All That's Left of Me

by Janis Thomas

  Again, the paycheck. Mortgage, bills, medical care, accoutrements of teenage girls, college tuition on the horizon. I cannot rock the precarious boat of my employment. I am forty-one years old. My job possibilities are limited. So I suffer his hands on my knees and his lecherous looks and impossible deadlines and petty grievances. And I check my bank account balance every Friday night to make certain my autopay is in effect.

  And yet. If only I had the balls, the self-respect, the emotional resources, the wherewithal—all the things I used to have but lost somewhere along the way. I would expose the bastard if I still had those tools, and how much better would my time within these walls be?

  “You look tired,” he repeats, only this time his voice is a low whisper and his fingers are sliding up my inner thigh, beneath my skirt. He has never gone this far before. My skin crawls. His Altoid breath nearly suffocates me.

  “Richard, I should get to my desk and get started on my daily list.”

  “Yes,” he murmurs. “You should.” I can feel the pads of his fingertips on my cotton underpants, pressing against my labia through the fabric. My stomach churns acid. I bite my bottom lip to keep from screaming. He emits a guttural grunt and, with his free hand, reaches for mine. He presses my hand against his hard penis, groans again as he slips his fingers under my panties.

  I stand suddenly, clasping my iPad to my chest, and Richard nearly topples to the floor. He struggles to stay in his seat, then looks up at me with unbridled anger. He does not like to be rejected or humiliated. I have done both.

  “Good morning, Mr. G-g-green.”

  Wally Holleran stands at the door of Richard’s office. He is a nice man with a severe case of late-onset acne, thick black-rimmed glasses, and a slight stutter. Richard calls him Golly Polly Wally behind his back and to his face. He nods at me, giving Richard a chance to paint a condescending smile over his mask of hostility.

  “Let me see,” Richard says, slowly gaining his feet. “My assistant was twenty-five minutes late this morning, I have a meeting I am ill-prepared for because of the stupidity and complacency of several of my employees, and the first person I see here, other than my tardy assistant, is you, Polly Wally. Does that sound like a g-g-good morning to you?”

  My hatred of this man has been simmering below the surface for years, but now it bubbles over into volcanic rage. And the thought careens through my head before I can stop it.

  I wish Richard Green had never come to work here. I wish he never existed.

  I swallow my contempt. It burns my throat. Richard storms to his desk as I covertly smooth my skirt.

  “Is there anything else, Richard?” I ask, my voice steady.

  He glares at me and shakes his head curtly. “No. Not for now.” A threat, a promise.

  I head for the doorway and politely sidestep past Wally and his mortification.

  And as I make my way to my desk, Charlemagne/Charlie returns. His shepherd-terrier eyes beseech me. Why did you wish me away? As if one reckless sentence formed by a fatigued-and-fractured mind could be the cause of his perpetual imprisonment.

  It is madness. I no more have the power to wish a puppy away than I do to erase Richard Green from this firm. My boss has not disappeared in a puff of smoke. He stomps around his office, his erection deflating even as his frustration magnifies. Today will be a misery for everyone on his staff because I didn’t let that bastard violate me. Wally slinks by my desk, eyes downcast. I silently apologize to him. He paid for my transgressions by simply offering a well-meant greeting, a mistake he will not repeat.

  He doesn’t look up.

  SIX

  The mind is a funny thing. When we have no explanation for something, we create one. Rationalizations, excuses, hypotheses. When there is no alternative other than mental illness, our minds turn fantasy into reality.

  While I know—I know—that Charlemagne/Charlie’s presence in the Krummund household was real, my rational mind recognizes that this is impossible. Therefore, over the course of the next few hours, as I perform my boss’s bidding, my subconscious works to create a plausible substitute for what transpired. By the time Colin calls, I almost have myself convinced.

  “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay,” he says.

  I crouch behind my computer monitor. If Richard sees me on my cell phone, he’ll go ballistic. Luckily, he’s in a meeting with social media, but his eyes wander regularly to the outer office.

