AUTHOR'S NOTE: This chapter contains material that some may consider to be too graphic and/or intense depicting sexual violence. Reader discretion is advised.
CHAPTER 19
This is Juliet Parrish, right now:
Everything you see is whirling and spinning, and your head hurts.
Like, it really, really hurts.
A sensation of throbbing pressure pulsates just behind your eyes, and your ears are filled with this constant ringing electronic tone. You can't see clearly, and when you try to concentrate and squint to see through the blur, the pain in your head spikes.
It's so cold in this room you're in, surrounded by glassy walls of yellow and orange and white lights flashing in odd, random patterns, you can't help but shiver. At the same time, though, your nervous system seems to be running amok, because you think you can feel the tell-tale heat of each light that blinks on and off around you on your bare skin.
Not only that, but it seems as if you can taste a strange sweetness hanging in the frigid air as you breathe it in.
You look all around you, seeing nothing but a blurry variegated array of ever-shifting colors and shapes, and you are filled with dread and humiliation as you feel the weight of unseen eyes locked on to your unclothed self.
So you try to lift your feet from off the raised frustum you're standing on, but for reasons you can't fathom you are stuck in place, as if rooted to the spot. The insistent, screaming voice of the instinct to move from where you are, to somehow escape from this place, goes unheeded despite your best efforts to comply.
I can't stand this.
As you finish that thought, a pained moan escapes your lips, loud enough for the sound to rise above the pervasive tone filling your ears. Thinking consciously while you're in this room always makes a burst of pain explode in your head.
It has been this way for goodness knows how long now.
Pretty much ever since you've been on the Mother Ship, really.
And when did they capture me? A week ago? Maybe ten days now?
I can't remember…
A new set of stimuli presently captures your attention as you notice some of the lights around you start to cascade down six columns, then across the floor of the room, then up onto the platform upon which you are standing. But even if you look away or close your eyes you can tell what this set of lights is doing as you can literally feel the energy they emit rain from somewhere above you, then seemingly into you. You look over your right shoulder, then over your left, then face forward again. At the same time, the tone in your ears changes pitch, sounding a little deeper, bigger, but not actually louder.
The blurry kaleidoscope in your eyes starts to resolve into… something else. The random flashes of colorful lights begins to transmogrify into an inky-black darkness.
You blink, unsure about what it is you're seeing.
Indeed, the only thing you're really sure of right now is…
I'm scared.
A corner of your mind is telling you that you recognize this specific experience. You've seen the lights in this room do this very thing, or something very much like it, not just once, but quite a few times before.
When was the last time? Yesterday, maybe? Or last night?
One thing is for sure: You truly have no idea.
You long ago lost track of time. Time has been meaningless for you ever since you were taken to the Mother Ship.
You keep blinking, not understanding why everything you see now is just that pervasive darkness.
Then you hear it.
A voice with that distinctive quaver.
Her voice.
"Julie. Julie, it's Diana."
Diana.
"No," you respond, turning your head to your right and shutting your eyes.
But her voice is nowhere and everywhere all at once.
"Julie, just relax. Relax."
As she speaks, you suddenly become aware of your racing heart and your shallow breathing. So you do as she tells you, forcing yourself to breathe more deeply, more slowly.
And you instantly start to feel better. Like the air draining out of a punctured balloon, the sensation of pressure emanating from behind your eyes dissipates, and the world seems to slow its spinning.
"That's it, Julie. Just relax…"
Relax.
Your eyelids are feeling heavy.
"No," you say again, but far more softly. You don't want to do as Diana's voice is telling you.
But a part of you kind of does, actually.
"That's it. Just relax." Her voice soothes and calms you.
"Relax," you whisper softly.
You let your eyes close, and you feel yourself drift aimlessly, guided only by the sound of Diana's voice.
"Relax…"
You gasp as you open your eyes again.
"Where are you, Julie?"
What..?
