There was no way he could rape her, at least not without the pills. And even if he swallowed them, he still didn’t believe he could do it. The act was one of the worst things a person could do to someone. His stomach churned at the thought. But if he didn’t do it, the other guy would. He also couldn’t go back to jail for a murder he didn’t commit. Everyone he loved would hate him, and he did not want to spend the rest of his life behind bars.
He could be gentle with her. Ease himself in. Pump a few times, tell her why it was him and not the other guy. It would be over quickly.
The weakness in his legs returned. Bile rose in his throat. He dropped the bottle of dick stiffeners, leaned over and vomited.
He couldn’t do it. He wanted to help her the best way he knew how. If going back to jail meant serving out the rest of his original sentence, he’d do it. But that wasn’t an option. He had three choices, but it looked like there was only one he could live with.
The man with the scar grunted, then tugged at his bond, as if reading Aaron’s thoughts. Aaron no longer saw a man, but an animal. No, not an animal but a beast from some dark corner of hell itself. He pounded his fist into his forehead. “Think, damn it. Think.” Nothing came to him. There was no good way out of this. He wasn’t a rapist, and couldn’t be one even under these circumstances.
“I can’t do it,” he cried, into the phone, tears welling in his eyes.
“I’m disappointed, Aaron.” The cop sighed. “So what’s it going to be, prison? Or are you going to let that horrible man do terrible things to that woman? And I’m telling you, Aaron, he’s going to really hurt her. Rape her for hours.”
Aaron screamed. “You insane fuck!” He wanted to know why the cop was doing this to him, but realized crazy people didn’t need reasons. They enjoyed watching other people suffer.
He paced the room, never getting too close to the handcuffed man, or the woman. He kept running a hand through his hair and clearing his throat, the lump there stuck.
If he raped her, he’d be a rapist for the rest of his life. No one he cared about would know; but he’d know. He’d never forget or forgive himself. Every time he stuck his dick into a woman, he’d remember the woman he raped. Then something dawned on him and he glanced around the room, looking for a camera lens. Maybe the cop was recording him, hoping to get him into further trouble. Aaron didn’t see anything that looked like a camera, but that didn’t mean one wasn’t present.
“Time’s up, Aaron,” the cop said.
“Okay. I’ll give the man the key, but you have to promise me he won’t kill her.”
“Neither he, nor I, nor anyone else, under my authority, will kill the woman, but I cannot guarantee what the extent of the damage will be to her, either physical or mental.”
Aaron was thinking again, searching for a way out of this.
“You seem like a decent person, Aaron. She’d be much safer in your hands, if you want to change your mind…”
Aaron glanced at the woman, avoiding her eyes. He imagined pulling his pants down, lying on her and… His stomach gurgled and he felt nauseated again.
“I can’t,” he said into the phone. “I’m giving the man the key.”
“Okay, Aaron. But you have to stay.”
“No, that wasn’t part of the deal.”
“Deals like this change.”
He wanted to tell the cop he was going to make him pay. But the words would be wasted breath and would only give the man pleasure.
“If I stay, I can’t promise I won’t interfere.”
“Do that and the deal’s off. The video goes to the police. Goodbye, Aaron. It was fun.”
The call ended.
Aaron shoved the phone into his pocket. The man with the scar was staring at him, holding out a hand, palm up, waiting for the key. Aaron walked over to the door, plucked the key from the nail. He stared at the small, silver object. It was such a tiny thing; the only thing keeping the woman from harm’s way. There was no answer that he could come up with.
He turned and walked over to the man, staying a few feet away. He placed the key on the floor and kicked it the rest of the way over to him. The man continued to stare at him, expression unchanged, arm still outstretched.
Aaron swallowed, wondering if he’d made a crucial mistake, and backpedaled to the door. He was ready to flee if he thought he needed to. His car was unlocked. He could make it there and to the gun in time.
