I Know What Love Is

by Bianca, Whitney

  “You two are alive, that's all that matters,” my mother continued. “Martin, the police. Get the police, please,” she said to my father. He patted my knee through the sheet and then left, closing the door behind him. My mother leaned in and I knew what was coming.

  “The doctor says that... that man...”

  “He raped me, momma,” I said, turning the full force of my gaze on her. I didn't want to beat around the bush when everybody already knew what happened. The sooner it was out in the open, the sooner my mother could get used to it. “He raped me in front of Trace, and then he raped me later in the motel room.” My mother's eyes widened and I felt almost bad for speaking the harsh truth. “He made me do things. I'm not proud of it, but I did what I had to do to survive.”

  “No, baby, no one thinks...” she trailed off again, then shook her head, her perfect blond hair moving with her. “You're so strong, Joanie. So strong.”

  “I don't feel strong, momma,” I admitted. “I feel broken and tired and used up. But I'm going to be okay. Believe me,” I lied through my teeth, hoping that I sounded convincing. The dark-skinned policewoman from the motel gave a light knock on the door then and stepped into the room.

  “Hello, Joan. How do you feel?” she asked, cocking her head. I was already getting annoyed with that question, but I shrugged in response. She stood at the end of the bed, a pad and pen in her hand. “Are you ready to talk?”

  My mother made a strangled noise in the back of her throat and I knew she didn't want to hear me tell the story. She didn't want to hear about how Elliot had plunged the knife over and over into Trace after he'd overpowered and seduced me on the lawn. She didn't want to hear about how he'd fucked me in the ass as he declared his love for me. Not that I was going to go into all the nitty-gritty details, but whatever words were going to come out of my mouth, she wouldn't want to hear them.

  “Can you give us a minute?” I asked her. She looked like she was going to say she wanted to stay, but then she stood and slipped from the room, closing the door lightly behind her. The detective looked at me, her eyes suddenly as worn-out looking as I felt.

  “You ready?” she asked softly.

  I sighed and nodded.

  No time like the present.

  *****

  It was almost 1:00 a.m. when I finally got my chance. I convinced my parents to go to the hotel room they'd been staying in and sleep that night. They would be back in the morning to check me out. I was alone for the first time in two days. I slipped out of the bed, using the chair to steady myself. Then I pulled myself to standing, dragging my cast along the floor. My mother had brought my old pink terrycloth robe from home and I pulled it off the hook on the door and slipped it on. I poked my head out of the room, glancing down the empty hallway. The nurses's station was a few doors down, and I knew I would have to pass by it to get to the elevators. The only thing I knew was that Elliot was in the ICU. I didn't know which room he was in or how to get there.

  I decided to try my luck with my sob story. I was a victim after all and I could milk it for all it was worth. I shuffled down to the nurses's station, my plaster cast scraping across the floor. A short plump nurse in pink scrubs caught my eye and stood, opening her mouth. I cut her off before she could tell me to get back in bed.

  “I'm Joan Vasquez—” I began.

  “I know who you are,” she said, and I checked out her name tag. Her name was Cynthia. She had bleached blond hair, acrylic nails and soft blue eyes. I thought I might have a good chance with her. She didn't look like a hard-ass in the least.

  “I know he's in this hospital,” I continued. Cynthia's eyes widened. “My attacker.”

  “I'm not at liberty to say,” Cynthia said softly.

  “I know he is. I want to see him,” I say, keeping my voice light but strong. I was willing to squeeze out a few tears if necessary.

  “Ms. Vasquez,” she began, her brow furrowed.

  “Please.” I blinked, letting myself tear up. I saw the indecision cross her face. “I need to see him.”

  “He's in the ICU. He won't be able to talk to you,” she whispered.

  “I don't want to talk. I just need... I just need...” I let myself trail off, and took a deep jagged breath.

  “Closure?” Cynthia supplied, her eyes concerned. I nodded, swiping at a tear on my cheek. Cynthia leaned closer to me, her eyes glancing down the hallways on either side of me. “There are police at his door. They won't let you in.”

