The Plight of Anthropology readers:

Before I finish chapter nine and post it, I want to talk a little about where this chapter is going. I've mentioned a couple of times that part of this story is based in reality - my husband and I met while he was a teacher and I was a student (he was never my teacher, and while we loved each other desperately, we didn't start dating until I graduated). He (and now I) had a theatre company that used student volunteers as actors, and he showed me how much I loved acting and how being a lost artist in college was not something that was unique to my own experience. He gave me a family of friends.

But I also knew some very problematic people - yes, Abe's behavior, Ben's, Caleb's, Simcoe's, and Richard's are all based on people I knew. And though most of those people will not abandon Anna, all of them abandoned me.

But Simcoe has a special place in hell for me. Simcoe is based on someone that used to be one of my friends that decided when he met me that he was entitled to me, to my body, and to my love. And yes, the scene that borders on sexual assault that will be coming up in chapter nine is based on my own experience. Except, (spoiler alert) Anna has someone that can come to her rescue.

I did not.

I have never written about this experience before, and it has been a rough chapter to write, though not nearly as rough as the "March 23″ chapter. So forgive me if my writing isn't as vivid as you'd like. I'm doing my best.

And, if I might provide one more tidbit - Simcoe in this story is terrifying, at least to me, because of his predatory nature, but in my own experience, Simcoe was even more terrifying, because not only was he predatory, but he was my husband's best friend. And no one saw that side of him but me. No one believed me for a long time that he was capable of the things he did to me.

So chapter nine has a sexual assault trigger warning. Please do not read if that triggers you.

Simcoe was drunk, Anna reflected with a barely hidden shudder. She could smell it on his breath, but he was doing a remarkable job of making sure his movements were still steady. He didn't knock anything over, he didn't slur his words. But she could see, in his eyes, the lack of focus that she often saw in Abraham's when he drank too much. He was leaning rather heavily against the wood of the bar, his eyes fixed on her.

"I've been impressed with your improvement in my class, Mrs. Strong," he pointed out, bringing his glass up to his lips for a long sip. Anna watched the trajectory of the drink with narrowed eyes. "I trust your tutor has served his purpose?"

Anna cleared her throat, trying to shake free her fear. "Professor Hewlett has been very helpful."

"Yes, I daresay he has," Simcoe said quietly. His eyes roved over her face, his usual hidden desire made plain with the influence of alcohol. Anna struggled not to look for Caleb and Abraham, who had gone outside for a smoke. Ben was on the dance floor, invited by one of his classmates. She could feel his eyes on her, watching carefully for signs of distress, but it didn't feel like enough.

Anna shifted in her seat like she was going to get up and Simcoe's hand landed heavily on her arm, stopping her movement. She jumped embarrassingly, and felt her arm tense. His hand was warm, almost sweaty, and even when she stopped moving, he didn't remove it.

"I wonder if it's going to matter that you pass my class on your own merit when everyone finds out what you're doing with Hewlett," he hissed, his voice hardly audible above the music.

Anna felt a blush rising on her face and struggled to suppress her body's natural reaction. She tried to wrench her arm back, but his fingers tightened around her arm painfully. "I don't know what you mean."

He almost rolled his eyes at her. He leaned closer to her, and the oppressive smell of alcohol almost made her gag. "You aren't fooling me, Mrs. Strong," he spat, and Anna flinched away from his flying saliva. He leaned even closer to her, and when she tried to lean back, his hand tightened painfully around her arm.

She abandoned all pretense of trying to appear unbothered. "Let me go," she said firmly, but she could feel the muscles in her neck beginning to quiver with the force it took for her to stay calm. He was much too close, the room was too loud. Everything was closing in on her.

"Anna?"

And suddenly, Simcoe's hand was off of her arm, and Anna turned shakily to Ben, who was approaching the bar. His eyes narrowed at Simcoe, who nodded at him in acknowledgment, like he hadn't just been on the verge of leaving bruises on Anna's arm.

