Twisted Tales

by Brandon Massey

  But this was different. She had never been cornered like this. Jamal was a different kind of male animal—and she felt like potential prey.

  I have to get rid of him.

  But what could she say that would make him leave? She had to tell him something, or else he wouldn’t leave her alone.

  She glanced at the end of the compartment. The conductor was nowhere in sight. No help.

  She turned to Jamal. “Look, it’s been a really long day. I’m tired, and I want to get home. What do you want from me?”

  “Can you just give me your number?” he asked. “That’s all I want. Then I’ll get off the train. I need to get back to the city, anyway.”

  All he wanted was her phone number? He’d gone through all of this trouble simply to get her number?

  It sounded like a lie, but she wanted to believe that he was telling the truth.

  “You just want my number?” she asked. “Then you’ll go?”

  “That’s all.” He pulled a cell phone out of his pocket. Watched her expectantly.

  “Okay.”

  She rattled off a number—not her real one. He punched the digits into his phone.

  “There,” he said. “I’ve saved you at the top of the list, Tonya Washington.”

  “I’m honored.”

  “Funny.” He smiled. “One day, when we’re married, we’ll look back on this chat and laugh.”

  “When we’re married? What?”

  “I’m kidding.” He stood. “Damn, girl, loosen up.”

  She only looked at him. “You leaving now?”

  “I’m going, I’m going,” he said. “Gotta go back to the other car and get my bag. I’m hopping off at the next stop.”

  Good, she thought. But she said, “’Bye.”

  “See you, sister.”

  He left the compartment.

  She released a deep sigh. She took her hand out of her purse.

  She had been gripping a bottle of pepper spray so tightly that it left an imprint on her palm.

  “Next stop, Zion ...”

  Tonya was so eager to get home that she was trembling. She hadn’t seen Jamal again, but she believed that he was satisfied with what she’d given him, and had left. He’d just wanted her phone number. The fact that she’d given him a fake number should give him a hint that she wasn’t interested.

  You hope. The man followed you on a train all the way from Chicago. He isn’t going to let a wrong phone number keep him down ...

  She shook her head, shut out the voice of doubt.

  The rocking train began to slow. She looked out the window. An icing of snow covered the world, and she heard a shrill wind whipping around the train. The mere thought of stepping out into that cold weather made her shiver. She buttoned her coat, pulled on her gloves and hat, and tightened her scarf.

  With a screech of brakes, the train drew to a halt. The doors slid open.

  “Zion ...”

  She walked out the car and onto the platform. Pausing, she looked both ways.

  The icy wind blew, drawing tears from her eyes, but she saw what she expected: she was the only person disembarking from the train.

  Satisfied, she headed toward the steps that led to the parking lot. Salt, thrown on the pavement to melt the ice, crunched underneath her boots.

  She heard the train rumble away down the tracks.

  The Zion station was located on the far eastern side of town, about a half mile away from a shutdown power plant and the shores of Lake Michigan; an area of open spaces choked with weeds and forestland. There were no residences. No one came over here unless they were boarding the train. There was nothing else around.

  This was the worst part of coming home late at night. The place was so desolate she felt as if she was the only living person in the world. A single streetlamp standing at the edge of the parking lot provided weak, pale light. The light revealed that the snow, thank God, had been plowed from the parking lot, and was now piled in head-high drifts along the edges of the area.

  Her Toyota Camry sat in the far corner of the parking lot, a large hump underneath a blanket of snow. She shuffled toward it. Just thinking about scraping off the snow and ice made her tired. She wished she had agreed for Mom to pick her up—

  “Tonya!”

  Oh, no, it can’t be.

  Jamal hurried off the platform steps.

  She’d thought she was the only one who had gotten off the train. He must have waited until the doors had been about to close, must have waited until she had turned and started walking away, before he’d jumped off.

  What the hell did he want? She had given him a phone number. What else could he want?

