My pace quickens; air rushes hot in and out of my lungs, pushing me forward. I make it to the freeway on-ramp and my only hope—that second light. No! Please no. It’s a utility box. No! My heart falls. Then I hear him. Twigs and branches snap just a few feet away. He’s right behind me! I gasp and keep running down the ramp for something… anything.
Suddenly lights—bright, blinding lights—flash like a searchlight. Two of them. Can those be headlights? Yes! A car! I jump—I don’t care—in front of the oncoming vehicle, waving my arms like a lunatic in distress. A small, light blue Ford Fairlane slows to a moving stop. I dash to the passenger side and bang wildly on the window.
An elderly woman, shaking and nervous, rolls her passenger side window down a few short inches.
“Please. Please,” I plead breathlessly. “There’s a man behind me in the bushes! He’s trying to kill me! Please take me to the police. Please! He’s right behind me in the bushes!”
The woman visibly trembles. Looking back and forth from me to her husband, she has no idea what to do.
Crack, snap, rustle, rustle. The noises from the brush are right behind me.
“Open the door! Hurry! Open the door! He’s behind her!” the elderly man in the driver’s seat shouts urgently. “He’s right behind her! Hurry!”
The lady fumbles for the lock, her gnarled fingers pulling deftly at the handle. The door swings open, and I scramble into the backseat, a rush of wind pushing me in with the slamming of the car door.
“Thank you! Oh, thank you!” I weep with relief, my body convulsing with the flow of adrenaline that still courses through my veins.
“There he is!” the gray-haired man shouts, stepping on the gas and barreling onto the freeway. “Let’s get out of here!”
“We saw a guy chasing her on the side of the freeway, so we turned around to see if we could help,” the old man reports to the police.
I sit trembling, in shock, clutching a scratchy wool blanket an officer has handed me. My elbows, knees, and back are bleeding from my fall out of the car. The bottom of my shoeless foot is bruised and swollen, and skin is missing from the top of my big toe. I have already told the police everything that happened: everything except the part about John beating me and sending me out on the street. “We just had an argument. He pushed me a little, and I, I wanted to go to my friend’s house.”
“You’re a lucky girl.” The officer at the desk taps his pen on the stack of papers in front of him. “Truckers saw you but couldn’t stop, so they called it in. We had someone on the way, but it only takes a few seconds for something really bad to happen. Like I said, you’re a lucky girl. Now, where can we take you? Your family’s not in California, right?”
“No. No family here.”
“To your boyfriend’s then? Maybe he’s calmed down by now.”
“Okay. Yeah. T, t, to my boyfriend’s room, please. I guess that’s okay,” I stammer. I am exhausted and again have nowhere else to go. John, I call out in my head. John. I just want you to hold me like you used to. Hold me in your arms and keep me safe. Please don’t be mad anymore. Please, John. My God, I was almost killed.
I watch the desert sun rise outside a gray cement window behind the officer’s desk and realize how I nearly missed seeing this morning. This very light could have found me lying dead in the thick dry brush on the side of the freeway.
Nothing can be worse than this. I’m sure of it.
The police car pulls up next to the Chevy Malibu in front of the warped and water-stained orange door to our room. One of the officers knocks while I wait in the backseat. I hear Thor barking and get excited. Moments later, John sleepily opens the door, shirtless, scratching the shaggy curls on his head. The officer speaks to him briefly, then gives his partner a nod.
“Thanks, officers,” John calls brightly, waving with his other arm tucked around me protectively. Their car pulls off, and John guides me inside.
I sit on the bed, wanting to lie down and sleep. Thor sweetly dances for my attention, hopping about like a Mexican jumping bean. “Hey, little guy.” I bend to pick him up and kiss his little cheek. “My goodness, Thor! You sure have started to turn white.” I think about what I will see if I look in the mirror. John is in the bathroom taking a pee. The toilet flushes, and I look up to greet him with a faint smile. He says nothing.
“John, I…”
“Shut up!”
I freeze. No! No! my mind screams. This isn’t what he’s supposed to say. No! God! Not again. I have no strength. No energy left to fight. No heart to battle what I know, but can’t believe, is coming once again: John’s violent hand. Before his body strikes mine, I close my eyes and curl into a ball, covering my head. Over and over, his fists hit my back, sides, and neck.
For the first time ever, I hear Thor growl at John and I catch a glimpse of the small champion charging at his flailing hands. I barely raise my head in time to see Thor’s tiny body hit the wall, give a breathless yelp, and slide lifeless to the floor. Slipping off the bed I try to crawl where Thor lies in a puddle where he fell; then I feel the swift kicks of John’s boot ram into my ribs.
Like a child about to rest in her mother’s arms, I curl into a fetal position again while John yells like a crazy man, a stranger. “You were asking for it, weren’t you? You wanted him to rape you. You little whore.”
The battering continues over and over into my right rib cage till I hear a snap and then… then I block all pain from my mind, leaving nothing but the thudding sound of his boot reverberating against my side. I don’t know how long it lasts or when it stops. I only remember relief when I hear the door slam behind him, the car start up and drive off.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I want to disappear; I want the world to go away. The cruelty, the violence—I don’t understand any of it. I am hurt. I know it, but I’m not going to look at my body. Never get up; never move again, I tell myself, forcing down the pain.
I wish myself into hopeless oblivion, pressing deeper into a fetal ball, never wanting to see the world again. A strange shivering warmth touches my cheek; lightly, delicately, timidly at first. Then with more persistence, the warmth pushes again until the shivering furry face presses so hard and intense that I have no choice but to roll my face toward it. A thick veil of sweat-and blood-drenched hair is stuck to my cheek, covering my eyes. I try to lift my head to see and let out a moan. The warmth presses harder, more desperate into me, and I open my eyes. Blurred, and through strands of sodden hair, I see him. “Thor!” I feel my heart take a beat again, and tears spill onto the old, filthy carpet. It is Thor. He is alive and in pain, crawling on his belly over to see if I am all right. He licks my tears and wags his tail, snuggling under my long, matted hair, reminding me, like an angel, that I am loved and not alone. We both lie close, burrowed unmoving into each other, until we eventually fall asleep.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
My Name Is… Dawn