Burt said, “Gabriel wants a little trophy.”
I saw Jeremy had his knife out. I began to scramble. This coming before I could think about Ingrid’s husband having sent them – something I seemed to have known all along anyway.
“He wants proof we were here.”
Even with me still tied, it took the three of them to hold me down. Jeremy ran his fingers through my bush, smoothed it before he pulled at it. Before Burt said, “I can see why he’d want that pelt.”
I began struggling again but only inside myself. I didn’t want them taking this piece of me I’d only just realized I felt vain about.
He was still tugging on me, and then he rubbed at my clit. He said, “I think I want this for myself.” And in me this turned-on terror, this frothy airy stuff working my chest and running inside my head, not letting me leave.
He laughed and then tugged at my bush again. He said, “Don’t worry, darling. We won’t take the one thing you need.”
I didn’t move when he cut. It seared, felt warm in this way, but maybe that was my blood. He was quick about this, businesslike. And when he’d done it, I fell away from them.
He cut the cord and, soon as I could, I curled up. Curled up as tight and small as I could and just lay there, not moving, not hearing, not crying, not registering anything. Except Burt saying one last thing, “Here’s your souvenir. I figure you’ve earned it. Hell, sweetheart, I think you’re going to need it one day soon.” And he tossed a bullet my way. It thumped my back before falling somewhere behind me.
Twenty-Nine
When I woke from this stupor I knew they’d left. Still, I didn’t move. I found I could move but didn’t. I didn’t want to look at what they’d done. I’d balled the sheets between my legs and could only see blood there.
When I finally untangled myself, it wasn’t as bad as I’d thought. They’d taken a strip from the side, not the whole of it. Still, when I made it into the bathroom, into the bathtub, the water stung. The thing hadn’t stopped bleeding and so the water was at first reddish and then turning less so as it filled in around me, becoming a lighter and fainter pink.
I stayed there until I felt scared again. Got out in a sudden rush that dumped water all over the floor. I found a towel laying in the sink. One they must’ve used because it had these swipes of brownish red. And when I saw this I dropped it, but then I picked it up again because I was shivering too much to move and find another.
I went into the bedroom, but in there were just more reminders and I needed badly to forget this. I stumbled around, bumped into things until I found my robe, and then the phone – this on the coffee table, near an ashtray and two glasses, a bottle of vodka they’d been into.
I got my own glass. Sat down on the couch and poured a drink. I stared at the phone. But I didn’t pick it up until I felt the robe – thin terry cloth sticking to me. And then I saw the blood matted to it, still spreading through the weave. Saw that I still hadn’t stopped bleeding.
I called Beth. She answered, sounding as sleepy and groggy as me, and I felt lonelier than I maybe ever had, her being there making me feel it more instead of less. I said, “I need to see you. I’m in real trouble.”
Her voice got suddenly clear and awake. “Are you home? I’ll come there.”
And I looked around the room and through the bedroom door, and said, “No. I mean, I’m home but please don’t come here.”
“Sweetheart, what is it? What’s happened?”
“Can I meet you somewhere?”
She took over then. She said, “Go to my office. I’m leaving right now.”
But she held on the line until I hung up first.
Now I felt better for having things to do, though I couldn’t do them well or fast. I tried putting on underwear but it hurt too much, catching that piece of me that wasn’t there. And the first few pairs of pants I tried felt the same way – hurtful, nicking me if I moved. I searched the floor and then my drawers for the loosest softest clothes I could find.
I ended up with a baggy pair of army fatigues, worn thin and soft. Found a crumpled bit of foil in the pocket, which only served to remind me how long I’d lived this way. But it didn’t stop me from hunching over it – half-naked with a lighter – trying to smoke what might be left in it.
I pulled an old shirt of my father’s from a bottom drawer, the fabric so old you could see through it. From habit, I tried tucking it in, but this hurt too, so I just let it hang, buttoned it the best I could and then began growing worried about all the time this was taking.
I put shoes on, put Beth’s coat on, finally found my keys and started for her office.
It was colder outside than I’d imagined and so I pulled the coat around me, feeling drafts everywhere through my loose clothes. I hadn’t managed socks, so my ankles felt it worst. The wind ate into the burns from the cord.
I trudged along, watching headlights coming at me and wondering what I must look like. I’d stayed far away from mirrors, not wanting to know this.
I arrived before Beth did, and so I sat on the little concrete step outside the door there. My hands were jammed into the coat’s pockets. I found a pack of cigarettes I’d left there and a lighter. I smoked one after another, my lips feeling too big, numb, leaving blood on each filter. I did this mechanically until her car turned in.
She came toward me, quickly crossing the lot, and seeing her, I felt suddenly dead. I stood beside her as she fumbled with her keys and the door. Caught a glimpse of her in the light there. Saw her seeing me and I didn’t like how she looked.
Once she got us inside I shucked her coat on my way to the couch. Already I knew she couldn’t give the fixing I needed.
I curled up on the couch with my back to her. Wanted her with me, and not. The sight of her had started these sobs in my chest, and then in my throat. Hurting me because of the rawness, how torn I was there. But I still couldn’t stop. Couldn’t stop from sobbing, though it seemed so important to, more this time than ever.
I felt her hand on me, on my shoulder, uncertain but still soft and so making my crying that much harder to control until I left off trying. And then she’d curled behind me and was holding on, and for a time this was helping.
We wound up turned around. She was propped against the couch’s arm with me leaning back in her arms. Her hands were stroking me. It felt sweet, having her hands on me, until one of them went into my shirt, which I hadn’t buttoned well, and this wildness started from her fondling me, my breasts.
This simple thing crippled me, made me unable to move and so I didn’t, but went tight in her arms and this started her talking. Saying those things she always said, and her hands moving along my stomach and me feeling the little cuts there, but her seeming not to. All this continued until she got into my pants and I jerked away when she found the gash there.
The feel of it must’ve startled her too, because she yanked away the same moment I did. Then her arms were around me again, and there was blood on her fingers, and she kept saying, “What’s happened to you?” and “Who did this?”
I lay there mute, letting her keep on this way until it’d run its course and then she was quiet, except for saying, “Oh, sweetheart,” again and again. And her mouth was close to my ear and her kissing me near there, now and then.
I felt my body letting go, leaning heavy into her, deadly. Her arms felt heavy too. A solid weight, lulling me. I think maybe I even drifted off, or half did. I remember feeling so tired again. I didn’t want ever to have to get up from this.
But then she was getting us up. Held me tight around the waist and walked me to her car. Came around my side and opened the door for me, helped me in. I didn’t know where we were going. Panicked a minute she might turn toward the hospital or the police station. But she turned the other direction, which meant either my place, or hers.