"Tell me, Julie, where are you?"
You look all around you, and at first you see nothing but the room you're in, with its flashing walls of lights and glass and the raised platform upon which you're standing. You take a breath, and the air has a new chemical smell to it that makes your head spin. You blink, and what you see morphs into a small space bordered by dark metallic brown walls illuminated with subdued lighting. You see the shelf jutting out of the back wall, and the toilet close to it, and you detect the lingering hint of human waste in the air. Another eye blink, and now you're seeing a dark hallway punctuated every few feet by green light fixtures set into the walls, exuding a creepy vibe that makes your skin crawl.
"Ship," you say, in a voice just barely above a gasping whisper. "Mother Ship…"
But her voice fills your head again.
"Tell me where you are, Julie. Where are you?"
You blink, and now you're looking through the horizontal slats of some window blinds. The wail of a police car's siren is receding in your ears. You feel beads of sweat trickle down your face and torso, though you're unsure if it's because of the humidity and temperature in the darkened room you find yourself in, or if it's because of the anxiety you're feeling.
"It's alright – I think," you say, backing away from the window through which you'd been looking. The transition from the bright mid-day sun outside to the shadows takes a second, but as you take your seat next to a dark-skinned man you're able to see and recognize the faces surrounding you.
Ben.
Seeing him makes you glad. You love this friend.
"Alright, look," says Benjamin – Ben – Taylor. "We all know what's going on. Totalitarian suppression of the truth. And not only on television; they've got the papers, radio, online… We're under martial law."
"And paranoia," says Louise Motland, a woman sitting across from you and Benjamin. Her eyes and the lines on her face testify to her worry and fear, making her look much older than her real age of thirty five. "Everyone I know, especially scientists, is scared to death."
"Or disappearing." You and everyone look at Brad Jones, a friend of Benjamin's and a LAPD officer. "Like my old partner, or any other cop who refused to go along with the Visitors when they 'requested' that we help them maintain order."
"And yesterday they took another doctor and his family from my building," Louise adds.
"Why are they so anxious to arrest so many scientists?" asks Ben.
As you ponder his question, a bright light shines in your eyes, momentarily blinding you. When your vision returns, you find yourself face down on the ground. It stinks of tar, and small broken grains of the asphalt have dug themselves into your palms and onto your right cheek where it had been resting on the ground. You don't know how you got there, or why, but it strikes you as very strange.
That's when you feel it: An intense burning in your right hip, not just on the skin, but seemingly deep into the muscles and bone as well. Agony radiates down to your toes and up your whole right side. Your eyes water from the pain signals now flooding into your brain.
It hurts… so much.
You tell yourself to breathe in, as though your deep breaths could wash away and shield you from the agony overloading your senses, and you inhale thin wisps of smoke imbued with the odor of burned meat. The smell almost makes you vomit, and it takes every ounce of self-control to stop yourself from doing so.
You look up, and then you remember why you're on the ground.
Ben's crumpled form is on the ground as well, just a yard and a half away from you. Like you he has a burn wound, except his is on his chest, a couple of inches to the right of his heart.
Unlike you, he is a broken, bloody mess.
You suddenly remember: You saw him fall twenty or so feet off the second floor of the parking structure you're next to. You threw your car into a half-spin, then got out and rushed to his side, tears in your eyes, your heart pounding in your chest as you wondered how you can possibly help your friend. Then you heard the approach of boots rushing towards you, so you went against everything you'd learned in your medical classes and tried to lift him off the ground and into your car.
And that's when you got hit. The blue bolt of energy that made fire erupt in your hip where it impacted flung you back, and made you land belly-first onto the dark grey asphalt. You dropped Ben as you did so.
As you are sprawled there, paralyzed by a pain that transcends the physical plane, your mind is filled by a single thought.
I can't give up.
We have to get away.
