Dances with Monsters

by D. C. Ruins

  When Drew could no longer endure it and thought she'd have to make up an excuse to go to the bathroom or into the kitchen, Rocky saved the day. He jumped onto the coffee table, staring at the two humans before him, and proceeded to casually knock Drew's open bottle of water off the table with a swipe of his paw. The bottle toppled over, spurting water out onto the carpet as the cat licked his paw and rubbed it over his ear, unfazed.

  Drew jerked upright, Heath slowly following her action. "Rocky!" she exclaimed, swatting out at the cat who easily dodged her hand and leapt gracefully off the table and took off toward her bedroom. "You little brat!"

  Heath chuckled and picked up the bottle as Drew raced into the kitchen for a dish towel. She hurried back out and dropped to her knees, soaking excess moisture up off her large rug and carpet.

  "That was his way of saying 'Fuck you, pay attention to me,'" Drew explained as she mopped up the water. "He can be an attention-whore sometimes."

  "That was actually awesome," Heath said. He held up a hand at the glare Drew shot him. "Except for the spill. That was a bad kitty."

  Drew burst out laughing. "Hearing the word 'kitty' come out of your mouth just doesn't seem right," she commented, carrying to sodden towel into the kitchen. She squeezed out the excess water and draped the towel over the faucet. Heath settled back into his place on the couch, subtly arranging the cushion for her against his side. She smiled slightly, not missing it, and dropped onto the couch, pulling her feet up as she sat.

  "Anyway, back to more Keanu ridiculousness," she joked, reaching for the remote when she noticed Heath had paused it. Suddenly she felt his hand drop onto her forearm to stop her and she froze, looking at him. He was staring at her leg.

  "What's that?" he asked quietly.

  Drew glanced down and horror filled her. The hem of her yoga pant-leg had negligently flipped up when she'd sat down, revealing the inside of her ankle—and a dozen raw, red, deliberate slices in her skin.

  Chapter Eleven

  Heath watched her with a calmness he didn't feel as she yanked the hem of her pant leg down. But it was too late; he'd seen the wounds. The clearly self-inflicted wounds.

  He'd known a few Marines overseas, so depressed from being away from home, from witnessing their brothers-in-arms die, that they'd done similar things to themselves to cope. From cutting to burning themselves with cigarette butts to other forms of self-harming, he'd seen it all.

  It hurt his heart. He didn't know Drew well, but he wanted to get to know her better. She was so beautiful, so smart, so talented, that it made him ache a little to know that whatever demons she was battling forced her to take it out on herself. He wondered how he'd never noticed before, but then realized that with the exception of the bar, he'd always seen Drew in long pants. And when they'd gone to Cliff's, she'd been in shorts, but he suddenly recalled the boots she'd been wearing. They'd gone well over the area with the wounds.

  He studied her face, watching as her cheeks reddened and her eyes filled with shame and tears. Normally, he would have felt uncomfortable dealing with a crying woman, but after seeing what he saw, he pushed that to the side and focused on her. Knowing what he knew about his Marines that had self-harmed, he knew it was a cry for help. He also knew that if someone didn't do something, it wasn't hard to believe that the emotional pain someone who self-harmed went through could become enough to push them over the edge, for good. And he be damned if he let it happen to anyone he knew.

  "Drew," he said in the same quiet tone. "Talk to me, please. Why are you doing that to yourself?"

  She opened her mouth to reply, but whatever words she wanted to speak died on her tongue. She pressed a hand to her forehead as she struggled to ebb the large tears slipping down her face. Heath didn't press her and folded his arms over his chest, waiting patiently.

  "It's all right," he added gently after a moment, surprising even himself with the words. "Talk to me."

  Drew drew in a shuddery breath and swiped a hand over her cheeks. He had a rough idea of what she was going to tell him, piecing together things she'd told him over the weeks combined with her mannerisms. Although he was pretty sure what the punch line of her story was going to be, he sincerely hoped she wouldn't say it; that it wouldn't confirmed for real.