  Whatever it was, it couldn’t be good. Nothing good could come of a man following her all the way from Chicago at night to an empty parking lot.

  Anxiety cramped her stomach. Rather than slowing, she increased her pace.

  “Tonya, hold on!”

  She didn’t stop.

  She pulled her keys out of her purse. The small black bottle of pepper spray dangled from the key chain. She levered her finger over the SPRAY button.

  “Tonya, wait up, girl!”

  She glanced over her shoulder. Jamal was running now.

  She started jogging, too. Her breath plumed in front of her.

  But Jamal was closing in on her.

  Adrenaline pumped through her veins. She’d been a track athlete in high school, remembered the feeling of sprinting when her muscles hit their peak and her lungs drew in more air than seemed possible. Her body felt like that now. Invigorated, ready to take on a challenge—ready to fight, if necessary.

  She finally reached her car. She punched the button to disengage the power locks. She grabbed the snow-covered door handle. She pulled.

  The door didn’t open. Ice had sealed it shut.

  Dammit!

  She banged her fist against the door. Snowflakes fell away. She hammered the door again. Ice crackled.

  She tried again to open the door. It loosened, but still gave resistance. Grunting, she slammed her shoulder against it. Tugged harder. Almost ...

  “Why ... Why are you running from me, Tonya?”

  Tonya whirled, her hand on the pepper spray.

  Jamal was a few feet away from her. He was hunched over, panting.

  “Why are you following me?” she demanded.

  “Just ... had ... a question for you.”

  Was this man insane? He’d chased her down to ask her a question?

  She didn’t know whether to be angry or take pity on him for his stupidity. But anger took over. He had scared her to death.

  “What is it?” she shouted. “What do you want? What the hell was so important that you had to follow me to my car?”

  “I wanted to know why ... why you gave me a fake phone number.” He unfolded his body to his full six feet. His lips twisted with rage. “I called that number you gave me. Doesn’t even exist. Bitch.”

  Tonya’s surging adrenaline had thrown her into fight-or-flight mode. She raised the pepper spray in front of her like a gun.

  “Get back,” she said. “Or I will spray this in your face.”

  He didn’t move. He didn’t seem frightened at all.

  Her resolve wavered, but she didn’t lower the spray.

  “Funny thing about women who work in cubes,” he said. “They leave so much personal information out in the open ...”

  “What?”

  He moved forward.

  “I told you to get back!” she shouted.

  “And they leave their purses in desk drawers,” he continued. “So anyone walking by could fish around ...”

  He took another step.

  “That’s it,” she said.

  She mashed the button.

  But the button didn’t depress. It was stuck. She mashed it again, to no avail.

  Jamal grinned. “And put a few drops of glue on a woman’s bottle of pepper spray, make sure she couldn’t use that nasty shit to hurt a brothe
r.”

  She remembered him standing over her cubicle, juggling a tube of glue.

  A terrible realization came over her. He had anticipated this. He had set her up. This man had been planning to attack her from the beginning.

  On cue, a knife appeared in Jamal’s fingers, as if by sleight of hand.

  “Now, let’s talk about why you’ve been lying to me so much, bitch.” He waved the blade in the air like a hypnotist’s pendulum. “A blade has a way of cutting to the truth, know what I mean?” He chuckled at his pun.

  In a flash, Tonya imagined what could happen. Holding her at knifepoint, he could force her inside the car, making her lie on the backseat. He could rip away her clothes. Rape her. Cut her. And if he decided to let her live, he could leave her in there, weeping and bloody and humiliated, and then she would have to go home and face her child, a beaten woman.

  No.

  Tonya screamed and kicked him in the groin.

  Jamal cried out, doubled over in pain, the knife dropping out of his fingers and landing in the snow.

  “Help!” Tonya cried. “Someone help!”

  But even as she shouted, she knew her pleas were in vain. There was no one out there who could help or call the police. She was on her own.

  She grabbed the door handle.

  Jamal lunged at her.