With agonizing slowness you get yourself on your feet. Your right leg is stiff and uncooperative, dragging behind you and too wracked in pain as you make your way to your broken friend. You don't know how you're able to do it, but you drag Ben into your car, pulling him up and into the front passenger seat, then coming around the rear to get into the vehicle.
He starts to gasp, trying to tell you something. You want to hear what he's saying, but you are overcome by the urge to drive and get away. But then his left hand grabs your right arm, and you look at him.
"It…" he says, his voice so weak and deathly quiet. "It's all your fault."
The words are a faint whisper, but it's not what he says which stays with you.
"It's all your fault, Julie."
It's the tone, accusatory and saturated with pain so complete it hurts you to hear it, which echoes in your mind.
His hand slides away from your arm, and you're finally able to twist the ignition and start the car. As you slam it into gear and stand on the throttle, fresh tears start to burn their way down your cheeks.
You want to deny what Ben has said.
But you can't.
Because you believe he's right.
No.
Tears are obscuring your vision, so you blink.
When you open your eyes again you're looking down on a woman lying still on a makeshift gurney. She has multiple burn wounds – one on her upper chest, another on her left thigh – as well as small cuts on her face. Her brown hair is soaked in sweat.
You had opened up her chest to see if you could somehow perform surgery on the charred tissues of her lungs and heart. But you knew, even before starting, that there was only one likely outcome, despite all of your best efforts.
I can't save her. She's going to die.
"Oh, Louise," you whisper softly to yourself. You look around, and your comrades – Robert Maxwell, curly-haired Harmony Moore, tall Maggie Blodgett – are all looking at you, their eyes sad.
"I can't save her," you say, your voice shaking. You avert their gazes for a moment, looking down at Louise's face. She looks so serene now, in contrast to when you started working on her a few minutes ago, when her face was a twisted, pained rictus.
You look up again at your companions, but you notice the look in their eyes is no longer sad. Any semblance of sorrow or sympathy or kindness is now gone.
In their place is anger.
Hatred.
Accusation.
You shiver when you read all this in their faces.
"It's all your fault, Julie," Harmony says through clenched teeth.
"It's all your fault," repeats Maggie. "Your fault."
Robert Maxwell steps toward you, his eyes alight. "It's your fault. You killed them!"
"No," you reply, your gaze shifting from one friend to the other. "Don't say that!"
"Yes, it is!" Maggie says as she and Harmony start to advance towards you, just behind Robert.
You start to back away. "No! Stop saying that!"
"But you know it's true," says Harmony, her voice quiet but edged with an unmistakable anger. "People are dying because of you."
Robert grabs a scalpel from a tray of surgical tools. Louise's blood is thick on the blade. "My wife, Kathleen," he says, waving the scalpel at you as he closes the distance between you two. "I lost her because of you."
You gasp as you back into the wall.
There's nowhere to go.
"No," you protest, your gaze fixed on Robert and the scalpel in his hand. "You've got it all wrong!" You look at Harmony and Maggie now, hoping they can see the desperate plea radiating from your eyes. "Please! Don't do this – "
"My girls don't have a mother anymore," Robert says, still approaching. "All because of you."
"It's your fault, Julie," says Harmony.
"It's all your fault," Maggie echoes.
You press your hands over your ears and scream, "No! Stop saying that! It's not true!" But the three of them keep on approaching, with Robert waving the bloodied scalpel in front of him. You shut your eyes and hold your breath, waiting for him to plunge the knife into you. You become conscious of your heart beating hard and fast, making you dizzy.
But nothing happens.
The wait for that inevitable pain of the blade slicing into your flesh seems interminable, so you exhale then breathe in again. You've surrendered to your fate.
I'm going to die.
Lord, please forgive me. I never wanted to hurt anyone, for anyone to get hurt because of me.
I hope they all forgive me.
I'm sorry.
But still nothing happens.
You reopen your eyes, and you find yourself holding a Heckler & Koch P30S pistol with two hands, sighting down the barrel towards a paper target fifteen meters away.