"Something wrong here?" Ben asked, putting himself between Anna and Simcoe. Simcoe smiled at him in that quiet, terrifying way of his and rose.

"Of course not," he said lightly. "We were just having a conversation, weren't we, Mrs. Strong?"

Anna didn't respond, but in the time that it took Ben to turn to her, Simcoe was already starting back toward his table of faculty members. Edmund was talking to Richard, his back to Anna. He had missed the whole exchange.

"Anna?" Ben asked, but his voice sounded like it had to travel through a tunnel of sound. Anna ignored him and raised her finger for another drink, chugging the whole thing the second it was in front of her. Immediately, she asked for another one. He watched her, the unspoken apology etched in the lines of his face. She rejected it without speaking.

She let him escort her onto the dance floor again, choosing the time to remain much closer to him than usual. Let Simcoe see that, she thought bitterly. His accusation of what she was "doing with Hewlett" rattled in her head as she struggled to hear only music. She felt Ben's arms wrap around her waist and pull her closer to him, her back against his chest. It was an intimate gesture they had done a thousand times before, but even now, she hoped that Simcoe was taking it the wrong way.

Let him see her pressed against Ben; let him question his accusation. She turned her head to the faculty table, ignoring how the alcohol made her over-correct her head, and found Edmund watching her instead.

She had completely forgotten he was there. Their eyes stayed locked, her own anger, panic, and disgust only rising the more his face registered hurt and jealousy. Simcoe's own eyes were watching her, but Edmund – Edmund wouldn't understand.

The alcohol was starting to register in her system and she was forced to lean even more against Ben, who took her extra weight without problem. She looked up as she caught her balance. Edmund was getting up.

Edmund's feeling of disappointment had morphed into jealousy now; the way Anna was pulling Ben against her curves, the way her collarbone flushed dark pink – he didn't want to watch this anymore, this show that she was conducting, but he couldn't seem to look away.

He wondered if he had kissed her last night, if she would be doing this now.

Her hair was falling in her face, but her could see her large, soft eyes, hardened with something he couldn't place, and the slightly open expanse of her mouth. Ben's hands were low on her hips, his head bent toward her neck, like he was whispering in her ear.

She flipped her hair out of her face with a flick of her neck and her eyes were on his again, wide and suddenly tender.

He looked away; he rose from his seat and moved toward the bar to pay his tab.

He didn't want to see this anymore.

Anna watched him rise from his seat and go to the bar. She wanted, ached to go to him, to explain what she was doing, why she had let herself drink so much, but Simcoe's eyes were still on her. He was watching, an amused smile on his face, like she had played right into some unknown trap.

She probably had.

When the song was over, she shoved her way back toward the bar, trying to decide if she was going for another drink or for Edmund, but by the time she reached it, he was gone. She groaned, leaning her head on her arm, feeling the room lurch as she did. She blinked several times and raised her head again. The bartender had already refilled her drink. She took it without thinking.

"Whoa, Annie's drunk!" Caleb crowed, finally back from his smoke with Abe. Abraham's eyes were concerned, but Anna avoided them with a scowl. Caleb pulled himself up onto the barstool beside her. "You change your mind about drinking?"

She shrugged. Drinking didn't matter, she thought bitterly. Simcoe's eyes were still on her, his predatory gaze setting her nerves on fire. She couldn't sit still, but her limbs, her head was so heavy with the alcohol, she was having trouble even sitting up at the barstool.

Ben leaned close to her. "If you explain to Edmund, I'm sure he'll understand."

He always knew. Anna felt a rush of drunken affection for Ben and squeezed his arm appreciatively. "No he won't," she shook her head. "Maybe it's better this way."

"You don't mean that," Ben countered, wrapping his arm around her waist to keep her from sliding off the barstool. "Let's take you home, you can sleep this off, and you two will talk in the morning."

