7

Turned away from him, I curl up into a little ball.

I'm not afraid of him any more. There's nothing, absolutely nothing, more he can do to me. If he'd bring out his knife again, I wouldn't care, I wouldn't resist. Just shove it in! My self-contempt is too much to handle and I don't know where I'll go from here. How I'll manage.

You GAVE yourself over!

He lays an arm around me from behind and I slap it away. He's begging me for forgiveness; it comes off him in waves, making my back tingle from his presence and his silent pleading. I feel his anguish, his regret, but it's much too late for 'I'm sorrys'.

I feel the question heavy in the air between us. Can I forgive him?

No.

I don't know.

NO!

I don't want to know that he's human, that he can feel remorse. I don't need to remember the man I saw in him when we first met, the smile in his eyes, the connection we had. I need to keep seeing him as a monster, as a murderer and, now, a rapist.

I don't pity YOU!

I wish he would kill me.

PLEASE, just leave!

::

I want to touch her. I want to tell her everything's going to be okay. But I can't, because it won't. I want to, no need to, let her know how sorry I am. I never intended for this to happen. I'm beginning to realize I probably never even intended to kill her in the first place. I just wanted… I don't know any more what I wanted. I don't know who I am. This isn't me.

It's as if I'm raw inside; as if something is gnawing a deep black hole in me. I barely recognize it; it's been a long time since I felt anything like it. Guilt. It's my conscience that has awakened, the recognition that I've done something so terribly wrong that it's…

…irreparable.

I don't know how I'll continue from here. How I'll live with myself. I don't even know how to get out of her apartment. How the fuck can I take the first step?

I need her to forgive me, or I'm doomed.

Kill her. Kill her and be done with it. Then you'll know she's not around accusing you. Don't leave the witness.

It suddenly sounds appealing. I'd be on familiar ground, and she would be forever rid of her pain. It would even be merciful. I glance at my pants, discarded next to the bed. Half of the knife's sheath is visible in the pile of clothes. I bend forward, snap open the leather cover and pull out the blade.

It'd be the best thing to do.

She doesn't move from her fetal position. The side of her face and throat look like she's been run over by a train. That'd be you. She has several sets of dark finger-shaped bruises on each hip. That'd be you. And black marks on the insides of her thighs. That'd be you too.

I place my free hand on her shoulder. She shrugs it off wordlessly, her posture stiff, her muscles tense. Still proud, still unyielding.

Come on… It'd be so easy. Just lean over and cut her throat and then get the fuck outta here. It'll be fast. My palms itch from the memory of the tender skin on her neck, her rapid pulse, and her efforts to inhale.

I sit next to her for a long time, fiddling with the knife in my hand, not knowing what to do. It just isn't as easy as it should be. I don't really feel like wasting her any more. Maybe there's hope for me after all? I look at the woman next to me - at what I've done - and seriously doubt that.

I should leave, but I don't know if she wants me to. I don't know if I want to…

Talk to me.

But she doesn't speak to me again. And she doesn't move.

Not once.

::

The mattress rocks when he stands. I lie frozen and listen to the slight rustling sounds of his feet on the carpet, the faint whispers when he pulls on his clothes. I think nothing. I close my eyes and clench my teeth when I hear the familiar rattling from his belt.

Then there's silence.

Forever.

"Leese…"

His shaky voice in the quiet room startles me and I can't help flinching.

I don't turn to look at him.

He doesn't speak again.

Footsteps follow; slow, hesitant. Then a little faster; fading.

I inhale as I hear the click of the front door opening and I wait for a long time before I hear it close again. Then I finally exhale.

I don't move. I don't think. I don't feel.

I wait.

The raining appears to have stopped. Outside there's a constant wailing, complaining noise from the wind, making the windows sound like they will crack any moment, and somewhere in the house a toilet is flushed. Who's up at this hour? Why didn't anybody hear us? Why didn't I make more noise? Why didn't I scream and scream and scream?

I lie in the same position for what feels like hours before I put my palms against the mattress and push myself up. A raspy groan escapes me when my hurting body protests against the treatment.

Good.

I want to feel the pain. I need it. It keeps me sane.

The grayish light from the early dawn is barely visible between the almost closed curtains. Out there a new day has begun. In my room it's still dark.

Stumbling to the bathroom, still naked, the inside of my thighs slick and sticky, I wince with every step. I clamp my eyes closed from the harsh white light as I flick the switch on the wall. Even my fingertips are sore. I glance at my hand that's still on the switch, and realize that most of my nails are broken.

I lift my gaze to the mirror, recognizing that I stood here only a few hours ago. In another life as it turned out. I still don't feel anything as I look at what he's done to me; I just study the facts, contemplate what's left of me. I have crescent-shaped bluish-black bruises under both my eyes and to the left of my chin. My lips are swollen and bruised, as is my nose, and there's dried blood in both nostrils. I have a cut on my throat; it's smaller than I'd have imagined, but what's worse is the broad, purplish strangle marks that surrounds it.