"That's it, Julie. Looking good."
You turn to your left, where you see both Brad and Mark McIntyre smiling approvingly. Like Brad, McIntyre is a LAPD officer. As you look at them, the thought enters your head – not for the first time, you realize – that the two of them could be mistaken for brothers with their dark brown wavy hair and the fact they both wear eyeglasses.
Mark's critique makes you smile.
"But not perfect," Brad says. "Remember to lean slightly forward, and don't lock your knees."
"Her form wasn't bad at all," Mark says, "especially since she's never even held a gun before."
"You're right. But I want to make sure her form and technique are as good as they can be. Her life might depend on it."
"But I have held one before," you protest, smiling.
"She has," says Brad. "This was just before you joined us, Mark."
"Hmm… well, egg on my face," Mark says, chuckling. He gestures towards the target with a nod of the head. "You wanna try it again?"
You bring the pistol up to firing position again, lining up the target down the range, then drop your arms, shaking your head. "I… I can't. I'll practice more later."
Both police officers look at you, puzzled. "What's wrong?" Brad asks finally.
"I know I should practice," you begin to say. "But I'm just having a hard time with it right now."
Silence hangs over the three of you, until Mark breaks it. "Because..?"
You sigh.
I've dedicated my life to studying life sciences, so I can help save lives and make them better.
But this… You look down at the pistol in your hands. It's so hard to see how or where this fits in.
"I just – " You look at both Brad and Mark, returning the gun to them. "I don't want to talk about it. It's just… it's complicated."
Mark takes the gun from you, then looks at Brad. Without warning, he points it at Brad and shoots him in the head.
"No!" you scream as Brad's blood and bits of his brains and skull spatter and smear your face and torso.
Mark's face is blank as he looks at you. "It's all your fault, Julie."
"No… NO! Brad!" You crouch to hold Brad's limp body, cradling his head in your arms as it continues to leak blood. Your tears come uncontrollably now. "How could you?" you ask Mark.
"This isn't how I died, Julie. Don't you remember?" Brad says, somehow able to speak. His eyes are fixed on yours, and you're horrified at the anger in them. "But I died because of you."
"It's your fault, Julie," Mark says again.
You shut your eyes as you scream, and when you open them again you find yourself in the midst of a meeting with some of the ranking members of your resistance group. All of you have congregated in what you all call the war room.
They look disheveled, soaked in sweat and grime. You're bathed in sweat too, and you've been crying.
"We lost Brad," you tell everyone. "Tell them what happened, Mark."
"I saw him go down; he took a shot to the chest."
"Man, you sure he's dead?" Elias asks.
"He wasn't moving. I tried to go back for him, but Julie called for us to fall back." He looks at you, eyes wide with anger and alight with accusation. "He was my partner."
"You decided to leave him there?" Elias says, his eyes fixed on you, disbelieving. "Just like you did Ben, huh?"
You look at him, and then at everyone. All of them look back at you with eyes afire with anger and accusation.
"There was no choice!" you say. "I didn't want to, but we had to retreat. Otherwise we'd have all been killed too!"
"You're full of shit," Elias says. "You left Brad out there, and you let my brother die." He took a threatening step towards you, and so do the others. "Brad told me you left Ben behind. Probably just to save your own ass."
"No…" You look at all of them as they continue to press towards you. "No! You've got it all wrong! I went back for Ben!"
You back away from them, but they still keep on coming, until you find yourself up against a wall. You look towards the one exit from the war room, but find there are far too many people in the way.
Then everyone starts to speak, like a chorus. "It's all your fault, Julie. We're dying because of you. It's all your fault, Julie. We're dying because of you. It's all your fault, Julie. We're dying because of you."
The chant echoes in your ears even when you press your palms hard into them, hoping to keep the accusatory mantra away.
But they keep on saying it.