She shook her head, but why she was still doing it, she didn't know. She slid off the barstool and moved past Ben. "I have to pee," she said like it was a secret. He chuckled at her and nodded, taking her seat to wait for her.

The bathroom was empty when she got there. She stared at herself in the mirror for a few seconds, remarking silently on how dull her eyes looked, how tangled her hair was. She hated herself – she couldn't stop those feelings now that alcohol had already broken down the mental walls she tried so hard to keep up.

How was she supposed to explain this to Edmund tomorrow? Tell him that she was putting on a show for someone who shouldn't be looking at her in the first place? And wouldn't that put him in the same category? Would she tell him about Simcoe, about his advances? Would she explain how terrified she was of him?

No – she wasn't sure she could stomach having that conversation. And he would do what Selah did, what Abe did: he would decide one day that she was too much trouble, and in this case, she was. She would be the reason he'd lose his job. She could be the person to ruin his career forever.

How was she supposed to explain to Edmund that she was the girl that was only good for temporary love? She was the placeholder. She furiously wiped away the tear that snaked down her cheek and sniffed.

The door to the bathroom eased open quietly, and Anna struggled to fix her face into something impassive. Drunk women, while the easiest to please and the nicest form of women, still asked too many questions for her taste.

But the hand around the wooden door wasn't female.

She recognized Simcoe's hand belatedly as it reached for her arm. How had she not noticed that he had followed her? Anna tried to retreat, to keep her arm out of his reach, but his fingers had already closed around her forearm.

"What are you doing?" she asked, but even as she heard the words, she knew it was a strangled kind of yell.

He pushed her against the wall roughly, her head slamming against the tile. Black dots swam in her vision, and she struggled against his other arm, now pressed against her neck. His eyes were angry, full of a tempest she had never seen before, and he was hungry. His body was pressed against hers so hard she could hardly breath, but even then, she could feel his arousal pressed against her thigh.

She struggled against him, her strength sapped by her lack of air in her lungs. She would not succumb to this, she thought. She shoved him back, only succeeding in moving him a few inches, and flinched away from him as he lowered his mouth to her neck.

She didn't know how she managed to bring her knee up and hit him in the groin, but it gave her enough of an opening to run for the door. He doubled over in pain, grunting loudly, but before her hand could close around the door, he caught her again. This time, his arm tripped her up and she landed heavily against the floor of the bathroom, his hand around her ankle.

She kicked at him, her panic and adrenaline giving away to tears. Still, she couldn't find her voice to scream. Terror had taken it from her, and she cursed herself more the longer she stayed silent.

"Come on, Anna," he growled at her, and at the sound of her first name on his lips, Anna kicked at him, her foot landing in the juncture between his neck and his shoulder. She felt rather than heard the sound of his shoulder dislocating, and when he pulled his arm back to himself, roaring in pain, Anna barely managed to pull herself up and flee.

She had to lean against the wall of the hallway that led back to the bar. No one had even noticed that Simcoe was yelling. No one noticed that she had been gone. No one would have come to her rescue.

She couldn't stop herself from vomiting onto the floor next to her feet.

Someone's hands were reaching for her own, pulling her chin up, and she immediately reacted, wrenching herself away from them, falling against the wall. Ben's eyes were wide and concerned, and he held up his hands in surrender to show her he meant no harm.

She threw herself into his arms, sobbing, and he held her there for a moment, his head cradling the back of her head. He still didn't know what had happened. Anna didn't plan to tell him.

How could she tell him how easily she'd left herself open to attack? How could she tell him that she couldn't even bring herself to scream for help? How could she?

Her tears wracked her body like a ship in a storm, and Ben was whispering words of comfort in her ear, but it didn't matter.

She felt nothing but fear.

She found the bruises on her body the next morning when she realized that sleeping hadn't spirited away the nightmares she thought she had only imagined. She could see the shape of his fingers around her wrist and her upper arm, and a dark bruise was spreading on her elbow and her ankle where he had grabbed her. She didn't even want to look at her neck.

