Chapter Four
This is it. I've just got to step inside, grab my briefcase, and run.
I'm scared. There, I said it. And the longer I stand out here in the hallway, the more frightened I become. He could be here. Danny could be here, or he could be coming- I have to get out of here as soon as possible.
So, here goes nothing.
Taking a deep breath, I fling open my door, my eyes scanning my apartment worriedly. I don't see him. I start to run into my apartment, then freeze.
He throws me to the ground. He's on top of me. He's pinning my wrists above my head and laughing in my face. Telling me I'm not strong enough to get out from under him.
I have to get out of here!
I stumble backwards, choking back fear and some of the worst terror I have ever known. I can't leave; I came here for a purpose, damn it, and I'm not going to leave until I've fulfilled it.
Another ragged breath, this one coming harder than the last. An awfully familiar panic is starting to rise within my chest and I take another step. Unfortunately for me, my briefcase is is lying on the floor, half-under my couch. There's no way to get around it; I have to walk over the scene of the crime.
I hesitate, my heart pounding, as I take another step. One more, and then I hit the first patch of blood.
That's when my feet start to born.
It's like when Fin touched my arm earlier. The sensation is identical and I can feel the fire under my skin spreading higher up my body as I step forward again. The burning grows worse, whiplashing up my legs with a vengeance and I can hardly stand it now. I'm shaking badly when I'm finally able to reach out and grasp my briefcase; the blood on the handle makes my fright worse and that's it; I can't handle it anymore. The fire in my limbs is only growing and I dash away as fast as I can.
It isn't until I reach the elevator doors close that I finally start to calm down. The harsh pain from the fresh cuts helps bring me back to reality, and I rest a hand over my pounding heart as I pant.
I've never felt anything like that before. And I instantly know that conquering that fear of standing over exactly where I was raped is impossible. It's not an obstacle I can ever see myself conquering, nor am I interested in even trying. Simply something I'm going to have to accept; something I already have, in fact. There is no possible way I could ever return there.
The handle of my briefcase in encrusted with dried blood. Damn. I had just bought the thing a week ago- I really liked it, too.
Well, now that's all said and done, so there's no use crying over spilled milk. For now, it's back to Olivia's, then to a hotel room. I'll figure out what to do from there later tonight.
Oh, I'm selfish. I'm acting like a selfish, spoiled brat right now and I know it, but I don't care.
Right now, I'm sprawled on my stomach on Olivia's couch, my arm in my scarf/sling, watching TV, a bottle of cheap beer resting on the table in front of me. I feel safe here. Much more safe than I could ever feel at home right now.
Yes, I know. I'd been planning on just getting changing and leaving her apartment the way I found it, but, my leg had been hurting so much I hadn't been able to stand it. So, I'd lied down on her bed to wait until the pain passed, or at least got bearable, but… I felt safe there. I knew Danny couldn't find me here.
So now, I'm out here on Olivia's couch, probably as comfortable as I've been since yesterday morning. The silky scarf is more comfortable than a sling would be, at any rate. I've also attacked these sweatpants with a pair of scissors and cut one leg short enough that the rough fabric doesn't rub against the raw cuts and stitches. I'm in as little pain as possible, I'm on my best friend's couch, and, of course, there's the cheap booze. Synonym for heaven, no?
It's late, and, during commercials, I work on the few files I had in my briefcase. I do have the entire weekend and I really don't had much to do, but I don't really pay much attention to the time. It's half past one when I finally glance at the clock. "Well, I was always a night person rather than a morning one," I deadpanned to myself, chuckling bitterly. Well, I haven't got that much work done; TV is rather distracting. I guess I'll stay awake for another half hour.
I can't get what happened at work today out of my head. That interrogation was an absolute mess, and I can't even try to deny it. But while I know work is going to be hell on Monday because of it… for once, that's not what's worrying me. It's the fact that I can't remember nearly anything about the attack.
Not just that, really, but that's a big part. However, there's also this little minor problem of the fact that I have to keep assuring myself that what happened isn't my fault. I should know that, and yet…
I sigh heavily, resting the urge to roll onto my back. It hurts my leg too much, and, for once, I want to focus on what I'm thinking about. "It's not my fault," I mumble aloud. "What he did to me was wrong. He shouldn't have done it. It wasn't my fault."
I don't know if I believe my own words.
