by Beth Harden
“If you’re lying, someone will get hurt. Understand?” he hissed. Instantly the rules were clarified. This was no social encounter or case of mistaken address. The three-to-one odds were not comforting.
“Yes, okay. My boyfriend is due here any minute. If you are looking for money, I can give you some cash and you can leave without any hassle. I haven’t seen your face. No harm done.”
“Better hope he doesn’t show,” said Suspect # 3. A cold block of fear lodged in my stomach. His breathing was choppy and excitable, coming and going in sharp shallow bursts. The faint aroma of diesel fuel clung to his sweatshirt sleeve. He fidgeted uncomfortably, shifting his weight from foot to foot. One man turned the dead bolt on the door behind him; the other rushed about the room tugging on the curtain pulls, quickly lowering the blinds and fumbling for the dimmer switches. They obviously did not know the footprint of this house but something told me this was not the first time they had dared a brazen invasion of someone else’s home. The two followers were now all wild eyes and eager palms reaching for what didn’t belong to them. Strange hands pawed over precious objects. One of them let the hand-painted Staffordshire vase slip and it splintered into fragmented halves. How would I explain the mess to the Weltons? Maybe someone from the Paier Art School knew how to do porcelain restoration and could be commissioned for a repair before its owners ever noticed the damage. Their movements were quick and exaggerated as they executed a haphazard sweep of the area. The rash nature of their actions suggested this crime might be an impulsive idea. If so, maybe these thrill-seekers could be spooked or distracted from completing this errant mission.
“The house at the end of the street has a valuable stash of paintings,” I suggested meekly. My captor gave no indication that he had heard and continued to clench my neck.
“C’mon,” he said, grabbing my elbow and pushing me in the direction of the wall phone. “You’re gonna make a call. Tell him something's come up.”
Suspect 3 stood anonymously behind me within inches of my ear as I nervously pressed the digits. The signal patched through to the Mitchell home in South Portland, Maine. Someone picked up after the second ring.
“Has Aaron left yet, Mrs. Mitchell?” I asked.
“No, he’s right here, honey,” she answered cheerfully.
“Can you put him on for a moment, please?”
“Sure Lissa. Hold on a sec.” I could hear her bustle towards the far end of the room and call out for her son. When he picked up, my antagonist leaned in closer to listen.
“Hey, there. We need to change the time. Can you hold off until morning before coming down?” I asked. Don’t break down. Don’t scream. Stay steady.
“What? I thought we had already agreed that I would…” I cut him off.
“My sister either has a case of food poisoning or else she’s really sick with a virus,” I interrupted. “I’m going to take her to the ER now. Who knows how long it will take,” I added matter-of-factly. Don’t believe me. Read between the lines. Danger!
“Lissa? What is…?”
“So I’ll see you tomorrow then,” I said without waiting for a confirmation.
“Wait, tell me…”
“I love you too. See you then,” I said and clicked the receiver back on its cradle. The code had been sent. The non-existent sister was a clue that hopefully would be translated: Trouble. Call for help. Please hurry! My tormentor removed a sharp Exacto knife from his pocket and sliced the telephone cord which spooled like disemboweled intestine down the wainscoting.
“Area code 2-0-7. That’s long distance. Not in Massachusetts. Jersey, maybe? Either way, we got time. Now, move!”
There was no way to appeal to this young man on a personal basis, no name to put to the face that was also unidentified. All I knew was the superficial color of his skin appeared to be as dark as his heart. Concentrate now! Step two: Orient. Two famous African-American men flashed to mind, one who rallied for peace and one who died for preservation. It occurred to me how kind it was that shock numbs perception, allowing both mind and body to waltz into a distracted dance of trivial thoughts, but this was no time for meaningless games. My brain was trying to transmit crucial information that could protect me. I took my best guess. My persecutor was from the latter school of politics. Malcolm Little (aka angry Malcolm X) once said, ‘Tactics based on morality can only succeed when you are dealing with basically moral people.’ That truth was more and more unlikely here. Mr. X pulled me off my heels and escorted me backwards through the pantry area into the dining room.
