG, Surtsey Ana [suggested reading txt] 📗

tonight."

He ignores me, pulling me in close and kissing me again and again, softly, gently.

I know I should get away from him to preserve some semblance of virtue and intrigue. I need to get away but he's keeping me on his lap, not by strength or force but with his kisses. I want more.  Before I know it we're full on, making out, heavy petting, call it what you will. Then, divine intervention, blessed relief, a moment's respite to regroup. I'm saved by the proverbial bell. "Is that your phone?"

"Just a text."

It's all become surreal, effortlessly, in slow-motion, Dominic lifts me off his lap, carries me across the room, and sets me on the sofa. As he reaches into his jacket and retrieves his phone, I am both worried and excited. It's a fairground fear, making me tingle with excitement. This man is so strong he could end me without breaking sweat but what girl in her right mind doesn't want a man equipped to keep her safe.

Dominic curses under his breath and frowns after reading the text message.

"What was that all about?" I ask.

"Nothing for you to worry about," he replies, offering a weak but obviously forced smile.

"Bad news?"

"I needed a win. But there's nothing I can do about this right now, DB. It's just work."

"What happened?"

"Looks like a vote in the Senate isn't going to go our way."

"Are you sure that's all it is?"

"I'm sure," he replies, returning the phone to his jacket pocket. "Why are you questioning me? What is this – the Spanish Inquisition?"

I can't help it but a smile is born. Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition. I consider taking the opportunity to make light but think better. "I just thought –"

"Leave it! It is what it is!" he snaps.

I was thinking this guy's kinda sweet but it appears he can be very, very salty – but, hey, we've all got our sore points, it's not a deal-breaker. I try to calm him by rubbing his back. "You're right. It's not my business. How about we just enjoy each other's company and not talk politics?"

He takes a deep breath through his nose before kneeling by the sofa and taking my hands in his. "Yes, how about we do just that, Miss DB."

"DB?"

"I don't know your given name so Dirty Blonde, yeah, that will have to do – for now. Maybe I'll get a name later?"

I'm angered. "Mr! You don't know me. You've no right to disparage me like that. Get out!"

He laughs at me. "My mom was a hairdresser: I know the difference between; ash blonde, silver blonde, strawberry blonde, copper blonde, and belle blonde. You, my sweet, are definitely leaning toward dirty – although originally you're most likely somewhere between auburn and mousy-brown."

"Karen," I tell him. "My name's Karen."

"Good to know."

I'm embarrassed. We're in that moment, the one where I justify my next actions to the rational, sensible side of my soul: it just happened, I don't usually. I look into his dark brown eyes, and right there . . . You can stick a fork in me – I'm done. He's got me in the mood for love. I'm thinking I want to turn out the lights, maybe light a candle.

He holds my gaze.

Let's get close, that's what I'm thinking. I lick my lips and part them slightly in anticipation of his next soft, sweet kiss.

He hesitates, making me wait.

"Listen up," I insist, embracing him. "One thing you need to understand, homeboy: this is not a game to me. I'm not a toy. I'm not a DC plaything."

He smiles a crooked smile. "Did you just call me 'Homeboy?"

When the kiss comes it's neither sweet nor soft – it is brutal. "Do you want to, maybe –," I start.  The man he has become doesn't wait to hear the rest of my sentence, "go easy."

"Damn straight," he says, leaping on me, throwing me back, laying me prostrate on the sofa.

WTF? "Slow down!" I fight. A combination of blind panic and ass preservation compels me to swivel around to face him. He leaps on top of me. His previously supple body is tense now. I'm ashamed to say I still crave his lips. His hungry kisses easily penetrate all my defences but the kisses are more angry now, more intense. Who is this guy? It's like this man is really angry about something. "Hey, Tiger, slow down. You're hurting me." I urge him.  It's like he's got four, five, six hands. There's an unexpected twang, my breasts suddenly freed by the undoing of my bra-strap. In the onslaught I become disorientated, overwhelmed. His tongue is in my mouth. He has one hand on my neck, another caressing my face, another squeezing my breasts, and another trying to remove my panties.  "NO," I tell him, but it's like he can't hear me.  As I feel him enter me I try to push him off me but he is heavy and strong and I weigh around 110 pounds wet. I want to scream 'NO' at the top of my lungs but my addled mind begins analyse data and likely scenarios going forward. I'd said 'NO' to the drink in the bar, 'NO 'to the meal in the restaurant, 'NO 'to the to cab home , and NO to his coming up to my apartment for 'coffee'.

At this point my subconscious chimed in, offering its unsolicited opinion. It laughed, mocking me. "How's you're little 'no' plan working out for you? Every time you said it you didn't really mean it, and he knew it. You got called out. You're just a tease."

"No. I'm not." Again, I was there with the 'NO'. "It wasn't supposed be like this," I told my subconscious. In the hazy, dim flickering light, I can see my ankles locked around his waist, pulling him in, preventing his retreat.

I, Karen Taylor, had fucked up and set the eight ball rolling. The last thing I remember before I passed out was an angry man on top of me – pumping hard, thrusting furiously, hurting me. Then something happened, a primeval response that was neither fight nor flight. The pain and fear ceased. My body went limp. I became quiet, small, and absent.