  “I’m fine,” I whisper. “Thanks for checking. I can’t talk. Richard’s on a tear today.”

  “Oh dear. I’m sorry.”

  I’ve never revealed to Colin the brutal nature of the abuse I’ve received. My husband is not a knight in shining armor with sword raised to battle. He is a philosopher, an educator, an observer. Words are Colin’s weapons, and he wields them only moderately well. Still, he knows that my boss is a mean-spirited tyrant who sends me home each evening wounded and defeated.

  Another husband might tell me to quit my job. My husband cannot. I earn twice as much as he does. Then again, another husband might not call to make sure I’m okay. I must give Colin credit for his concern.

  “I was worried about you,” he says. “So was Josh.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. You were right, though.” I force a chuckle. “The Krummunds didn’t get a dog. I took a Motrin PM last night, and it must have knocked me for a loop.”

  My mind has already rewritten the scene from this morning: I awoke sluggish and disoriented from a long and visceral dream about my neighbors and their vociferous new puppy. Of course it was a dream. What right-minded person names their dog Charlemagne? And as for the little ball of fluff himself, I now recall that the last time I was downtown for a haircut, I stopped at the window of Paw-Tastic and spied the little devil in the display kennel, which is how he came to dwell in my subconscious and play a starring role in last night’s dream. That’s what must have happened. And because it must have happened, it did.

  These imagined scenarios are quickly becoming realities to me; soon they will be indistinguishable from the rest of my memories. Even now, I can scarcely remember the feel of Charlemagne/Charlie’s fur between my fingers as I stood on my neighbor’s front porch. Because it didn’t really happen. Sensations feel so vivid in dreams but quickly fade upon waking and then disappear altogether.

  Colin chuckles with me, his relief loud in my ear. “I can’t imagine Louise Krummund naming a dog Charlemagne.”

  “I know, right?” She did, though. No, she didn’t. It was a dream. “I’ve got to go, Colin.” Richard hasn’t caught me yet, but my time is running short.

  “Okay. See you later. Love you.”

  “You too,” I say, my automatic response. Not I love you. Because I love you is a bargain, and I’m not sure how much longer I can hold up my end of it. I hang up and tuck my cell phone next to my keyboard. When I glance into Richard’s office, my boss is scowling at me through the glass.

  The rest of the day passes as expected. Richard tirelessly metes out my punishment, adding another dozen tasks to my daily log that need to be completed before I leave. Jack and I are forced to rewrite the Peters copy three times, even though the second draft was perfect. My lunch hour is taken away. I am asked to fetch coffee on numerous occasions, only to be told each time to make a fresh pot, the old pot is burned. His glares are frequent, and there is violence behind them as never before. I’m careful to choose my bathroom breaks when I know he is occupied. I have always suffered Richard’s advances with disgust and rolling eyes. Today, I am afraid of him.

  At four forty-five, when most of the employees of Canning and Wells are shutting down their computers and straightening their desks, Richard strides out of his office and crosses to my desk. He peers down at me as I squint at my monitor. I’ve been entering data for two hours from an enormous stack of folders Richard bequeathed to me. They are old files, some from decades ago, most regarding clients we no longer have. There is no need to take up precious hard drive space with these f
iles other than to satisfy Richard’s sadistic bent. However, I kept my mouth firmly shut when he set them on my desk.

  “You’ll be here awhile longer, it seems.”

  “I can finish these tomorrow,” I reply, my eyes on the screen.

  “No. Today. I need them entered today.” His voice belongs to a rodent, a weasel. “You were late this morning, Emma. You can make up the time this evening. I have some other items I need sorted out when you finish with this.”

  I look up at him. His lips are curled into a salacious sneer.

  “I can’t stay late tonight, Richard. Joshua has physical therapy.”

  He nods, then raises his eyebrows. “Yes, well, it seems your son’s session has been canceled tonight. While you were on one of your extended ladies’ room sojourns, a text came from your husband. I happened to be passing by and retrieved it for you.”

