The icing on the cake, however, was that Derek had even set his phone up in my bedroom, on my old, antique vanity, to record his attempted rape of me.
I listened to the officer and felt my sanity slip further and further away. For the first time since this whole nightmare began, I knew I was going to be sick.
Grabbing the pink, plastic bed pan sitting on the rolling cart beside the bed, I emptied all the contents of my stomach. I grimaced as the hospital food that had been my lunch an hour before swiftly left my body.
Officer Port discreetly turned away while Officer Jackson went in search of a nurse. Tears forced their way out of my eyes while all my food continued to purge itself, and I angrily blinked them away.
“How could he?” I gasped in angry disgust, and then I vomited again. Officer Port stepped out into the hall.
By the time I was done spewing every single thing out of my body, a nurse had come in to help with my clean up. She cleansed my face gently, lovingly, with a warm washcloth and a face full of pity.
I hated that look in her eyes. It said, Poor, poor thing. What a tragedy. Bless her heart.
Her kindness was almost too much to bear.
She helped me into a clean gown and gave me a pill for the nausea and a tiny can of ginger ale. I accepted them with a hoarse, “thank you.”
Once she was done, the police officers returned.
“Rosalind, we turned up one more thing in our investigation, as well.”
“You've got to be kidding me,” I said weakly. “There's more?”
They nodded, their expressions grave.
Then I stilled, suddenly remembering the boy who had been in my room. The boy who had saved me. My hero. I was certain he must have shown up on Derek’s video, and the police had known I lied to them.
“What is it?” I asked, dreading the response, dreading what they saw on the cell phone.
“Derek, well,” Officer Jackson shifted, and glanced at his partner once again before continuing. “He also recorded video of himself strangling your mother.”
For a moment the world tilted. I nodded slowly, accepting it. Of course he had. Of course. He was sick. He was a sick individual, the sickest of them all. He completely deserved his terrible death and I relaxed, knowing he was going to burn in hell forever.
Right there and then, I sent up a prayer of thanks that he was dead. And then I finally began to ask the question that needed to be answered.
“You said he recorded his assault on me, in my bedroom,” I began.
Officer Port nodded. “It's all very cut and dry. The video shows himself setting up the phone, positioning it just right, and then putting his face into the screen and saying ‘tonight's the night.’ He was crying, but seemed very excited too. From there, he made his way to your bed.”
“It was dark though, in my room. How could a recording show up at all?” I asked.
“He had some kind of night vision app on his phone,” Officer Jackson replied. “Made it easy to take videos in the dark.”
I nodded and said, in a very small voice, “Oh.”
A moment passed, and then I asked it.
“Was there anyone else in my room? Did it show anyone else on the video besides Derek and myself?”
Officers Port and Jackson were taken aback, and glanced at one another.
“Why, no, there wasn't. It very clearly showed he, and he alone, was in the process of assaulting you when you managed to kick him away. Why, Rosalind? Do you believe a third party was involved in the events of last night?”
I shook my head, no, and made up an excuse for my question, saying I was confused because I thought maybe my mother had come into my room with Derek.
“No,” Officer Port said gently. “Your mother was already deceased by then.”
I looked up at him and nodded. I had my answer. I had been saved by a boy who I clearly saw last night, but was somehow unseen on the video.
“Okay,” I said softly.
***
The remainder of the day was spent being poked and prodded, and speaking with counselors, therapists, and social workers who seemed to know everything about me before I could open my mouth. The officers had questioned me previously about any family members I may have had, but there was no one. I never knew what had happened to my biological father, he'd been long gone before I was even born. I didn’t even know his first name. The only thing I knew of him was the last name I carried.
The only other family I ever knew of besides him was my older sister, the one who'd died when I was a baby.
Since my only next of kin had been murdered, it was therefore decided that I'd become a ward of the state and placed into the foster care system. This news was no surprise, but I loathed it. I'd heard stories before, of kids being abused by their foster families. I had just come from a horrible home, and was wary of being put into some place just as bad. Or worse.
As I took some pill or other for the umpteenth time- “for anxiety,” I was told- I decided then and there that I'd make myself as invisible as possible in my new foster home, like my hero had been on Derek’s video. I'd do whatever chore was demanded of me. I'd continue to get good grades. I'd be agreeable and quiet and keep to myself. I'd mind my own business, and let them mind theirs.
And eventually, when no one was looking, I'd get out of there.
I sighed, nodding at the plan I'd formed in my head, and looked out the window. I wished I could see the stranger who saved me. I wished he'd come find me. I felt deeply afraid, and knew his presence had the power to make everything better.
But where was he?
Better yet, who was he? That was the million dollar question.
My eyes grew heavy as the sun dipped below the buildings of my town, and I found myself whispering to him, once again.
“Please come back. You're the only one who's ever made me feel safe.”