  She tore the door loose and swung it open, smashing it into his head, causing a comically loud THUD. Jamal dropped to the ground with a grunt.

  She dove inside the car. As she tried to pull her legs inside, Jamal snared one of her ankles in his gloved hand.

  Screaming, she smashed her other heel against his knuckles. He yelped, but didn’t let go.

  He used his shoulder to force the door open wider.

  She saw that he had retrieved the knife.

  “Ain’t getting away, bitch,” he said. His nostrils flared.

  She thrust her boot into his nose. Bones broke, an ugly sound. Crying out, he let her go.

  She drew her legs inside, slammed the door, and locked it.

  The interior was coffin-dark, snow blanketing all of the windows. It was so cold inside that she felt her perspiration freezing into a paste on her brow. Her frantic breathing was amplified in the enclosed space, too, rebounding back to her, pounding in her ears, as if she was trapped inside a steel drum.

  She fumbled with the key. Praying under her breath.

  “Just let me get home,” she said, in a fervent whisper. “Please, God, just let me get home to my baby . . . just let me get home ...”

  With a roar, Jamal rammed his shoulder against the window. The car rocked like a canoe hit by a strong wave. But the glass didn’t break. Yet.

  She jammed the key in the ignition. Turned it so hard it was a wonder it didn’t break off.

  Dear God, just let me get home.

  In the horror movies Tonya watched sometimes, when the heroine was on the run from a killer, the car never worked. A car that had started reliably for five years failed when the woman most needed it. It happened so often in films it had become a cliché.

  Her Toyota started immediately.

  Thank you, Jesus.

  Regular auto maintenance that she could barely afford had paid off. She pushed the gas pedal, revving the engine. Then she slammed the gearshift into DRIVE.

  “Now, let’s get out of here,” she said. She stomped the accelerator.

  The tires spun, and the car moved a few inches—and jerked to a halt.

  “No, no, no!” She pinned the gas pedal to the floor. The tires ground furiously.

  But the car didn’t move, and she knew why: she was stuck in the ice. The city had plowed much of the parking lot, but had neglected the corner in which her car was parked.

  She should have known better. This has happened to her before. She kept a snow shovel in the trunk for times like this. She’d have to dig herself out.

  But at the moment, getting out of the car was out of the question.

  Jamal hammered his elbow against the window, and this time, the glass shattered. Shards tinkled to the floor. Frosty air invaded the car.

  Growling like a wild animal, Jamal groped inside, knocking pieces of glass out of the window frame.

  “Come back here, bitch.”

  Out of reflex, she punched the accelerator. But the wailing tires were useless against the ice. She was only digging a deeper rut in the snow.

  Jamal got a fistful of her coat. She tried to twist out of his grasp, but he had the strength of a lunatic. He yanked her against the door. She hit her head against the door frame, and the collision made her dizzy.

  No, I can’t pass out, can’t pass out, can’t pass out ...

  As if from far away, she heard her cell phone chirp. Probably her mother calling to confirm that she was in her car and on her way home, and letting her know that Aaron was still awake, waiting on her to tuck him in.

  Thinking of Aaron brought her back to her senses.

  Jamal was reaching for the interior door handle. She seized his forefinger and snapped it back.

  He howled. He pulled his hand out of the car.

  Tonya realized that the cell phone had fallen silent. Good. Maybe Mom would realize that something was wrong and call the police.

  As Tonya leaned to grab the phone, Jamal knocked away the remaining slivers of glass in the window frame. He grabbed her coat again.

  She tried to squirm out of his grip. Tried to wriggle to the opposite side of the car.

  He got a hold of her leg. He tugged.

  She began to slide across the seats. She raised her other leg, to kick him. But he grabbed that leg, too.

  “Gotcha!” he said.

  He was going to pull her out through the window, feet first.

  As he dragged her out, she curled her fingers around the handle of the passenger door, breaking his momentum. He pulled, cursing. She held fast to the handle.