  “I just want to see,” I whispered back. “I want to see what I did to him.”

  “You stabbed him?” she said, eyebrows raising to her hairline. “Bless your heart.”

  “I had to,” I said.

  “You damn near killed the bastard,” she said. “Good for you.”

  I sniffled, biting my lip as if I was unsure and vulnerable. She took pity on me, which I had been counting on. She sighed, tapping her nails on the formica countertop.

  “You just want to see him?”

  “One more time,” I pleaded softly. “I go home tomorrow. I need closure.”

  “I know you do, darlin'.” She gave a curt nod, making her decision to help me, and walked over to a folded wheelchair. She pulled it out and wheeled it over. “Have a seat. I'll give you a ride.” I let myself smile lightly and hobbled over to her and sat down. She rolled me to the elevators, and took me up to the seventh floor.

  “He was in surgery today,” she confided in me. “Had to have two blood transfusions. After all the good, average Joes that come through these halls everyday and don't always make it out, to see a devil like that make it through almost makes me question God's plan.”

  “Me too,” I murmured, my heart clenching in my chest the closer I got to Elliot. I needed to see him, but I was scared to, as well. The feelings I had for him were terrifying and confusing, but also strong. If I closed my eyes, I could feel his body wrapped around mine, and his lips against mine. I could hear his voice in my ear, whispering that he loved me and that I belonged to him.

  My obsession was just beginning.

  Cynthia rolled me through the dark hallways of the ICU, waving at another night nurse who gave her a questioning look. The nurse didn't give us any problems, though, and we turned a corner and a policeman was revealed, sitting in a chair at the end of the corridor.

  “He's a cute one,” Cynthia said as we rolled closer, and the officer stood and crossed his arms. He was middle-aged, tough with a buzzcut and a red face. Not really my type, but more power to her.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, keeping his voice low, but not disguising his annoyance.

  “She wants to see the perp,” Cynthia said.

  “The perp? Christ.” The officer rolled his eyes. “Been watching Law & Order lately, nursie?”

  “It's Cynthia.” She tapped her name tag with a long nail.

  “Well Cynthia, you can turn your cute ass right around and take her back downstairs.” He dropped his eyes to look at me, and I noticed his gaze soften slightly. Even a tough asshole of a cop pitied me. How pathetic.

  “She just wants to see the bastard who did this to her,” Cynthia said lightly, but with a slight edge. “For closure.”

  “It's not up to me.” Officer Asshole shrugged. “No one gets through but authorized personnel.”

  “I'm a nurse.”

  “Not you. And definitely not her.”

  “Please.” I spoke up finally, my voice pathetic and pleading. I felt the familiar tears welling up in my eyes. “Just a minute.”

  “Just a minute,” Cynthia parroted. Officer Asshole sighed, and suddenly, he looked very tired.

  “Look, fuck this guy,” he said, his eyes on me. “Go home and get a therapist and don't let this rule your life. Living your life is the best revenge. ”

  I worked my jaw, trying to think of a good response. I let out a jagged breath, my chest tight. Elliot was so close. I wanted to leap out of the chair and bolt into the room, but I couldn't. It was frustrating. The t
hought that I wouldn't get to see him was making me anxious. It was almost like I was going into withdrawal, like I was addicted to him. I eyed the officer's gun, wondering... I don't know exactly what I wondered, but a violent thought definitely passed my mind. What if Elliot could get ahold of that gun? What would he do with it? What could I do with it?

  “He's right there, can't she just look in the window?” Cynthia pressed. “For closure.”

  “Please,” I pleaded, dragging my eyes from his gun to his face.

  “Fuck,” he sighed, shaking his head.

  “Please,” I repeated, and a tear ran down my cheek and dropped in my lap.

  “You know, I have a daughter about your age. Twenty-three fucking years old.” He dropped his hands to his hips. “You can look in the window. That's fucking it. You get one minute, and then you'll be back on your way.”