  She seemed to be struggling for words again, so he cleared his throat and leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees. Maybe it would be easier for her if he wasn't staring at her.

  "You told me something bad happened to you in New York," he said to the carpet. "Something bad enough to make you leave. What happened?" He lifted his eyes momentarily to her and she was still staring down at her lap.

  There was an extended pause, the apartment so silent and still he could hear Rocky scratching against something in her bedroom. Heath had all but given up on getting an answer when she finally spoke.

  "It happened to me last year," she said softly. "I was teaching a dance class in Queens at a community center, like I did twice a week. I lived in Harlem at the time, much to the annoyance of my parents." She shrugged. "I had to leave Brooklyn and try to do my own thing for a while. I had friends in Harlem. I liked it there. So one night I was coming home on the bus from Queens. And there was a man on the bus. He got off at my stop in Harlem. I started getting nervous because I thought he was following me. In fact, he did follow me to my apartment building." Heath's stomach tightened with stress and he continued to glare at the floor. "But he got on the phone with his friend and told him he was on his way over. And when I got inside, he went down a different hallway. So I stopped to check my mail, and I continued up to my apartment. When I got to the door, I felt something press into my back and I felt hot breath on my ear and a man's voice telling me to stay quiet and let him in or he'd shoot me. I was terrified. I didn't know what to do. I asked him what he wanted and he said he wanted to rob me and take my cash and that I better hand it over or that he'd kill me. So I let him in and as soon as he was inside with the door shut, he pistol-whipped me. I fell on the floor in my living room and I just remember him flipping my coffee table over with one hand like it didn't weigh anything, just to get it out of his way. He stood over me while I was on the floor and we just stared at each other for a long time and I realized in that moment he never wanted to rob me."

  Heath pulled in a deep, silent breath as he listened, shutting his eyes for an instant before returning them to the carpet. He folded his lips inward as she continued, her voice beginning to tremble.

  "He leaned down over me and I guess I was too afraid to move, to try to fight, anything. I think that's why, looking back, I got into working out and boxing and stuff. So that I could try to make it second nature to fight back. He pressed the gun to my head and told me to take my clothes off and that I better be quiet or he'd kill me. So, I did. I took them off." He heard a light smacking sound and glance up quickly, seeing her hand pressed to her forehead again. He didn't have time to look away before her eyes opened and she looked straight into his. He saw shame and utter humiliation in them, and the look was almost enough to make him want to tell her to stop, that she didn't need to continue. But she seemed to want to, to need to. At her next words, he clenched his jaw so tight he thought he might have cracked his teeth. But she said the words without looking away from him, her voice dull and almost flat.

  "He spent the next ten hours raping me. Over and over and over. All over my apartment. He raped me in every way possible. He raped me with himself. His gun. He broke a chair leg and raped me with that."

  Heath looked away then, bringing his hands to his face. He rubbed them over his skin, his throat tightening. "Jesus Christ," he said hoarsely.

  Again, it was on the tip of his tongue to tell her to stop, the urge stronger than before. But he knew he couldn't. It had taken her so long to open up to him; and finally, she trusted him enough to tell him this devastating, traumatizing story. For all he knew, she might have never opened up this way to anyone else. He couldn't tell her stop now, just because he could
n't handle it. It wouldn't be fair.

  "He raped me in my own bed. He made me lay next to him while he slept. He—he made me hold him." A sob involuntarily erupted from her throat and she clapped a hand to her mouth. It was a long moment before she could talk again. "When he wasn't raping me or making me hold him, he was beating me. He cracked six of my ribs. He broke my hand. He gave me a concussion. I had black eyes, split lips. He even knocked three teeth out of my mouth which I later had to have replaced." She stared off into space, as if seeing herself in the aftermath of what had happened. "Finally, in the early hours of the morning the next day, he left. But not without one final rape." Heath glanced at her face again, now feeling truly sickened, and waited. He knew it would haunt him, but he waited for it. She slid her eyes back to his and stared through him. "He raped me with a knife. From my kitchen." She whispered the words.