“Stop, please. I’ll cooperate,” I begged hoarsely, tugging at his forearm which had cinched higher up near the larynx. His boys rushed ahead. They stopped to regard the computer monitor on the table with the textbooks stacked beside it. One sweep sent the research material skittering onto the Turkish carpet; the second lifted the hardware off its stand and let it drop. There was a rattle inside the casing and the power shorted out. My heart clenched with regret. The gift Dad had given to propel me towards my chosen profession had been laid to waste. This act of wanton destruction seemed to give them specific pleasure and further license to destroy and take from the just- barely-haves.
“Please. Let me go! There are valuables here. I can show you,” I suggested.
“Where do they keep the good shit?” he asked impatiently.
“There’s a portable safe in the master bedroom closet but I have no idea where the key is. Or if it has a combination.” We crossed out into the main foyer in a tangled knot. My attacker motioned to his followers to fan out in front of him. His jaw of sharp stubble was clamped against the side of my neck.
“Which room?”
“Upstairs to the left. The one with the blue and white wallpaper. Let me go, please. You can have anything.”
“Show us!” he said, brusquely pushing me ahead of him. I took the stairs cautiously, carefully testing each riser for a crack or creak that might upset the equilibrium of the moment. At the top of the landing, the German cuckoo clock started ratcheting its leaden pine cone weights up the winding chain and the little bird bobbed and cracked open its beak. Seven o’clock. Time noted. Still an eternity before help could arrive. Hopefully Aaron had thought to alert the troopers. A runner of plush green carpeting ran front to back down the center hallway to the master suite. I pointed to the closed door. The co-conspirators bullied the glass door knob and pushed inside. My conjoined criminal pulled us up short.
“Which one is your room?” he hissed. I shook my head. “Which one?” Panic began to well up in my chest. Step three: Decide. Was there a way to create a disturbance or slip his grasp? I tightened up my muscles in silent resistance. He detected the slight refusal and applied more pressure to the throat. I couldn’t remember if it was better to struggle or go along with the attacker’s demands. The rough grapple of his bicep near my windpipe prevented any accumulation of sound. There was no volume behind my attempted cry. I stepped forward and we moved in choppy unison to the room in the south corner of the house. Once inside, he released me with a push forward, flicked on the switch and slammed the door. I rushed to the opposite wall and huddled near the tall wooden wardrobe.
“Come here, Pretty,” he said. Our glances locked. We were committed now to some action of great import, both of us key players in a one-act tragedy whose ending had not yet been scripted. I knew I would not depart that room unchanged. As deeply terrified as I was, I determined that I would not walk away from the encounter without leaving some permanent mark on his soul. He looked to be two, maybe three years older than I, though there were generations’ worth of skin divots and scars on his face from a genetically-flawed lifestyle handed down to him at birth.
“Can you please let me go now? I have a big family that loves me. Like I’m sure you do, too,” I pleaded. His mouth turned into a curdled grin. He moved to the roll top desk where a copy of my senior thesis paper sat in its near-final draft. The electronic version was likely lost in the chaos of looting that appeared
to be in full play. I could hear someone ransacking through the rooms below. My antagonist picked up the paper-clipped bundle of printed text and screwed down his brow as he began to intently read it. Halfway down the first page, he looked up and smiled.
“You’re brilliant as fuck too, huh?” said Mr. X. He methodically tore ten pages at a time and allowed the tatters to drift in columns onto the hardwood floor. Six months worth of work destroyed in sixty seconds. Mr. X dragged the wooden chair away from the desk and dropped into it, kicking his Timberland boots up onto the pile of folded laundry on top of the sweater chest.