Like a leash. Like I'm a slave. His slave. Up for grabbing.

A sudden wave of nausea surges through me and I dry retch in the sink several times, my eyes watering from the pain in my throat, the taste of gall sour in my mouth. When I'm done, I lean my forehead against the cold mirror and close my eyes. It isn't large enough to show my body below the scar on my chest, and for that I'm thankful. I've seen enough.

I should go to the hospital.

I should call the police.

I should…

Should. But I can't go through it all again. Examinations. Cold instruments. Questions. Long hours with strangers touching me with pretend-caring hands from the inside and outside at the same time, turning me inside-out, twisting my mind, making me remember things I want to forget.

And they won't find him anyway.

I just know they won't.

I turn on the shower and step inside; the scalding water burning my skin raw, enabling me to focus on the physical pain instead. I stand for a long time with my face turned up in the stream, my eyes closed. Unthinking. Unmoving. Then I remember the peacefulness I felt last night, when I had just showered and was having a cup of tea. Before I knew he was here. And then the first sob wrecks my chest.

It's like opening a dam. I can't stop. I scream hoarsely into the water, gulping for air when I run out of cries. My knees buckle and I slither to the bottom of the tub, drenched in heated steam, in pouring wetness, and in sorrow over what's lost.

I sit there forever, with the water streaming over me, hugging my knees and cry. I still feel his hands on me, his heartbeats against mine, his breath, his scent, his taste in my mouth. I still feel him in me.

I wash, and wash, and wash. Soap, lather, rinse, soap, lather, rinse. I want to clean my insides too and think of drinking chlorine. Think of death.

I miss when I should have called in sick to work.

When I finally do, I call it 'flu' and they tell me I sound terrible.

Yeah!

Then I wrap a blanket tightly around my body and fall into a restless sleep on the couch in my living room. I remember that I haven't even checked whether my front door is locked or not. But I don't get up to do it.

What's the point?

Sooner or later I'll have to rise, get up, and get out. I know that. But I also know that I need time.

A lot.

And I still feel his skin on mine.

I don't know if it'll ever go away.

::

I throw my laptop so hard into the wall that the black plastic square and its electrical components shatter all over the floor.

I'll have the surveillance equipment removed from her apartment.

I have no right.

I drive until sunrise when I almost crash my car into a meeting truck, the near-death experience leaving me panting and trembling by the side of the road. I'm not even sure if I fell asleep or if I did it on purpose.

In a random motel I drink myself into a stupor.

I still feel her soft skin on mine, her warmth under my palms.

I won, I beat her.

I lost.

Three Months After

The pen is steady as I write. I examine the feelings in my heart, the flutter in my belly, and I know it's the right thing to do. The right thing in a world with so many wrongs.

Yeah, there'll be questions, but since nobody really knows anything dangerous, it won't be that difficult.

'November 15, 2005

It's as if a little piece of heaven came down into the hell I've been living in. I know it will help me mend; it'll help me focus on something else. I need it, it gives me something to live for, and I'm not afraid. I am not afraid. Even if he would come now, I wouldn't be afraid, because I just don't think he… would… dare.'

I contemplate the words before me with a frown. Then I nod. This is the truth. My truth.

'I just can't explain it better.'

The pen slips out of my grip and drops to the floor. I fall back on the bed, pressing my little journal to my chest, closing my eyes.

My lips twitch into a half smile and a tear slides from the corner of my eye, along the side of my cheek and onto the sheet. I'm not entirely happy, but I'm not that sad either. Not any more.

I'll live.

There is life.

And this is my life.

One Year Later

Funny how the things you can't have is what you want the most.

I watch them from a distance.

Her and the baby girl.

I will never approach her again. Never. I wouldn't dare to disturb the peace. The beauty. The life I can't take any part in. She hurts me by living on, by being breathtakingly beautiful and strong, by making a life for herself and our child. And I need it badly. The hurt. I deserve it.

I watch them. My girls, feeling a twisted sense of pride over what I've achieved. It's something I knew I'd never experience, but there they are: my baby and my woman. Proof that I'm human.

Lisa would surely disagree.

Lisa.

I think she suspects I'm around from time to time. She suspects, and she punishes me by refusing to hide, by refusing to be afraid any more. And it works. They exist in this world, and I am left alone and confused.

Shattered.

The little one has my eyes. I would want to hold her. Just once. I bet she feels soft. Like her mom. But I'll never know her. She can't know me.

I can't figure out for my life why she kept it. My child. No one would have blamed her if she'd have gotten rid of it. My daughter. Not even me.

This bounds us.

Forever.

I can never leave her, and I can never be with her.

I can't even hate her any more.

I hate myself.

I wonder if things could have been differently.

::

THE END