The man with the scar turned, picked up the key and unlocked himself. Aaron watched with unblinking eyes, hand on the doorknob. The man looked at him, grinned, sending a chill to Aaron’s balls, then headed over to the woman. Aaron remained tense. Everything seemed to be slowing down, which was the exact opposite of what he wanted. This nightmare needed to be sped along.
The man stood by the bed. His head moved from right to left. He was sizing up his victim. His hands became fists, the fingers flexing a few times before relaxing. Then he got onto his hands and knees, reached under the bed and pulled out a tool box. Opening the box, he pulled out a knife, hammer and nails, placing them on the floor.
“Hey,” Aaron called, “that wasn’t part of the deal.” He took a step forward then stopped himself.
The man glanced at him and rose to his feet. He put a finger to his lips, then ran his index finger across his neck.
“Okay, okay,” Aaron said. “But you can’t kill her, you know that, right?”
The man ignored him, picked up the knife and pressed it into the woman’s thigh. His arm jerked, sending the tip of the blade into the flesh. She let loose a muffled squeal as a trickle of blood slid to the mattress. The man then drew the knife along the thigh, slicing it open. The woman howled as blood spilled.
Aaron closed his eyes, scrunching his face up as if doing so would lessen what he would hear. The woman continued to moan in pain. The cop didn’t say he had to watch, so he wouldn’t. He covered his ears like a child who doesn’t want to hear his parents fighting. The woman’s cries came through loud and clear, regardless. His mind conjured images of torture, of the man sliding his knife into her pussy and fucking her with it. He opened his eyes, needing to make sure he wasn’t killing her. The mattress was reddening, absorbing the blood like a giant sponge. There were a few spots of crimson on the floor.
The man was on top of her—still clothed. He cocked back his right arm, muscles bulging, and punched her in the face. Cartilage crunched. Aaron flinched and turned away. He couldn’t watch. This was the result of his decision. He should watch, force himself to see what he chose for the woman, but he couldn’t. He just wanted it to end, to be over. Then he remembered the knife in his pocket.
The woman’s muffled cries were louder now. The sound of flesh colliding with flesh reverberated around the room. Aaron turned and saw the man backhand the woman, blood splattering the wall. Then his hands were around her neck. The woman’s arms and legs flailed helplessly. She could not breathe.
The man was breaking the deal. He was going to kill her.
Aaron reached into his pocket for the knife. As his fingers brushed against the plastic handle, the man let go of his victim. She coughed violently and seemed unable to draw in much air. A stream of blood shot from her nose, which was most likely broken, making breathing difficult. He wouldn’t let her die and had to watch her carefully.
The man eyed her, clearly enjoying the scene. A smirk broke over his wide mouth.
Blood bubbles popped from the woman’s nose. The sound of her wheezing made Aaron’s own breathing feel shallow.
The man climbed off her and onto the floor. He reached into the tool box and pulled out a small piece of garden hose, then wedged it into the woman’s mouth next to the ball gag. Her chest moved up and down. She was drawing in breath easier. She’d be okay.
Aaron slid his sweaty hand out of his pocket and turned away, unable to watch any more as the man climbe
d onto the bed.
The woman’s moans were clearer this time, but still distorted—the hose was carrying her cries. She was saying no, over and over again. Then her muffled scream shattered the air. Aaron felt something inside of him break. The sound of grunting assaulted his ears, accompanied by the bed slamming against the wall.
Aaron covered his ears and screamed inside his head.
The rape went on forever, the grunting and pounding only stopping for moments at a time. The smacking of flesh was revolting. Aaron puked twice, no longer caring about his DNA at the scene. He pounded his fist into the door, praying for it to be over, then curled up on the floor.
Finally, some time later, the noises, the cries, the screams and the abuse ceased. Aaron remained in a ball, facing the wall next to the door, his knife clenched in his hand—he had no recollection of pulling it out. He wasn’t going to let the man touch him. If the man tried, he’d kill him.