I waited, listening, straining to hear his whisper as I thought I had the night before, but there was only silence. I finally gave in to the mental exhaustion and closed my eyes, and only then did I feel the comfort of icy cold air as it swept through the strands of my hair.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
CHAPTER FIVE
I slept deeply (translation- heavily medicated), and in the morning I was informed my social worker would be picking me up in the afternoon to take me to my “new home.” I was given papers with phone numbers on them, and addresses to places I could go to for help and assistance, since I was now considered a victim of assault.
Technically, I wasn't. At least, not in my mind. But, as the hospital therapist explained to me the day prior, technically, I was. Assault comes in many forms, according to her, and even though Derek had not accomplished what he'd set out to do, I had still been violated. He'd touched my body without my permission. He'd forced his mouth on mine without my consent. He'd invoked fear in me in an effort to get me to submit to his attack. He'd hurt me, as evident by the bruises he'd left.
Hence, I was a victim.
Wonderful. Because I already had so much going for me.
I promised myself I was not going to behave like a victim, and decided I’d be putting the incident out of my mind as much as possible. After all, if I didn't think about it, I wouldn't have to feel that terror all over again. I was certain it would work, just as soon as I got away from the hospital and the people within it.
The social worker assigned to me came right before noon. She was a pretty lady with short, dark hair and dressed in a smart, grey suit. She wore black eyeglasses and carried a black briefcase in one hand, with a very familiar looking duffle bag in the other.
“Hello, Rosalind,” she said cheerfully. “I'm Juanita Gonzales. I've been assigned to your case.”
“Is that my bag?” I demanded.
She looked to the duffle bag hanging from her hand, and nodded.
“I took the liberty of going to your house and packing up your things this morning. I didn't think you would want to go there. It
's not pretty, Rosalind.”
I looked at her incredulously and felt my blood begin to boil.
“How do you know if you got everything I need? You don't know where I keep all my stuff! You went through my things? My personal things?”
I knew my anger was probably out of line, but I couldn't stop myself. I had just lost so much, and this was one more dignity stripped from me. The thought that this stranger had gone through my room set me off.
“I'm sorry,” she said, her tone becoming firm, “But that house is no place for you to be right now. The police have swept through the entire place. They raided it because of the drugs they found. Not to mention, there is blood all over your bedroom.”
“I was there, you know?” I cried. “I sat in that room with Derek’s dead body staring at me for twenty minutes! I know what it looked like!”
Juanita Gonzales stepped forward and hoisted up my duffle bag. She set it beside me on the bed, and leaned forward slightly, making sure she had- and held- eye contact with me.
“I am very, very sorry for what's happened to you, Rosalind. I was trying to protect you from seeing your home ransacked and your bedroom bloodied. I grabbed the things the police okayed for me to take. Clothes, your phone, your laptop, toiletries. After you have settled in to your foster home, you may make a list of the things I neglected to pack, and I will retrieve them for you when the police have completed their investigation. Right now, however, what you have in this bag will have to do.”
I listened intently to every word, and felt the injustice of it all. I wanted to go back to my house. I wanted to pack my own things. I wanted to say goodbye.
It might not have been a happy home, but it was the only one I'd ever known.
Looking into her eyes, however, I knew deep in my gut Miss Gonzales was simply protecting me, and my anger began to dissipate. The look in her eyes said she knew exactly what I'd been through, knew how fragile my mind was after experiencing everything. And I began to consider her feelings about it. How awful for her, to have to go into a strange room where a man had bled to death, and try to step around the dried, crimson pools to put together something for me to have that was my own.
“I'm sorry,” I whispered. “That was wrong of me to lash out at you.” I looked down at my worn, faded blue duffle bag and was grateful for whatever it held inside. “Thank you for getting this for me.”
She looked at me with sympathy and placed her hand on my shoulder.
“I've been right where you are now, Rosalind. I know exactly what you're feeling. Believe me when I say I'm here for you, and my only objective is to place you somewhere safe. And keep you that way.”
With that, she squeezed my shoulder gently and smiled.
“Now, I'm going to step out and grab a coffee at the cafeteria. Would you like one? A mocha, maybe? Or a cappuccino?” I nodded my head with gratitude. “Okay. I'll be back in a little bit. Go ahead and get dressed.”
I tried to smile back at her, but it didn't quite happen.
“Sure,” I said.
Miss Gonzales said she’d been in the same position I was. She said she knew exactly what I was going through, and I believed her. I couldn’t help but wonder what she had experienced herself. In that moment, I silently vowed I would never speak that way to her, ever again.
***
An hour later, I was clothed, discharged, caffeinated, and seated beside Juanita Gonzales in her sporty little compact car. We drove north in awkward silence for ten minutes before she finally spoke.
“We got lucky, Rosalind,” she said conspiratorially.
“You can call me Roz,” I offered. “I prefer it.”
She nodded and grinned at me. “Okay, Roz it is.” She made quick turn and drove us into the highway. “We got lucky, you know. You had been slated to go into a group home today, but one of our favorite families offered to take you in. They already have two fosters, and had no plans to take on any more, but when I told them your story, they wanted to give you a home immediately.”
I nodded. That sounded alright, I guess. A favorite family? They couldn't be too bad… but still, I was hesitant to jump on the foster family bandwagon that Miss Gonzales was riding.