“Take off your clothes!” he said matter-of-factly. “But leave your underwear on.” The fear was instant and as sharp as an arctic inhale. This scene was one right out of movies that I had seen before, the kind that sent me flying off the edge of my seat when the female victim cowered with inevitable surrender before her perpetrator. ‘Get that bastard,’ I’d yell. But now I better understood my doomed sisters’ lack of action. My limbs were clotted and sluggish with instant paralysis. I couldn’t think clearly. I could hear my brain shouting without any reaction from the body: Act! Mr. X was blocking any hope of a run. I swiftly planted myself in front of the nearest corner window, which faced east towards the street, and started banging my fists on the window panes, hoping that Mrs. Schuster was scrubbing her cast iron skillet with a Brillo pad and might chance to look up.
“I’m not playin’ here. Get away from the glass!” he ordered sternly.
I ceased the mad scramble and turned back towards him. X had his fist in his pocket and I remembered the blade that had dismembered the line of communication.
“Now strip!”
“Please, I’ll write a check from my account. We can go to the ATM. I have at least a few thousand. I could probably get more.”
“Do what I say, smart girl.” Shit! Palpitations railed behind my breastbone. Fight or flight was in full force. I slowly removed the pale yellow raglan blouse and grey leggings and started to fold them, hoping even a slight intermission might halt the torment. Self-consciousness took hold in the half-light that struck the faint stretch marks on my hips, and illuminated each mark and mole that journeyed across my paper-pale skin. For over five years, I had undressed for only one man and that slow disrobing was a willing dance of desire. There in the unforgiving stare of terror, I trembled and shrank back. I was just another helpless, terrified victim. Mr. X came closer. With nimble hands, he ran his fingers around the elastic hem of my bra clasping flesh as he went and unhooked the plum-colored Victoria’s Secret, a secret no longer as he tossed the bra into a heap.
“Lie down!” he said. He didn’t ask a second time. When I began to struggle furiously against his touch, he used his superior height and weight as leverage and bent me over backwards still flailing, onto the bed pinning each wrist in isolation, and grinned.
“You want to make love with me?” he cooed sarcastically.
“No, no, no,” I moaned. The choice of word was a stinging insult in the context of violence. Love? Last chance. ACT, goddamnit! I dredged up some saliva and spat into that dangerous smile. He reared backwards and got one hand into his side pocket, grappling for the solid object that banged against my ribs through the fabric. The glint of a blade appeared. I stopped moving and held my breath.
“How bout I fuck you instead then?” he hissed.
“Please, don’t. I have my period. We can do something else,” I begged.
“Okay, you win.” He pulled up to a crouching position, reached towards the headboard, shook one foam pillow loose from its cotton pillowcase then dropped back down. He began to kiss me starting and lingering just above the pelvic bone then running his tongue up to my teeth. At the same time his hands played a little parlay with my panties inching them downwards in suggestive increments. His voice softened now that he had the strength of a weapon to speak for him.
“Turn over,” he ordered. I prayed that my willingness to work with him would pay off. As I rolled onto my tummy, he reached upwards. I caught the fragrance of my True Religion perfume on the sheath of linen as he slipped it over my head. I began to panic. I’m going to suffocate. But the cloth was thin and allowed a small intake of oxygen if I took slow, shallow breaths. Dear Jesus, help me. If the end of the world is coming, let it come on this street in this house. Now. Lift me on high. He pulled my hands up over my head and cinched them with what felt like a bathrobe sash. The other end was knotted around the bedpost. Leaning close to my right ear, he whispered.
“Relax now. Trust me.”
I felt the mattress spring back as he got up to unlock the door. I lay still praying fervently for a deliverer or a miracle. I knew the other men had entered the room by the soft commotion of multiple feet and a draft of air that seeped in during the exchange. I tensed and waited. I remembered now that it was a 50/50 roll of the dice as far as survival; no matter if one fights back or flees into mental retreat and passively allows fate to have its way. The exposed pores on my bare back tingled with apprehension. An itch kicked up under my shoulder blade. Someone approached the foot of the bed and I heard the telltale pull of a zipper. The bed sank under the weight that was now distributed behind me. I felt a brush against my flanks. Someone grabbed my feet.