"It's all your fault, Julie. We're dying because of you. It's all your fault, Julie. We're dying because of you. It's all your fault, Julie. We're dying because of you."
"No!"
Guilt now holds your heart in a grip so tight, it feels like your whole chest will explode.
I never wanted anyone to get killed. I never wanted to leave anyone behind.
But we had to.
There was no choice!
Otherwise we would have lost more people.
And as you rationalize your decisions within yourself, your friends continue their inexorable advance. Each one of them has murder in their eyes.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry!"
"Julie." Diana's voice intrudes into your consciousness, directly into your mind it seems. The voice is so familiar to you by now. "Julie, they want to hurt you."
No. No!
"They blame you, Julie, for all of their loved ones being killed. They want to hurt you to avenge their loved ones."
"No!"
"Do you remember what happens whenever people die, Julie?
"Their anger just keeps growing and growing. The more of your people's loved ones die, the angrier they become.
"The more they want to hurt you.
"And they will always hurt you."
You look at Elias and the rest of your friends. They're so close now, just about four feet away.
There's nowhere to go.
Fear – terror – has mixed in with the guilt that has tightened the noose around your heart.
Malice and the intent to really hurt you are radiating from the people who have now surrounded you like the lethal, all-consuming energy from a malevolent star.
You close your eyes, as if doing so would somehow protect you.
All it does is make it seem her voice is even louder and more pervasive than ever.
"They want to hurt you, Julie. They are about to hurt you now; they will always hurt you."
No! This never happened.
THIS NEVER HAPPENED!
"No! It's a lie! It's all a lie!"
You scream, trying to drown out that voice speaking into your mind, wishing that everything could just end now.
"It's all a lie!"
It has to be.
It HAS to be.
Please.
"Please…" you whimper. "Please… it's a lie."
And that's what you want, for everything to be a lie. There is nothing that you want more, at any time in your life, than for this all to just be a wicked lie. You are desperate for it to be a lie.
You blink, and when your eyes reopen, you don't see your friends and comrades in the rebellion anymore. You don't hear their accusatory chanted mantra. You don't hear her voice in your head.
Stay in the moment.
Breathe.
You look down at yourself, and you see your bare skin covered with goose bumps. Despite the coldness of where you are, you are coated in your perspiration. Your lungs are starved of air, and your heart is a trip-hammer going crazy, pounding hard and way too fast. And though you've just been standing there, it feels like all of your muscles are on fire from over-exertion.
Though the moment – each moment, as it passes – is filled with so much pain, you derive a precious crumb of comfort as you live each one, a kernel of wisdom and understanding.
This is real.
The pain in my heart, and everywhere – it's real.
It hurts so much, but it's all real.
It's all real.
You look straight ahead, fixating on your own shadowy reflection on the huge piece of glass in front of you. The periphery of your vision is still a kaleidoscope of ever-changing flashes of orange, white, and yellow, but you just stare at what's directly in front of you.
Then the world starts to change again.
It's getting… colder in here.
You can't believe it. As cold as the temperature in the room had already been, the temperature is definitely dropping, making you shiver even more. And as the air gets even colder, a mist hisses out from vents all around you, condensing into a visible cloud that envelops you.
The air, cold as it enters your nostrils, is moist and has a new odor to it, and your skin tingles as it interacts with the condensing mist that it comes into contact with. Your shivers turn into larger tremors, and before long you can't stop yourself from shaking as you stand there. You hug yourself now, tight, and you begin to think that perhaps this is all a prelude to dying.
I can't take this anymore.
It's too much.
You moan, your agony and discomfort now going far beyond any limits you thought had existed beforehand. Many of your muscles start to spasm and contract uncontrollably, and the pressure and pain in your head likewise expands past anything you remember ever experiencing at any time in your life. Your eyeballs feel as if they've got the points of daggers pressing into them from the inside, and your ears are still ringing with a high-pitched, high-intensity tone that makes you believe your eardrums are going to burst.