  Abruptly, Heath rose from the sofa and placed his hands on his head. He didn't know what he was doing; he just needed to move. Bile rose in his throat and remorse and sorrow for her slammed into him like a freight train. It all made sense now—her fear, her dislike of being touched or close to people, her anxiety and panic.

  Her self-inflicted wounds.

  He turned to face her. She wasn't looking at him; she was still staring off into space, but her face looked strangely calm.

  "Drew," he said softly. She turned her head slowly to meet his eyes. "I'm not good with words," he went on, struggling for the right thing to say. He knew he'd never find it. "But—I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry that happened to you. I wish—I want to help you. Somehow. I don't know how –"

  "Heath, I can't have kids," she interrupted quietly, one final confession. "I'll never be able to have children. He took that from me." A single tear dropped down her cheek, but that strange calm on her face never wavered. He found he couldn't look away from her face. He literally had no words for her; even if he had, there was nothing adequate to tell her. Nothing to describe how terribly sorry he was.

  He moved slowly to the couch and sat down next to her. She continued to watch him, her eyelids heavy with a sadness he would never know, watching him in a curiously detached manner. He slowly reached out and took her small, cold, trembling hand, clasping it between both of his and squeezing gently. He didn't know what else to do.

  As if that one, simple gesture proved to be just too much, Drew's face crumpled and she burst into tears. She dropped her head into her other hand and Heath sat silently at her side, staring down at his lap, squeezing her hand in both of his as the sounds of her personal hell, her utter torment, tore through her, ripped into him, and shattered the walls of her small apartment.

  At any other time he would have felt horribly uncomfortable, but he was witnessing pure, unadulterated human pain and it was humbling, to say the very least. He continued to hold her hand as her sobs died down and eventually quieted. The silence in the apartment was punctuated only by her soft sniffles.

  "Let me grab you a tissue," he said softly, recalling the ones he'd seen in her bathroom earlier. He grabbed several and brought them to her. She wouldn't meet his eyes as she took them but he saw that her face was red, her eyes and lips puffy from the tears, and he walked to the window, giving her his back and also some privacy to clean herself up. He heard her blow her nose quietly and clear her throat.

  "Sorry," she whispered hoarsely.

  Fury flamed in him, but it wasn't for her. Nonetheless he whirled to face her, and he knew anger was written on his face. Her bloodshot, puffy-lidded brown eyes widened in fright and she cowered slightly back into the cushions.

  "You're sorry?" he demanded. "Why the fuck should you be sorry? You didn't ask for any of that bullshit to happen to you. You didn't do anything wrong, Drew. Not a goddamn thing. So don't you dare ever be fucking sorry."

  "I'm s –" she started, then bit her lip, catching herself. Heath shook his head and crossed the room back to the couch. He sat down hard and turned to face her.

  "I didn't mean to sound like I was pissed at you," he said, more quietly. "I'm just disgusted by what that asshole did to you. Truly disgusted. And I don't want you apologizin' for anything. You understand?" Drew lowered her eyes but bobbed her head. He laid a hand on her ankle and she twitched like she wanted to jerk away from him, but he kept his hand where it was. "And this shit stops now. I mean it. Do you get me?" Drew didn't respond, verbally or nonverbally, so he tightened his grip on her ankle ever so slightly; not enough to cause pain, but enough to get her attention and let her know how serious he was. "I'm not fuckin' kidding, Drew. Promise me."

  She bit her lip as brow furrowed. He reached out and tilted her chin up with his index finger, forcing him to look at her. He lifted his eyebrows in a silent repeat of his question, his eyes narrowing slightly to let her know he was deadly serious.

  She inhaled deeply and looked him in the eye. "I promise," she breathed out, and he trusted it. He nodded in acknowledgment and as though it had a mind of his own, his hand moved to smooth her hair back away from her face. The action surprised them both and he dropped his hand. It had come so naturally to him, automatically. He hadn't even thought about it. He moved back from her slightly.