  Blood rushes to my cheeks. My heart thumps wildly in my chest. Fury, like a living, writhing thing snakes through my veins.

  “I took the liberty of texting back for you. I let Colin know that you would be staying late. He answered with X’s and O’s. Very sweet.”

  I glance at my cell phone, which lies dormant beside my keyboard. I haven’t checked it recently. There were no alerts and no flashing lights because Richard took the liberty of clearing them.

  My coworkers file past. Their workday is done and they head for sweet freedom. The pace at which they walk is twice the speed of their arrival this morning. With each set of feet that passes my desk, my fury morphs into fear. Soon I will be left alone with a monster.

  “I can’t stay,” I say again.

  Richard rubs a finger against his lips. “You know, Emma. I have always valued your strong work ethic. But lately, I have sensed . . . how shall I put it? A lowering of one’s standards. I mentioned it to Edward last week, and he quite agreed. Perhaps it’s time for Canning and Wells to make a change.”

  His words hang in the air above my head, dark as storm clouds. I lower my eyes and open another file.

  It happens quickly, my one small mercy.

  I’ve been glued to my desk for the better part of an hour, ignoring the pressing need of my bladder. Richard circles his office like a big game cat, tracking the receding footsteps of my fellow employees until every last one of them is gone. If I can just hold out a few minutes more, the janitor, Bobby Mackenzie, will arrive and I won’t be alone with Richard. I glance at my cell phone—6:05. Bobby is late.

  When the pressure to relieve myself becomes almost unbearable, my brain seizes upon a historical fact my son imparted to me over the course of a lengthy holiday dinner. My mother was still alive. Katie was less insolent. She hadn’t met that boy yet.

  “Tyka Bra’ay die a’ a berse bladuh,” Josh had said, sporting his trademark strangled grin while I translated to the rest of the family. Tycho Brahe died of a burst bladder. According to Josh—and Wikipedia—the famous alchemist and astronomer did not want to offend his host by excusing himself from the dinner table in the middle of the meal. Josh had then banged his fork on the table and announced he had to pee, and could someone please take him now, and didn’t his asking to be excused make him smarter, if not more impolitic, than Tycho Brahe?

  I would laugh at the memory if I wasn’t worried about wetting myself.

  If I were a brave woman, I would allow my bladder to explode, embrace death rather than face what I know awaits me if I leave this chair.

  Finally, the pressure becomes fiery pain, and I can no longer hold it. I barely move my head and glance sideways through the glass of Richard’s office. He reclines in his desk chair, hands clasped behind his head, eyes closed. Very still, too still, but I can’t wait anymore.

  Slowly, I stand and back away from my desk, my eyes never leaving my boss’s inert form. When I reach the hallway, I run my fingers along the wall as I continue to creep backward, afraid that if I turn away from him for even a second, Richard will suddenly appear behind me, like a ghoul in a slasher flick.

  My bruised palm brushes against the door to the ladies’ room, and I push it open. I didn’t know I was holding my breath until the door closes behind me. I exhale, then suck in huge gulps of air. I engage the bolt on the main door, then head for one of the stalls, squeezing my upper thighs together, hoping I’ll make it to the toilet. I’m thankful I don’t have to do battle with my panty hose, but I almost have an accident while trying to wrangle a seat cover from the dispenser.

  A moment later, sweet relief.

  I sit for what feels like a long while. I don’t think my urine stream has ever lasted so long. The sound of it echoes off the pale-yellow tile walls. Beneath the echo, I detect another sound, soft, creaky. I squeeze my upper thighs again, cutting off the noise of my pee, but there is only silence. Bending at the waist so that my face is inches from the door of the stall, I peer through the crack.

  No movement, no shadow on the floor, no color other than yellow appears in my vision. I must have imagined the creaky sound.

  I relax again and finish my business. It takes another moment.

  I flush the toilet and turn toward the door of the stall, then reach out to unlatch the lock. I detect a flash of charcoal just beyond the stall. My heart slams against my rib cage as I jerk my fingers to the left, trying to resecure the lock. Too late. The door bursts inward and Richard lunges at me.