“So, you told them my story?” I asked, and inwardly cringed at how nervous my voice sounded.
“I did. They don't know everything, not the details. Just enough to know that you're a sweet girl who's been through hell, and deserves something good in her life.” She winked at me.
I wanted to chuckle at how matter-of-fact she sounded. And that wink! So silly. Juanita Gonzales was going to grow on me, I could tell.
I smirked at her (my best attempt at a smile), and looked through my duffle bag once more. I was impressed with what it held. She’d somehow managed to pack the only things I really wanted- my journal, my favorite pair of Chucks (a very faded purple, and old enough to have holes), and several of the long, flannel shirts and hoodies I wore religiously. She'd even packed the small wooden box I'd had for years which held my favorite black cuff and two silver rings.
What truly broke my heart (and filled it, at the same time), was that she'd somehow managed to dig up an old photograph of me and my big sister. I was little, no more than six months old, and Angelina was four. We were both dressed in frilly blue dresses and matching hats. Angelina was beautiful, her hair dark and shiny, her eyes bright and blue. She cuddled me on her lap, smiling up at the photographer so sweetly.
Thinking back to old photos of myself at her age, I realized she and I could have passed as twins. If she had lived, the resemblance would’ve been unmistakable. The knowledge brought some odd kind of joy to my heart.
I'd been amazed Miss Gonzales had found the picture. As far as I'd known, my mother hadn't kept anything of Angelina after she'd died. By the time I was old enough to think for myself, every trace of my sister had been removed from the house, and when we moved into the place I’d lived up until today, it was as if she’d never existed. It was forbidden to even speak her name.
I often wondered how my mother could have lived with herself, with killing off the memory of her first born. Then again… maybe she couldn't kill it off, no matter how hard she tried. Maybe that's why she turned to drugs. At this point, I have accepted that I’ll never really know her reasons.
“Where did you find this?” I asked my social worker.
“It was something the police uncovered when they went through everything. It was sitting on the kitchen countertop when I arrived. Your name is written on the back, and the date. I knew you would want to have it.”
I nodded. She was right. I did want to have this. I held it to my chest like the treasure it was and vowed to find a decent frame for it.
“I've never seen this picture before. Jill kept everything of Angelina hidden or locked away, it was like she never existed.” I looked down once more to the image of two dark-haired, happy girls, and for the first time in two days, felt a real smile cross my face. “Thank you,” I whispered.
She reached her hand out and squeezed mine. “You're welcome, Roz,” She said.
***
Eventually, we made it to Marion, which was north of where I'd lived in Terre Haute, and my nervousness soared. My breath hitched and goosebumps trailed their way across my flesh. I looked out the window at my new town, where the winter fog settled across the landscape, and hoped its soothing presence would be a balm for my soul as it had been in the past.
But this time, it wasn’t. The fog did nothing to alleviate my nerves and my fears, and I knew why.
My mother was dead and everything in my life had changed.
Now, it wasn’t time to allow the fog to calm me, restore me. Now, it was time to suck it up and face the new life I was thrust unwillingly into.
Juanita had given me the heads up before leaving the hospital that I'd be too far away from my high school to keep going there, but I didn't mind. I had no friends anyway, and besides, once everyone there learned of what happened, I wouldn't have been
able to stomach the endless stares and whispers.
For me, that alone was worth moving to a new town.
We pulled up in front of an attractive, large ranch style home. It was single-story with red brick, white shutters, and a white roof. It boasted bright flowers of every color all over the yard. There was a covered porch in front that held a swing, lawn chairs, and loads of little knickknacks.
As I looked around the yard, I took in a large, plastic butterfly attached to a wire which stuck out randomly from a bush. Next, I saw a ceramic kitten holding a ball of yarn placed next to the front steps. In the center of the lawn, stood a ceramic peacock painted in beautiful shades of blue, purple, and green. In fact, the more I looked, the more I saw various ceramic animals placed all over the yard. They seemed to have been dropped out of the sky to land wherever they may. There was no rhyme or reason to their placement.
The entire yard was silly and whimsical, and I rolled my eyes, wondering what kind of people could possibly love ceramic yard animals that much.
Just as quickly as I had the thought, my inner voice admonished me:
The kind of people willing to give you a home.
Point taken, Inner Roz. Point taken.
Juanita looked at me smiled softly.
“Ready to meet your foster family?”
I gulped as a wave of sudden fear flowed over me. The same moment it hit, though, I felt icy cold air wrap around my hand, and I gasped. I looked to the side, but no one was there. The coldness lingered, and traveled up my arm, leaving goosebumps in its wake. It flowed over my shoulder and up into my hair, causing me to sigh just a tiny bit. Somehow I understood my stranger, my hero, was with me, even if I couldn't see him.
I was immediately comforted.
I nodded to Juanita, who watched me with a curious look on her face, and said, “I'm ready.”
CHAPTER SIX
Rest in Peace Roz: The R.I.P. Series Book 1 Page 3