  "Good," he replied, dropping his gaze back to the rug and clenching his fists together. "I just want you to know, I'm not in the habit of telling anyone what they can and can't do. But as long as we're friends I won't let you hurt yourself. Not on my watch."

  He hadn't meant to speak the words as passionately as he did, but he couldn't stop thinking of the comrades that had hurt themselves on his watch. And the friends that he had lost when maybe he could have done something to prevent it. He refused to let that happen again. He bit his lip as he felt his emotions, anger and sorrow, stirring at the thought and it made his breath come faster and his heart beat harder.

  He felt the couch move as Drew shifted her weight and he glanced up, registering surprise as she slowly reached out to remove the sofa cushion from between them and placed it back behind her. Her eyes, so terribly sad, met his as she leaned toward him. Automatically he shifted back, then moved under the pressure of her hand when it came to gently rest on his chest, pushing lightly, silently asking him to lean back. He complied, confused, his hands lifting into the air, not knowing what she wanted. Then, he felt her cuddle up to his side, gingerly resting one of her hands on his chest as she leaned against him. Her head came to rest on top of her hand while her other arm stretched over his torso.

  For a moment he froze, unsure of what to do, and then the natural reflexive impulse he'd felt earlier kicked back in, and his hands settled against her of their own accord. One reached across his body to lightly grasp her arm that held him, while his other hand dropped to her hair lightly, twining the strands through his fingers. The gentle motion of his fingers playing in her hair made her relax noticeably; he felt the tension leak out of her as she relaxed against him. After another long moment, he realized she had fallen asleep against him, her breathing deep and even.

  He didn't want to move. Ever. He managed to wedge his hand into his back pocket and pull out his phone without disturbing her. One-handed, he quickly typed a message out to Rex.

  "Not coming back tonight. Lock up for me. Keys are in my top desk drawer. If you lose them I will end you."

  He hit the send button and then silenced his phone, tossing it on the cushion beside him, and settled back. He adjusted himself to allow Drew to be more reclined and then reached behind his head, grabbing the soft, cream-colored throw blanket draped over the back of the couch. With minimal jostling he managed to unfold it and then draped it over her. Once it was in place, he wrapped his arms around her and closed his own eyes, letting out a deep sigh.

  ***

  Drew's neck and shoulder hurt and she heard the incessant rumbling of what sounded like a motor boat in her ear.

  She cracked one eye open and glanced around. It was morning, light coming in from the blinds, and Rocky was standing on the side of her body, nuzzling her cheek w
ith his cold nose and nipping at her ear with his sharp teeth. Her eye fell on the digital display on her cable box. She saw it was a quarter 'til five, which was just a little bit earlier than the time she usually woke up to get to the café in the morning.

  She felt the steady beat of Heath's heart below her ear, heard his deep, even breathing. She couldn't believe they'd fallen and stayed asleep here on the couch—and she couldn't believe he'd slept over all night. One of his arms was slung around her, the other one resting in his lap. She realized her throw blanket was draped around her and thought that he must have put it there.

  She shooed Rocky away and tried to gently disentangle herself from Heath, but he made a quiet noise, rumbling deep in his chest, and though he was still asleep, his arms tightened around her and gathered her in close. She leaned against him, her forehead against the side of his neck, and inhaled his scent. For a moment she dozed off again, but woke fifteen minutes later to Rocky's incessant purring in her ear. He was now perched across the back of the couch with his front half draped over her shoulder. He began to lick her cheek like a dog, his rough tongue scraping almost painfully across her tender skin as he applied more pressure than was really necessary to groom a furless human.

  "You know what you're doing," she muttered to him. Heath stirred at the sound of her voice, moving quicker than she would have expected for someone who had been sound asleep. She figured that had to do with his time in the military; she would assume that being at war overseas would hone anyone's reflexes to wake quickly in the face of potential danger.

  For the time being, though, it was just the face of a hungry feline. Heath let out a low chuckle, his deep voice roughened by sleep as Rocky began to sniff at his face. The hand furthest from her reached up to scratch the cat behind his ears.