  Spittle whitens the corners of his mouth as he yanks me to him. His bony fingers press into my shoulders. His lizard tongue flicks into my ear as I struggle to break free of his grasp. His breath is a mixture of Altoids and whiskey.

  How did he get in? I bolted the door. Master key. Doesn’t matter.

  “Richard, no!” I cry. I wedge my hands between our bodies, press my palms against his chest, and shove him backward with all my strength. He barely moves.

  “You’ve been teasing me for five years, Em. I know this is what you want.”

  I shake my head and try to pull away from him, but there is nowhere for me to go. I kick at his legs and slap him as hard as I can. His cheek goes red even as a serpentine smile spreads across his face. His eyes glow with savagery.

  “You like it rough, huh? I had a feeling.” He grabs my wrist and twists my arm behind my back. I cry out, and he twists harder. I have no choice but to turn away from him so that he won’t tear my arm from its socket. He slams me into the corner of the stall, and my forehead smacks against the tile. For a split second, I think I might pass out, and I pray for unconsciousness, but luck is not with me. The devil is with me. I feel a trickle of warmth slide down my temple as Richard presses his body upon mine. He reaches around my waist and gropes my breasts, digging his fingers into the tender flesh, all the while grinding his vile engorgement against my ass.

  “No. No. No no no.” I hear the words in my head, but my lips, my mouth, my vocal cords, aren’t working right. I feel the toilet handle digging into my hip. Tears stream down my face, mixing with my blood.

  This is my life. This. Is. My. Life.

  “It’s a good thing you didn’t wear hosiery today, isn’t it, Em?”

  He yanks my skirt up—God, please, no!—and tears off my underwear, and I experience a brief and incongruous regret that he just destroyed my favorite panties—sky blue with a lace waistband and a small spray of flowers on the front. Reality elbows thoughts of undergarments out of my mind as he shoves his hand between my thighs. I open my mouth to scream as he crams three of his fingers inside me, pushing them up so far that my throat seizes. I strangle on my tears and my hatred.

  I reach down and claw at his hand, my nails ripping open trenches on his skin. He squeals with rage and withdraws his fingers, then grabs the back of my head and smashes my cheek against the tile. White-hot pain bursts through my head. Thoughts float; darkness threatens again. The feel of him entering me, thick and sharp and horrible, brings me back. His breathing comes in short, ragged bursts as he pushes himself farther and farther inside me.

  I press my swollen cheek against th
e tile and close my eyes.

  Charlemagne’s face appears behind my lids, the puppy I saw in the pet shop window a few weeks ago, then dreamed about last night. I vaguely recall how, for a moment, I believed I wished him away.

  If only my wishes really did come true.

  SEVEN

  I can’t let Colin or Josh see my face.

  When Richard finishes with me, he disappears from the ladies’ room. I stagger to the door and bolt it, even though I know he can get in if he so chooses, then collapse against the wall. My skirt is still bunched up around my waist. I can feel Richard’s foul essence seep out of me.

  My thoughts are a jumbled mess. I try to think of someone to call, someone who will help me, rescue me from this bathroom. Not one person comes to mind. I don’t have friends. I did, a long time ago, back when I enjoyed life rather than endured it. I let those friendships go. After Josh was born, I didn’t want to invite anyone into my heartache, didn’t want to expose my vulnerabilities, didn’t want the responsibility of needing anyone. I need someone now, and I have no one except myself.

  I’ll get through this. I have no choice. I just need to rest a minute.

  The voice in my head chastises me. This is your fault, it says. The voice is right. I could have left work on time. I could have stood up to Richard when he told me I had to stay. But I didn’t. Because on some very basic level, I invite suffering into my life. I have come to define myself by my suffering.

  I don’t know how long I sit. The metal screech of the janitor’s cart being wrenched from the utility closet brings me out of my stupor and moves me to action. I stand on shaky legs and straighten my skirt as best I can, then approach the mirrors. Every step is agony.