 

1.5 THE #METOO EXPERIENCE

 

It's the morning after. I'm wide awake. It's light outside. I look across to the fish tank. The blinking fluorescent bulb has finally died. I lay a while listening to the sound of the early morning traffic. I hurt. Everything's sore. Carpet burns on my back and shoulders. The pain I'm feeling is partially anaesthetised by the realisation – I am still here, and alive. The beast that savaged me has long gone. I extricate myself from beneath the duvet covering my naked body and struggle to my feet. I'm confused – he did this. He took the time to go into my room, retrieve the duvet from my bed, and cover me. Why? It doesn't make any sense.

The warmth of the shower water soothes my aching muscles but stings my abrasions. I've been in here most of the morning trying to scrub every part of him and last night from my body. More than that I'm trying to remember; what happened. Why did it happen? Were there signs? Should I have seen them?

Cindy rushes home after I call her. Still wearing her Star Trek outfit she drives me to the ER where I'm tested: HIV, hepatitis and more. As a matter of protocol I'm given prophylactics. Waiting for the test results is more pain. I'm overwhelmed with joy and relief when the doctor writes me a prescription and tells me I'm clear but I have to repeat the HIV test in three months. During the journey home Cindy's patient. She doesn't press me with questions. She waits until I'm ready to talk. When I eventually spill all the details she comforts me and assures me it wasn't my fault. I agree with Cindy, the bastard shouldn't be allowed to get away with it.

"We should call the police," Cindy says.

"What's the point?" I ask. "I'm all showered and clean. There'll be no shred of evidence anywhere."

"You don't know that," she objects. "We should call them anyway."

"NO," I tell her.

"You forget I work in the AG's office – I know people. Trust me. This motherfucking asshole will rue the day he darkened your path. He's going down."

"Which part of NO do you not understand?" I snap. "Please, for the love of Christ, will you just back the fuck off!"

 "How about you rest up, think on it while I run out to the store and get your prescription filled?"

 

While Cindy is in the store I wait, a million dark thoughts race through my mind, thoughts of vengeance and murder, thoughts I shouldn't share. Better move on . . .

 

Two law enforcement officers arrive early in the evening. The male officer hangs back remaining silent while the female detective questions me and takes my statement.

"My name's Detective Jansen," she starts. "I'm going to try to make this as painless as possible."

I tell my story.

Sympathetic to my words, she nods and smiles, offers me pamphlets with information pertaining to support groups, counsellors, and therapists. Before leaving the detective returns to the subject of my drinking.

"Let's go through your alcohol consumption again."

"I had four glasses of wine in the bar."

"Large or small?"

"Large."

"And in the restaurant?"

"Two, I guess. We shared a bottle. He was topping me up."

"So you may have had more than half the bottle?"

I shrug. "Possibly."

"Okay then." The detective stands. "We're about done here."

"But he raped her! Aren't you going to arrest him?" screams Cindy.

"Calm down, ma'am. I know it seems unfair but I don't think there's enough evidence to secure a rape conviction. Clearly an assault has taken place but, again, it's going to be 'he said, she said.'"

"So you're just going to let him get away with it?"

"We'll speak to him." Detective Jansen scribbles something in her notes. She hands me her card before leaving. "My cell number's on there. Call me any time. I'm so sorry this has happened to you."

"Me too," I reply.

 

Cindy's fussing, trying her best to console and comfort me.

I raise a smile as she places a tray on the table. "Really?"

She shrugs.

As if chicken soup can resolve all my problems? I know where her heart is, and I know she's trying to help but what can anybody really do or say in situations like this. "You should go," I tell her.

"Go where? I live here."

"It's the final day of the convention, Go back and do your Star Tek thingy. I'll see you tomorrow night."

"I don't think you should be alone."

"I won't be alone," I say, glancing at the steam rising from the bowl. "I have chicken soup . . . I'll be fine. I'm not suicidal or anything. I promise."

"Sure?"

"Sure."

She hugs me.

During her extended, tight hug - I'm thinking. As she pulls away I take her arm and make eye contact. "This is my business, my story to tell, or not," I insist. "Do not under any circumstances tell Violet or Jazz. Don't tell anybody."

"What's to tell?"

"It was kinda my fault."

"How so?"

"I just met him – it was crazy. I gave him my number and said, 'call me, maybe."

Cindy frowns whilst shaking her head. "Honey, you’re so off key you need help – big time mental therapy."

"Why?"

"That's a pop song!"

"Are you sure?"

"Sure, I'm sure."

"Whatever. Promise you won't say anything to anybody – swear it?"

She raises her free hand. "I Promise. I swear it"

 

1.6 THE #METOO EXPERIENCE

 

Under normal circumstances I'm not a girl that can lay in bed in the mornings. On any other given day, if I'm awake I'm up and at it – fast out of the blocks. But this morning is different. I've been wide awake for hours without the slightest inclination to leave the secure warmth and comfort of my duvet. It's safe here. I didn't close the blinds last night, the sun's streaming in, and the god-damn bulb in the fish-tank is still flickering for