  Her phone rang again.

  Mom, call the police, dammit!

  A sudden, sharp pain bit into her calf, drawing a cry out of her. Jamal had stabbed her.

  Startled by the pain, she lost her grip on the door handle. Meeting no resistance now, Jamal hauled her out of the car like a laborer lifting a load of lumber. He flung her to the snowy ground. She landed hard on her shoulder.

  The impact knocked the air out of her lungs, almost pulled her under into darkness.

  “Goddamn, you’re a tough bitch,” Jamal said. He dabbed at his bleeding nose with his glove. “I thought you would be, I love that about sistas. I love me a strong black woman.”

  She didn’t know what to do next. This man was relentless.

  But she could not—would not—allow him to have his way with her.

  As she tried to get up, Jamal sat on her knees, to prevent her from kicking him. Panting with excitement, he lowered the knife to her chest. The blade was about four inches long, and looked sharp enough to cut the air itself into ribbons.

  “You’re tough, but every woman’s got to submit to a man,” he said. “The man’s the head. That’s what the Bible says, sista. You know that, right? You got a Bible on your desk, too.”

  She didn’t respond, unable to take her gaze away from the knife. She saw her own blood staining the razor-sharp tip. Her stabbed calf throbbed; she felt blood trickling across her skin, like ice water.

  Jamal sliced open the front of her coat. Buttons popped.

  “Please don’t do this,” she said.

  Giggling, like a child opening presents on Christmas morning, he peeled away the edges of her coat to reveal her blouse.

  “Ah, here we go now,” he said. Saliva had collected in the corners of his mouth, like dried milk. A blood bubble pulsed in one of his smashed nostrils.

  Say something to make him stop.

  “I have a son,” she said softly.

  “Yeah, so? I saw those pictures of him on your desk.”

  “His name is Aaron.”

  “Like the guy in the Bible? Moses’ brother.”<
br />
  “That’s right. He’s only five, Jamal. He’s expecting me to come home to ... to tuck him in bed.” She sniffled, fought back tears.

  He ripped open her blouse. The frigid air raised goose bumps on her naked flesh.

  “Don’t you have a mother?” Tonya asked, striving to keep her voice calm. “Would you want some man to hurt your mother, to take advantage of her?”

  “Someone did. My daddy.”

  “Oh.” She tried to sound sympathetic. “I’m very sorry.”

  “I ain’t.” His eyes hardened to black points. “She’s a crackhead bitch. She deserved it.”

  Tonya wished she had kept her mouth shut. She had been trying to tap a sympathetic nerve somewhere in him and convince him to stop what he was doing, but she’d succeeding only in drawing forth the deep-seated hatred he held for his mother—which he might now channel toward her.

  She had to come up with another strategy, and her time was running short.

  He cut away her bra, then pulled it away and tossed it into the snow behind him. He stared at her fully exposed breasts. Something approaching rapture lit his eyes.

  She was a well-endowed woman, but a lot of the brothers that she encountered were all about the booty and could have cared less about her breasts. Normally, it was white men—like her boss, Roger—who fell into a trance when they saw her cleavage.

  Jamal’s fascination presented her with an opportunity.

  “You got some really nice titties,” he said. He licked his lips. “Not too big, not too small. Just perfect.”

  She turned her head away and sighed, as though she was giving up. Trying to lull him into a false sense of power. It was hard for her to play docile, but it might be her best chance to strike back at him.

  He roughly squeezed one of her breasts. She let out a cry of pain that was more genuine than anything she could have faked.

  He backhanded her across the jaw. Her head snapped sideways, and her vision swam.

  Don’t pass out, don’t pass out ...

  “That’s right, bitch. You like it rough? I’m gonna give it to you rough.”

  His threat brought her world back into focus. His eyes hungry, he lowered his head to her breast. She saw the gleam of his teeth, those perfectly straight, white teeth—and she knew he was intending to bite her.