“You can go,” the man said, his voice gruff and scratchy, like a person who has smoked too many cigarettes over a multitude of years.
Aaron got to his feet, stumbled into the wall, then was able to get his legs under him. Without turning around to face the man, he asked if she was still alive.
“Yes.”
He wanted to check on her, but couldn’t get himself to turn around. He didn’t want to see the damage. He’d seen and heard enough. Turning the doorknob, he exited the room, slamming the door behind him.
He stood in the hallway for a minute, tears falling down his cheeks. He didn’t know what to do next. Where should he go? Home? A bar? Screw his curfew. Nothing mattered, at least at the moment. He didn’t care about anything. He was scum, deserved to suffer. He wanted to go home and jerk off with sandpaper.
He thought about the man inside the room. The rapist, the animal, the monster. Someone like that didn’t deserve to walk around free. Hell, a person like that didn’t deserve to live. And the cop didn’t say he wasn’t allowed to kill him.
Without another thought, Aaron took off down the hallway—his strength returned. He raced down the stairs and out the doors. He threw open the car door, unwrapped the shotgun and was running back into the building before he knew it.
No thinking.
No contemplating.
No worrying.
He was going to kill that son of a bitch.
He took the steps two at a time, his lungs pumping life into him like a supercharged engine of destruction. He charged down the hallway. The gun’s safety disengaged, he pumped a round into the chamber and kicked open the door. He didn’t see the man anywhere, only the woman, and suddenly wished he’d gotten into his car and driven away.
She wore a slick sheet of glistening red. Cuts and gashes lined her abdomen, legs and arms. Bruising was already showing, her flesh a darkening purplish-blue. He saw a finger on the floor, then noticed that her right hand had only four digits. The stump was raw and fleshy as if it had been chewed off. Through the ski mask, carpentry nails protruded from her cheekbones and forehead. Both eyes were swelled shut, resembling plums. Her lips were split and puffed up, the ball gag missing.
He walked over to her and heard her wheezing. She was still alive. He took out his phone to call 911, then stopped himself. He couldn’t have the call traced to his phone.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I’m going to get help.”
He hurried back to his car, wrapped the shotgun in the blanket, then climbed into the driver seat and took off. His foot shook, making it hard to drive at a steady pace. He couldn’t stop hearing the rape, picturing what the man with the hideous scar had done to her, and how she must have felt.
He passed cars on the road and thought how lucky those drivers were. Simple people on their way to work, shop or visit a friend’s house. Then he thought of all the people in the houses, realizing they had no idea of the horrors going on around them. They laughed, watched television, made love all while that poor woman was being brutalized.
Those people were innocent. He had been there. He was a witness. A participant. He could’ve done something. Could’ve sacrificed himself for a stranger, the ultimate act of kindness. But he’d been a coward.
The woman’s unintelligible pleas replayed themselves in his mind, and Aaron thought he might go mad. He turned on the radio. He deserved to suffer for what he had allowed to happen, but for now, he needed some form of peace.
Finding a song he liked, he tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, trying to get into it. Tears flowed again as he tried not dealing with the events that had just unfolded. It was all a nightmare and at any moment, he’d wake up. Then something odd happened and he went numb, as if he’d stepped outside of himself for a moment. His mind cleared as an idea formed.
What if the whole thing had been staged?
The woman on the bed was a prostitute. She’d been paid to act. The cop figured Aaron wouldn’t want the woman to suffer and was going to be the one to rape her. For the prostitute, it was all an act. But when he refused, the cop had to pretend, going to an elaborate plan B, using fake blood, make-up, maybe even a few minor cuts like they used to do in professional wrestling. After all, he’d been facing away when it was going down. Then when he went and got the shotgun, the man had seen him from the window and ran out of the building.
Originally, the cop must have planned to record him raping the woman—another piece of evidence to use against him. The whore would say she was raped by him. Or maybe she had a disease, like AIDS, hepatitis or whatnot, and the cop wanted Aaron infected, ensuring that he suffered for the rest of his life.