She hid them under a heavy sweater despite the weather, and long jeans. She flinched as she turned her head on her neck, trying to stretch out her tensed muscles. She could still feel that coiled fear in the pit of her stomach, the self-loathing that followed her every time she spotted a bruise.

She didn't go to class. She didn't cry. She spent the day staring at the television, not even bothering to turn it on. She couldn't stomach food – she could hardly stomach her own thoughts.

She let her appointment with Edmund come and go. She ignored his phone call and his worried text messages. When he came to the door, she jumped in fear, but she didn't answer it. Soon enough, he left.

Afternoon melted into night, and as darkness started to blur the edges of reality, Anna realized that she was scared. The night before, she'd had alcohol help her sleep – tonight, she had nothing but her thoughts. She had only the phantom fingers on her arm, his breath on her neck.

When the first sob managed to untangle itself from her alcohol strained throat, she reached for her phone. Edmund answered on the first ring.

"Anna?" his voice was worried, but she could hear a little of the remnants of uncertainty there. She considered hanging up. He didn't deserve this – he didn't need to know.

"Can you pick me up?" she asked, and she could hear him already getting up from wherever he was sitting, the jingle of his keys. His immediacy only made her cry harder.

"Where are you?" he replied, his voice hard. "I'm coming."

She didn't answer for a moment; she was caught up in her own tears, in her own panic, in the darkness of the room, the same darkness that haunted her every time she closed her eyes. She wrenched her sweater off of her body, her panic rising her body temperature too high.

"Anna!"

"Home," she said softly, her voice thin.

She could hear the car turning on, the sound of him pulling out of his driveway. She clenched her hand into a fist around the cushion of her couch. How long would it take him to get here? How many questions would he ask?

She felt bile rise in her throat again at the thought of telling him the story. How would he look at her? Would he think she deserved it?

She covered her mouth so her cries couldn't be heard over the phone. She regretted calling him now – she would have to explain herself, and Edmund, kind, sweet Edmund, would want to tell someone else. He'd say it was for her safety, but he would want to take her to the police, to a doctor. He'd want to do everything in his power to make her feel safe.

But he couldn't. And she couldn't stomach telling the story, seeing the pity in his face, seeing the pity in everyone's faces. She couldn't bear the 'I told you so's," the hushed tones while they asked her how she felt.

She couldn't bear any of it.

But he was already parking the car – she could hear the engine turn off, and climbing the stairs. She considered, irrationally, hiding in her room, or not answering the door again, but his knock was frantic, worried, and she needed someone to hold onto.

She opened the door and reached for him before he even registered that the door was open. She held onto him like she was drowning, and he tentatively wrapped his arms around her waist. She could hear him asking her questions, trying to make sure she was okay, but there was nothing for her to say.

"Anna," he finally insisted, pulling away from her, trying to look at her face, to inspect her for trouble. "Anna, what happened?"

She tried to look away from him, but the movement brought his hand to her neck, where pain flared hotly where she knew there must be a bruise. She hissed and moved away from it. Edmund immediately retracted his hands, his eyes falling to her neck. She wished suddenly for the sweater again.

"Anna, your neck!" he exclaimed, tilting his head to see it better. She pulled away from him and tried to find a way to hide it from his view, but he had already seen. "Anna, what is that?" his voice had lost its frantic edge and bordered on a growl. "Who did this to you."

She stepped closer to him again, feeling desperation clutching at her with its slippery fingers. "Edmund, please."

But there was a darkness in his eyes now, the color of danger, of protectiveness. She reached for his face, trying to keep him focused.

"Take me away from here," she said softly, her voice so soft and so broken she could see his resolve waver. He reached for her hand and she had to hide a flinch as his hand brushed over another bruise. "Please."