I could not tell who the groundbreaker was. The violation was unexpected and excruciating as an erect penis intruded into my buttocks. It was initially repelled by bands of muscle wall but the assault was repeated with more determined thrusts. My entire pelvic region suddenly burst with ungodly pressure. An intense tunneling and tugging sensation radiated deep into the tops of my thighs. Fortunately the entrance and exit were quick and the offender withdrew. It’s over. It’s over. You’ve done it. They would not get the satisfaction of a single cry out of me. Just as I started to relax with relief, the second onslaught began with a frantic fury. Hands gripped the flesh above my waist and yanked me into position. I endured another onslaught of rapid friction between my legs that transferred the pain from a deep ache to raw stinging. This time I was not so lucky. The attack was prolonged and increasingly more violent as my assailant slowly gathered momentum. I had time to think. Nobody wants to be conscious during such an ordeal. I almost wished they would see the kindness in taking me out now. Moans finally came from the beast that had deeply penetrated my belly. Suddenly, it became a slippery ride and then my mount was gone. I was physically sick to my stomach but swallowed back any regurgitation. I didn’t want to aspirate and choke; not after surviving the firing squad. Who was guilty of pulling the trigger? There were three men in the room. Either there had beene two live rounds and one blank or one man had shot twice.
The door slammed and X was back by the bedside. He carefully removed the makeshift blindfold, untied my arms and rolled me to a sitting position. My legs wobbled as he yanked me upright. Gravity pulled my abused body off-balance. I was a visible mess with trembling thighs that threatened to give out and sinuses congested with sobs that had flooded them uncontrollably. The other suspects were gone. X wasted no time in pushing me forward into the adjacent bathroom. He opened the Plexiglass door and turned the temperature control lever to the red zone. A bristling spray erupted. On the shower caddy was a lone washcloth. He pulled it off and placed it my hands along with a bar of Irish Spring.
“Scrub off good. I’ll be here watching,” he announced. A wall of steam built between us but the waves of moisture could not disperse his presence. I placed my feet like a stopper over the drain absorbing the little comfort this meager soak provided. X had appointed himself supervisor of my suffering and ordered me to continue whenever reflex pulled my hand away from the chafed parts. Through the cloud of hot vapor, I caught glimpses of a stubby box cutter slipping in and out of its casing and heard its tiny ticking like a miniature metronome counting down my demise. My motions were feeble and took full concentration.
“More soap. Keep going,” he said. I’m alive. These wounds will heal. The surface ones first. Hang in. You’re almost there. Fi
nally he leaned in and shut off the valve.
“Enough. Get out, Princess!” he said.
“I promise I won’t call anyone or report you,” I blurted out.
“I know you won’t,” he mumbled. I stepped out into the chill of the aftermath with hair dripping, nose running and head cowed. It was important to remember details like the raspy tenor of his voice and the scent of him as he came closer. At first he did nothing but make me stand there nude in humiliation like the public display of a hooded POW forced to march through the streets of some foreign country. I grappled with the dire outcome that loomed before me. How did a hostage mentally stay in the game? I had two options. I could fold now and allow the tachycardia of terror to take me out or I could grapple deeper and dredge up something. If not hope, then dignity at least. X snagged a hand towel off the rack and threw it at me.
“Dry yourself off. Tits first. Follow me?” he said. In a Simon Says game of slow sport, he named the parts and I touched them, dabbing, covering every square inch of epidermis in a sick sensual show of his making.
“Slow down!” he hissed. I complied.
“Faster!” I did as I was told.
“Turn around! Now, touch yourself. There!” he indicated. I shook my head vehemently. Game over. “One of us is going to. Either you or me. Your pick,” he said. I closed my eyes and gently massaged the bump of flesh below my pubic mound. If I didn’t see his perverse manipulation then perhaps I could create a counter-fantasy of my own. I still could control my mind and potentially his. X yanked a black silk nightgown with royal blue piping across the bodice from off the hanging rack on the back of the door. First one limp arm and then the other was lifted and guided through the straps. My body was nothing more than a demented plaything in a twisted Barbie charade.