  “Deal,” Cynthia said, and I could hear the smile in her voice. “One minute.” The officer stood aside and Cynthia rolled me to closer to his room. The door was closed, but there was a rectangular window on the wall, looking directly in. I dropped my foot to the floor, slowing the movement of the wheelchair.

  “I need to stand,” I said, and Cynthia hustled around to help me.

  “You got it?” she asked, her hand on my elbow when I was upright. I nodded and limped slowly to the window, my heart in my throat. Cynthia, thankfully, let me go alone. I didn't want to have to snap at her, after how nice she'd been. I had a desperate need to be alone with him, somehow. Well, as alone as I could be with two people watching, that is.

  Finally, I reached the window and as soon as I saw him, I felt like I could breathe again. He looked terrible. He had an oxygen tube snaked under his nose. His eyes were closed, his lips in a straight line. He was pale under the fluorescent light and his cheekbones looked sharper than normal. He was handcuffed to the bed with a fresh pair, but he still had our matching cuff on his left wrist, the chain hanging down. I lifted my hand, wanting to knock on the window to wake him, but I didn't. I pressed my palm to the cool glass, my breath fogging it. I felt my tears flowing in earnest, and I didn't know why I was crying.

  I wasn't sad. I didn't know exactly what I was feeling, but it wasn't sadness.

  I wanted him to look at me. I wanted him to see the distance between us, the distance that was only going to get wider. He was definitely going to prison, for a long time. He wasn't going to get to love me, he wasn't going to get to touch me, and he wasn't going to get to fuck me. His hold over me was broken. I wanted to see the haunted look on his face as it sunk in. I wanted to see the rage when he realized he wasn't in control of what happened between us any more.

  I was in control now.

  I felt a smile curl over my lips, even as my tears continued to fall.

  I was going to make him suffer and I was going to love every minute of it.

  He turned his head in my direction as if he could sense me standing there. His eyes opened to slits, then widened as he saw me. I could feel his heartbeat speed up in my chest. I could feel the desperation radiating through him in my own body. He wanted to touch me. I could see it in his eyes. I wanted to touch him, too, but not touching him was much better. I took all of his longing into myself, and it only made me stronger. He was the weak one and I was the strong one, for the first time ever.

  He opened his mouth as if to speak and I shook my head. He clenched his jaw, wincing in pain as he tried to struggle against his bindings.

  “Don't,” I mouth.

  He froze. The desperation was all over his face. I watched as the realization of his predicament come over him. It was a beautiful sight.

  He threw his head back and howled, trying to wrench his wrists free from the handcuffs. I watched him struggle in vain, my pussy clenching in response. He was sexy as hell when he was desperate and clawing. My eyes were locked on him, entranced. Officer Asshole was jolted out of his conversation with Cynthia and hurried toward me.

  “Shit!” he hissed as he banged on the window with his ham-like fist. Cynthia hurried away, to get the other night nurse. Elliot ignored him and continued growling incoherently like a trapped animal, the veins and muscles in his neck tight as he tried to free himself. I watched from the safety of the window as the nurses and the officer ran inside, holding him down as they shot him up with a sedative.

  “Fuck! Fuck!” he growled, his fingers straining toward me, his eyes on mine. Then he dragged his gaze away, staring off toward the ceiling. “DAISY!” He gave one last pained scream, his voice echoing in my ears.

  I blinked slowly as he called me Daisy. I realized he didn't want them to know he was talking to me. He wanted to keep something between us. Something close to affection for him blazed through me. We still had a secret, a secret life that no one would know. The details of my abduction were known to everyone, but they would never know everything.

  Even now, he calls me Daisy unless we're alone. All the letters I sent him in prison, I wrote as Daisy. It's become our code, of sorts. Our own secret, private language.

  Just for us.

  “Daisy. You... you know,” he whispered once more, his eyes glazing over as the sedative took hold of him. I nodded, my hand pressed to the window, my whole body tight. The sight of him rearing up violently had done something to me. I liked it.

  “Fucking whack-job.” Officer Asshole hiked up his belt and shook his head in disgust.

  “Who's Daisy?” Cynthia asked.

  “You two get the hell out of here. I think we've had enough trouble for tonight,” he said, pointing to the door.

