Author's Notes: It's Maureen and Joanne and thus I owe every bit of credit to the one and only Jonathan Larson.
The doorbell woke me at three in the morning and I cussed to myself as I pulled on my Harvard sweatshirt and slipped on my night shoes. I fumbled in the darkness for a lightswitch and a faint glow covered the apartment once I had found the lamp on the endtable in the livingroom.
"Who the hell…" I mumbled to myself in the night. "It's three in the morning."
I swung open the front door and gazed in astonishment at the sight before me.
"Joanne," the girl whispered shakily. "I need your help."
She was clutching a letter, soaked with rain and splattered with what looked like blood. Her curly hair was plastered to her face, her makeup had run down her cheeks and what was left of her skin was dark and bruised. I had never seen this girl look so fragile. In fact, I could only really recall one moment in my life that she actually looked fragile and that was when she was being dragged away from me. But this… this was not the girl I had known. This was not the girl I had fallen in love with. This was a battered, tortured shell of the young woman I had tried so desperately to rescue.
"I need you, Joanne." She looked as if one good strike could demolish her, as if one more raping or beating would be her end. "Please," she begged.
My words had since left and I could only pull her into my arms and hold her as close to me as possible, sheltering her from the horrors that had followed her to my apartment. I kissed her cheek, ran my fingers through her damp hair and felt her body soften at my touch. She was home now. She was safe.