I'm dying.
I must be dying.
I guess it's okay if I just die now.
It just hurts too much
Then you find yourself bathed in a blue-white light that seems to be coming from everywhere you look. The light is warm, a stark contrast to the arctic coldness of the room. As the seconds turn into minutes, the light seems to permeate even the air, seemingly endowing it with warmth, giving you some measure of relief from the torturous cold.
Eventually your body's tremors cease, and you're able to drop your hands down to your sides. You sigh as you find yourself relaxing.
Then you hear Diana speak to you again.
"Julie? Julie, how do you feel?"
"No," you say, your voice meek and quiet. You don't want to answer; you don't even want to hear her voice at all.
But you do. And you hear her ask again.
"Julie, tell me, how do you feel?"
As you listen to her ask you again, the question asked with so much gentleness, you find yourself thinking, she cares.
She cares about me.
You sigh again, and you tilt your head back. Your eyes are closed, and you just feel so calm and relaxed. Something in you is imploring you to ignore her voice.
No, she doesn't.
Don't listen to her.
But you also feel an irresistible compulsion to answer her question.
"Good," you say, your voice a breathy whisper. "I feel good."
"That's it, Julie. Just relax."
Relax.
"I'm so tired," you say.
"I know you're tired, Julie. You're very, very tired."
You say nothing, but you definitely agree with her.
Tired… so tired.
"And you've been in so much pain."
You've been hurting so much, for what seems like forever, wracked with agony that transcends far beyond the physical plane.
"Yes," you whisper.
But there is something you cannot deny.
Hearing her voice somehow makes you feel better.
Listening to her makes the pain you feel ebb away.
And you think you know why.
When she speaks to me I'm not so alone and lonely.
I'm so afraid of being lonely.
I hate being lonely.
She hasn't left me. She hasn't left me alone.
"Just relax, Julie," she tells you. "I want you to just relax, and to listen to me.
"You feel good when you listen to me, don't you, Julie?"
Again you feel that tug-of-war within you, the conflict between wanting to ignore her and needing to answer her. You bite down on your lower lip and hold your breath, but after fighting that urge to not respond, you nod stiffly.
"Yes," you gasp .
"Good, Julie. Now, tell me –
"What happens when you're with your comrades in the rebellion?"
"No," you say.
Don't listen to her.
The pain builds up again as soon as you say it – as soon as you think it. Your body starts to shake as your muscles spasm and cramp up, and the sensation of pressure starts to grow in your head again. The room starts to whirl and spin, and before long you feel like you need to vomit, as if doing so would give you at least some relief.
You close your eyes, and you find that when you stop trying to think, it seems to make all the hurt shrink away.
"Just relax, Julie."
Relax.
It doesn't hurt as much when you just let yourself go…
"Relax."
Everything feels so heavy now. Not unpleasantly so; if anything, you feel like you're falling asleep.
When you open your eyes again, everything is dark. Panic seizes you for the briefest moment, but the feeling subsides quickly. You feel the weight of bedding over you, and you enjoy the warmth it endows. You're not sure about where you are, but given just how good everything feels right now, you find yourself not really caring about such details.
All you know is that you haven't felt this good since…
Well… I don't actually remember, to be honest.
But you don't care about that, or about anything at all.
You shift position slightly, and only now do you register the multiple lumps in the thin, narrow mattress.
Ah… I'm at headquarters.
The feeling of familiarity only gives you more comfort, so you take a deep, cleansing breath and sigh, content. You close your eyes and try to go back to sleep.
As you lie there, you hear something.
The sound is strange, muffled, barely audible. At first you wonder whether or not you're imagining things. But the strange muffled sound comes and goes, not quite rhythmically, but it definitely repeats. It doesn't sound like a machine, but you're not sure if the source is organic either. You concentrate and focus on what your ears are picking up.
It sounds like… somebody breathing.