He had seen her flinch but tried to keep the worry from his face. He nodded without speaking, and she closed the door to her apartment, leaving her phone behind inside. She let him lead her to his car, and they both stayed silent as he drove her to his home, a modest-sized house with a flowerbed that looked well-tended. He opened the front door for her, letting her go in first.

"Sit," he offered, but it sounded like a command. She obeyed, feeling her panic start to abate now that she was out of her apartment. The lamp in the corner of the room bathed the couch in a soft light that eased her nerves. Edmund took the seat beside her.

"Now," he said, jutting his chin at her bruise. "Who did that to you?"

She shook her head.

"Do not," he said immediately. "I've been worried sick about you all day, despite your…behavior last night –"

She felt tears rising in her eyes.

"And you call me out of the blue and you're crying, and you have bruises on your neck, and your arm. I would hazard a guess that there are more. I demand to know who did this to you, Anna."

Her voice was small, and that, more than the bruises, seemed to frighten him. "It doesn't matter. Nothing will happen to them."

He scooted closer to her, and his eyes hardened a little when she flinched. "I will make sure something happens to them," he promised, trying to catch her eyes with his own. "But you have to tell me what happened."

"I can't," she whispered, tears sliding down her face again.

Edmund nodded absently, more an acknowledgement of her statement than an acceptance. He stood and padded into the kitchen, moving easily around in his home, and as he slipped out of sight, Anna could hear the faucet turn on in the kitchen. He returned with a washcloth, damp in his hands. He held it out to her.

"This will help the bruise dissipate faster," he explained. "Just put it on the bruises."

She put it on her arm first, where the bruise hurt the most, and Edmund examined it under the pretense of gently pressing the washcloth on it.

"Anna, these are fingers," he said quietly, in horror. She could see what looked like realization dawning on him. "These are a man's fingers."

Having Edmund know that she had been attacked was bad enough, but having him know what Simcoe's intention had been was intolerable. She looked away from him, trying to keep her face hidden in shadow.

"Anna," he was saying her name so much tonight. "Did he…?"

She couldn't bring herself to let him finish his thought. He didn't deserve to be exposed to something like that. She shook her head, another sob escaping from her throat. "Almost," she whispered.

She could hear the sharp inhale of his gasp, and let him pull her into his embrace, gently running his hands through her hair. "Anna, I'm so sorry," he said softly, and she could hear the heart-wrenching hurt in his voice too. "What can I do?"

She was about to answer when his hands in her hair stopped.

"This happened last night," he said, his voice growing icy again. "After I left."

She didn't answer.

"Who was it?" he asked, but by the tone in his voice, Anna could tell that he already knew the answer. "Simcoe?"

Her ragged inhale told him all he needed to know. She could feel the rage lingering just barely underneath his skin, simmering there. His hand, around her own, clenched momentarily before he let her go, unwilling to cause her more pain.

"You have to report him," he said firmly. She shook her head. "Anna, he will do this again. He will do this to you again."

She was shaking now, her whole body quivering with it, with fear and loathing, and he reached for her shoulder again, gently letting his fingers curve over the lines of her face. She could see tears in his eyes, empathetic emotions that threatened to overtake him. She shook her head again, frantically.

"Anna, I couldn't save you last time, but I can keep it from happening again," he promised. "But you have to tell someone."

She let his hands gently start to ease her breathing into something more manageable, the smell of his cologne, of his home, slowly calming her. He pulled her in for another hug, and she felt him drop a soft kiss on the top of her head.

"I'll tell," she said finally, into the silence. He hugged her a little tighter, but didn't push her into telling the story.

"I'll go with you," he whispered.

She let him lead her to his bed, curling into the cool navy blue sheets. He eased in beside her and cradled her against his side, his hands gently kneading her shoulders and back. His hands were soft and sweet on her skin, and as she started to drift off to sleep, she could hear him whispering words of comfort and protection into her ear.

She didn't dream.