When it came down to it, Aaron knew this was all very hard to believe, but he wouldn’t put any of it past the crazed cop. He felt a little better, even somewhat relieved. He thought about going back to the abandoned hospital to check and see if the woman was really hurt, but the truth was, he didn’t want to know. She was probably gone by now anyway.
He made it home without a problem, glad his mother wasn’t there yet. He hoped to be long asleep by the time she walked through the door. He wouldn’t be able to fake his emotions tonight. Maybe not for a few nights.
After returning the shotgun to his mother’s closet, he poured himself a shot of vodka, downed it, and did two more. His throat was on fire, eyes watering.
He grabbed a beer from the fridge, feeling the vodka sizzle in his stomach, and sat in the living room. Snatching the remote from the coffee table, he powered on the television, needing a distraction.
A comedy was playing. Aaron didn’t remember the name of the show, but it was a funny one. It involved a wealthy family living in a posh penthouse apartment in Manhattan. The couple’s children were in private school, the husband and wife happy but having grown apart. Then one day the husband’s younger brother, a starving artist whom he hadn’t spoken to in a number of years, showed up at the front door. His wife had cleaned out the bank account and left him for another man. Knowing the brother had nowhere else to go, the husband had asked him to move in. The husband’s wife, of course, wasn’t happy. The artist brother was the prototypical funny fat man with messy hair who’d been living a different lifestyle than his rich brother. Over time, the younger brother grew on the family and showed them how to let loose and have fun, slowly, but surely removing the stick up everyone’s asses, while learning responsibility himself. It was a feel-good comedy, and since the younger brother’s friends had been added to the show—more quirky characters—it had only gotten funnier. Today’s episode was one Aaron had seen before. The artist brother was trying out a skateboard that he had purchased for his nephew—against the kid’s mother’s wishes, telling him those things were too dangerous—and fell on his ass. Everyone around him laughed and pointed. The brother laughed at himself too, then jumped up, his face serious, and tossed the skateboard away. He then said, “Skateboards are too dangerous. I have to agree with the witch on this one.”
But today, Aaron wasn’t laughing. In fact, seeing the silly slapstick antics of the artist only angered him. He wanted to smash the stupid loser of a thirty-year-old over the head with the skateboard. After all this time on the show, the loser still didn’t have a real job. As if the brother couldn’t have hooked him up with something already.
Aaron kept watching, hoping he would laugh, but nothing seemed funny this time around. He flipped through the channels, finally settling on an action movie when his phone rang, causing him to jump.
Pulling the extremely annoying device from his pocket, he saw that Hanna was calling. His stomach warmed, but this time it wasn’t from the alcohol, and he answered immediately, slightly buzzed.
“Hanna?” he asked.
“Hey, Aaron. How are you?”
“Never mind me. How are you doing?”
“I’m hanging in there. Good days and not so good days. I still can’t believe it. But we’re all strong here, leaning on each other.”
“I’m really sorry, Hanna,” he said, the alcohol keeping much of the guilt away for now.
“Thanks.”
Silence filled the air.
“Did they catch the person…um…you know, who did it?”
“No. The cops think it was some crazed drifter. I mean, who could do such a thing? A person would have to be on drugs. It just isn’t fair. He was a nice man. He didn’t deserve for that to happen to him.”
Aaron’s alcohol shield was fading. His throat tightened. He walked into the kitchen, poured another shot and downed it.
“I hope they catch the guy and…” he stopped himself, not knowing if what he’d been about to say was proper.
“I know. I kinda feel the same way, but I don’t want any more violence. I just want him caught and locked up so he can’t hurt anyone else.”
“Enough of talking about the ugly stuff,” he said. “Just honor your uncle by remembering him. Don’t focus on his death; I’m sure he wouldn’t want that.”
“I do both,” she said, her voice cracking. “It’s hard to imagine how he must’ve felt.”
The Unhinged Page 12