As I sit next to her, she lies there, breathing peacefully. Whatever is running through her head right now has to be a million times better than the hell she’s going to wake up to.
What the fuck just happened? I watch her. I don’t know what else to do. She is so small, and when I look at her tiny hands, her nails are shredded. Shit. She fought. She had to have fought hard. The thought nearly makes me vomit, and when I shift my eyes away from her hands, I notice a little tattoo. An outline of a heart—simple black ink—on her lower hip that’s still exposed. Sliding the shirt over a little to cover it, I finally hear the sirens in the distance.
“Thank God,” I whisper.
The sound grows louder the closer they get, and when the red and blue lights strobe across the parking lot, I reluctantly stand to my feet, but don’t move away from her until the EMTs approach.
“Sir, can you step over here?” an officer asks.
We walk over to the rear of his vehicle. He pulls out a clipboard from the car and opens the top of it, retrieving a few forms.
“I need to get your statement,” he says while he organizes the papers under the clip. “You’re the one that called 911, correct?”
“Yes, sir,” I answer before turning my head to see them sliding the girl onto a backboard, strapping her down. She’s now covered in a large blanket, and it’s at this moment that I feel. Pain. Sadness. Anguish. It wells up and floods my eyes. I don’t even know this girl, but I hurt for her.
“Where are they taking her?” I ask the officer.
“You know her?”
“No.” I turn back and watch as they slide her into the back of the ambulance. Another EMT is collecting the scraps of her clothes that remain on the ground.
“Can you tell me what happened?” the officer asks.
“I don’t know,” I mumble. I can’t seem to get my head straight. What just happened?
“Take your time. It’s important that we get a detailed account of everything that occurred. Everything you saw.”
“Is she gonna be okay?” I ask as the ambulance drives off.
“Do you need to sit down, sir?” I faintly hear the officer as he speaks. Pressure on my arm shifts my focus when I realize he has his hand on me, guiding me to sit in the front passenger seat of his vehicle. The door shuts, and I lean my head back against the seat. I watch him walk in slow motion around the front of the car. He sits in the driver’s seat next to me.
“Start from the beginning.”
“He raped her,” I choke out.
“My God.”
“He beat the shit out of her, Mom. I can’t close my eyes without seeing it,” I tell her. “I couldn’t sleep at all last night. I just laid in my bed, replaying it over and over.”
“Is she okay?”
“I don’t know. They wouldn’t tell me anything. It feels weird . . . to see that and not know.”
“Are you okay?”
“How am I supposed to answer that? What do I say?”
“Say how you feel,” she tells me with worry and concern.
“I feel sick. What he did to her . . . what I saw . . .”
“I hate that I’m not there.”
“It’s okay, Mom. I don’t really wanna talk anymore; I just needed to tell you. I needed to tell someone.”
“I’m so sorry that you had to see something like that,” she says.
I’ve seen so much shit in my life. Too much to ever forget. You can’t rid your mind of images that burn themselves into who you are. I’ve had to watch my mother getting the life knocked out of her at the hands of my father more times than I ever want to remember. But I also have her sounds etched in me. Her painful, pleading screams.
And now . . . now I have this girl. This unknown. A Jane Doe. Blanks that will never be filled.
“I’m so sorry I couldn’t protect you better,” I confess.
Guilt.
“Ryan, don’t.”
The knot in my throat makes my words painful to say, but I force them out. My confession. “I was right there. I heard the noise out back. If only I would have gone out there. Fuck, why didn’t I go out there sooner?”
“How could you have known?”
“I could have stopped it. Prevented it. But instead, I ignored it.” The whole time I knew there was someone back there, and I ignored it. I sat in my office while that girl fought so hard she had no nails left. “What have I done?” I breathe out, suddenly feeling the weight of the responsibility I now hold.
“You didn’t do anything,” she tries assuring me.
She’s right. I didn’t do anything. Nothing. I close my eyes, and I see it. The blood between her legs. The image I know will forever be with me. I toss the phone aside and rush to the bathroom, vomiting. Expelling the toxins, but not the images. Those remain.
Needing to move, needing to get out of the house, I drive up to work. I park out front and head straight to my office, shutting the door behind me. Fuck. Why am I here?
There’s a knock on the door, and when I say, “Come in,” Max walks in.
“Everything all right, boss?”
“Shut the door,” I tell him, and he does.
“What’s going on?”
I didn’t get any sleep last night, and I feel like shit. I know I look it, and by the expression on his face, I know he sees it.
Folding my hands, I lean forward on my desk. “Something really fucked up happened here last night after you left.”
He walks over and takes a seat in the chair.
“A girl was raped out back,” I tell him.
“Christ,” he breathes as he drops his head.
I don’t say anything else. I’m not sure I can. We both sit there in silence as seconds pass by.
I finally speak the words that have me so fucked up. “I saw her.”
“The girl?”
“I heard her screaming, and when I went out there, he was on her.” I spin around in my chair and stare out the window that overlooks the street in front of the bar as it rains.
“I want cameras installed back there,” I tell him.
“I’m on it,” he responds. “You okay?”
Still facing the window, I admit, “I don’t know, man. That shit was fucked up.”
“Did the police come?”
When I turn back around to face him, I answer, “Yeah. I gave my statement, and they took her to the hospital.”
“Was she okay?”
“I don’t know. He beat her pretty badly. She was unconscious.”
“And the guy?”
“Don’t know. I had him for a moment, but I couldn’t keep him in my grip. I couldn’t leave the girl though, so he fled.” I take a minute before telling him, “I don’t want the girls walking to their cars alone. You and Chase need to be with them when they leave. Got it?”
“Of course.” He takes a moment before asking, “You sure you want to be up here?”
Looking up at him, I let him know, “I can’t be home. I need a distraction.”
“I hear ya,” he says then switches the topic, which I’m thankful for. “I talked with Chase earlier today, and he says he knows of a band that’s gotten pretty popular lately. If you’re tied up, I can get Michael to see about getting them booked for Saturday.”
“Nah, I’ll take care of it. Is he here?”
“Yeah, I’ll send him up,” he says as he stands and starts walking out. When he gets to the door, he turns back and says, “I’m here, man. If you ever . . .”
“Thanks.” His friendship is genuine. It always has been. I might not be a man of many words, but I stop him before he walks out and tell him, “I really appreciate it,” because I feel like he should know.
He gives a nod, accepting my words, and turns to head downstairs.