  “I agree,” Cynthia mumbled, darting a look at him and then at Elliot. I hobbled to the doorway, unable to stop myself. I was drawn to Elliot like a moth to flame. His eyes were closed again and his body was limp, his hand hanging down toward the floor. My eyes zeroed in on his hand, remembering the feel of that hand on my body. The need to touch him burned stronger than ever, but before I knew it Cynthia's hand was on my elbow, guiding me toward the wheelchair.

  Officer Asshole stood in the doorway, his hands on his hips.

  “Thank you,” I said to him as Cynthia wheeled me away, my tears drying on my cheeks.

  “Remember what I said. Living is the best revenge,” he said, his soft tone in direct opposition to his tough stance. I nodded, craning my neck to keep my eyes on him as we moved down the hallway. He got smaller and smaller until we turned the corner and I couldn't see him anymore.

  Chapter Fourteen

  If I looked hard enough, I could see still the bloodstains.

  My mother had the patio sandblasted and cleaned, but I could still see Trace's blood in the seams between the stones. I could see my bloody footprints and the dried brown drops of Elliot's blood by the pool. I didn't mind it though, not much. Every morning, I woke at ten, after my father had gone to work and my mother had gone to her real estate office downtown. I put on my one-piece purple suit and padded down to the pool, my ankle almost fully healed. I took the long way around where Trace had collapsed, so still and pale I'd been convinced he was dead. I walked down the steps into the blue water of the pool, warmed by the morning sun, and began my laps.

  My mother wanted to sell the house. When they asked me what I thought about the idea, I shrugged. I didn't plan on staying much longer. I didn't know where I was going to go, but I knew I was going to go somewhere far away. I lifted my head for a breath, then ducked back beneath the frothing water. They didn't know that I was going to leave them. They didn't know that after the trial, I was as good as gone.

  I was waiting to see where they were going to send him.

  He was in a prison about an hour away, awaiting trial. It took a week before he was well enough to be transferred from the hospital in Hudson. I knew because I called Cynthia one night, at the nurses's station. She whispered the information to me like she was committing a cardinal sin. I thanked her and assured her I was seeing a therapist. She breathed a sigh of relief when I said goodbye. I promised her I wouldn't call again
.

  I thought I would be able to stop pretending to be normal after I got home from the hospital. But I'd been forced back into my good daughter role; otherwise, they worried. I saw the lines around their eyes. I would catch my mother staring at me, but my father rarely looked at me at all. My brothers and their girlfriends were over-protective, not letting me go out by myself. If I wanted to go to the movies, they wanted to go with me. If I wanted to go to the drug store for tampons, I had to have an entourage. It was sweet of them to care, but I hated every minute of it.

  Trace was back home with this mother, but we didn't talk. He didn't call me, and I didn't call him. To be honest, I didn't mind. As far as I was concerned, Trace and I had been over the moment Elliot knocked on the door that night. I couldn't pretend anymore, especially not with a man who'd almost died for me. I felt guilty, but not guilty enough to marry him. That would just be cruel.

  After all, I belonged to someone else.

  I pushed off of the wall of the pool with the balls of my feet, my body spearing through the water. The trial date had been set. In three months, I would be called forth to testify in front of a jury and a judge about what Elliot had done to me. The most important thing was I would see Elliot again. That was the only thing I was looking forward to. I wondered how he was doing in jail. I bet he hated being caged in. I bet he spent his days thinking about me, wishing he still had me. I hoped he spent his nights tossing and turning and remembering how our bodies melded together, and how my skin smelled, and how it felt to fall asleep in each other's arms after a good fuck.

  That's how I spent my nights. In the dark, I lay awake, my mind from wandering back to the last night we'd been together. He'd fucked me like he knew our time was up and he wanted to make it count. It had been so good, it was impossible to forget. I didn't want to want him, believe me. But the more time that passed, the more I craved him. The more obsessed I became. The more I wanted him to suffer as much as I had, and then some.

  Then, when he'd suffered enough, maybe I would take pity on him.