Shaking my head, I turn the TV off and get unsteadily to my feet. I can't think about this anymore. After everything that has happened, I think tonight, of all nights, I deserve a rest.
No. I'm going to keep everything normal. I will do everything as I usually do, and I'm not just going to lay back down on the couch and go to sleep. I still have things to do tonight, and I shall not ignore them.
I'm combing my long red hair out in the bathroom when I notice the shower. It seems like an attribute always applied to rape victims- they take long showers, because it helps them feel clean. I myself haven't really thought about it, but hey, I'll try anything once.
It's really late, but I don't have to get up tomorrow morning, so I turn on the shower and begin undressing. I leave the scarf on the sink; I'll need that for later- same the mutilated sweatpants. The sweatshirt is really too warm for summer anyway; I'll change into something else after the shower.
I've been putting this off for a while, now; ever since I found about the cuts this morning. I know I have to look at them. I have to see what he did to me.
And there's no time like the present.
"Come on, Casey, just do it," I murmur before turning my back and looking over my shoulder at the mirror. I'm holding my breath, but what I see next makes me let it out in a shocked gasp.
It's so much worse than I could have ever imagined. There's no blood, not anymore, just two spiky letters carved into my pale skin, formed by stitches. The wounds are neat and clean, now, though I'm sure they were so covered in blood last night one probably wouldn't even be able to tell the original cuts were actual letters- I'm sure, once the stitches are removed, the scars will remain. Those two letters, branded into my skin forever.
I slam my hands down on the counter in disgust and fury. Damn it! This is so unfair. I won't be able to even wear something as revealing as a swimsuit now without people looking at me and seeing them. And sure, there's probably laser surgery that would make them less noticeable; that's what the doctor said. But then, doctors always say that. I'm sure it's a lie.
Furious now, I storm into the shower. I want to try and wash those cuts right off, but I can't; doctor said I can't get the stitches wet. "Well, fuck him," I mutter, trying my best to shake out my hair under the spray. Once more, I feel guilty as I grab a bottle of shampoo- I'm using Olivia's apartment, clothes, hot water… what's next?
But then, I understand. It all makes sense to me now. Of course rape victims always take long showers; this is perfect.
The hot water- or, as hot as my damaged and bruised skin can bear- feels nice. I feel so dirty, and I try and scrub my wrists where one of his hands had pinned them against them ground. There are finger marks on them, black bruises that ache when I expose them to the hot water and rub them roughly, and it's the ache I want. The ache feels good, like I'm actually accomplishing something.
It doesn't take long for me to negate that thought. No, I'm not. I'm not getting any cleaner by doing this. I just feel dirtier and dirtier the harder and longer I try to wash everything away. Finally, my hot tears blending with the water pouring over my body, I shut off the shower and grab a towel, shaking my head in defeat. I feel even worse than I did before.
By the time I finally stumble back to the couch, I'm not crying anymore, but my the feeling in my chest is tight and raw and painful, and it's unbearable. I feel like I'm on the edge of a breakdown, and a glance at the clock nearly tips me over the edge- it's two in the morning.
Taking in a deep, shuddering breath, I turn off the lamp and lay down on my stomach once again. I'm not going to use Olivia's bed; even though she's not here, I'd still feel awful about it. I'm wearing an old, raggedy NYPD shirt of hers, though, along with my scarf-sling and those personalized sweats. I pull the afghan draped over the back of the couch, letting it fall over me as I try and make myself comfortable. It isn't easy, with my arm tucked uncomfortably against my stomach and my good leg slipping haphazardly off the tiny couch, and finally, I just give up.
I close my eyes, turning my head to the side and hoping that, tonight of all nights, I don't sit here thinking before I fall asleep. Tonight, I just want sleep to claim me.
But I can't. I can't just close my eyes and got to sleep. Before I know it, I'm crying again. All-out sobbing, really, for the first time since I was raped. For some reason, it's just the thought of continuing the normal cycle from one day to next, without any disruption, that puts a knife in my heart. It hurts too much to know that the world, me, we're both just continuing on, regardless of what happened. I can't help it; it makes me cry and I don't even fully understand why.
The heart ache hurts so much I can't stand it. More than anything, I want Olivia here with me. I want sitting beside me, I want her here with her arms wrapped around me and telling me it'll be all right.
I just need a friend right now.
But I'm alone here. In all of this, I will always be alone. So I wrap my good arm around the pillow and sob even harder, crying myself to sleep.