You throw the covers off of you and feel for the switch on the lamp just next to your tiny cot, set on a small desk. The light doesn't turn on, though. Hmm. Must be a dead bulb. You get up. The floor is cold under your bare feet, but you don't mind it too much as you feel your way in the darkness towards the door, which is just a couple of arm lengths away.
When you feel the door with your hands, you press your ear onto it.
Yep. I can still hear it, whatever it is.
You open the door and step out into the hallway.
That's weird, you think. It's not usually dark through here.
Maybe we had a blackout or something.
Then you hear the sound again. Now it's a lot clearer.
Yup. Definitely someone breathing hard.
Is someone doing a workout in the dark?
"Hello?" you call out.
The sound stops.
"Hello? Is anybody there? Is the power out?"
You wait for a reply. The silence that answers back unnerves you somewhat.
Then the sound starts again.
But still no answer.
Weird.
You decide to follow the sound. It seems to be coming from somewhere to your left.
Whoever it is, he sounds like he's working hard.
You put your hand to the wall, letting it guide you as you follow the sound back to its source. You're going slowly, as the darkness is absolute and perfect. But with every step, the sound keeps getting incrementally louder.
It takes about two minutes, but you turn a corner to the left. The heavy breathing is even louder.
Getting close.
I wonder who it is.
Suddenly, the sound stops again.
You freeze in place.
"Hello?"
No reply, as ever.
Then the heavy breathing begins anew.
Your heart starts to pound in your chest, its increasing tempo and intensity echoing in your ears. You start to inch forward again, still using your hand on the wall to your left to guide your way in the perfect darkness.
Then you hit something directly ahead of you. Strangely, your feet didn't hit anything, but your nose and chest definitely hit something. You move your hands in front of you now, and you feel a wall there, albeit one that stops right about where your waist is.
What is this?
I don't remember this.
You get on your hands and knees, crouching under this strange section of wall, and continue to follow the sound of breathing.
Whoever it is, he's real close now. He must be just on the other side.
You've only gone a foot or so, when a warm, viscous, and sticky fluid splashes onto your face. At the same moment, you hear a man in front of you grunt in release.
You recoil and scream, as much as from surprise as from disgust.
Some of the stuff gets on your lips, into your mouth and into your nostrils. Most of it lands on your eyelids. You feel some of it get into your hair, too.
Then unseen hands – you feel three of them – grab at your arms as you try to wipe the nasty goop from your face.
"No!"
The hands pull you forward, brutally dragging you on your knees and shins. You try to get to your feet, but then another powerful hand clamps down onto your shoulder, near your neck, preventing you from standing.
"Stay down," a harsh voice from behind you says. "On your knees. Don't fight me."
You scream again, and renew your efforts to get up on your feet. "No! Let me go!"
This guy sounds familiar.
"Mark?"
He doesn't answer, but whoever is holding you down is far too strong. And while he holds you down, the people who had grabbed your arms now twist them back behind you. They pull your hands a bit upward, forcing your shoulders back and your chest out. You feel two of the hands let go, but even just the one hand still clamped on your wrists is more than enough to keep you restrained.
Tears start to fall down your face. "Stop, please," you beg, wincing as you do. "You're hurting me."
"That's the idea," the man who sounds like Mark says into your right ear. You know by feel that he is holding on to your wrists.
More of the goop drips onto your lips, so you spit it out. You shake your head to and fro, hoping to dislodge the stuff, but it is sticky and clings to your face as it mingles with your tears on their journey down your cheeks.
Then you hear several men laugh. You can't see them because of the darkness and because you dare not open your eyes for fear of getting the nasty discharge into your eyes, but from the sound of things it seems like there are at least five of them.
"What's the matter?" one of them asks with a distinctly Mexican accent. He's standing over you, just to your left. "You don't like that makeup I put on you?"
He sounds so familiar too.
"Sancho?"
His words just twist the knife of humiliation stuck into your soul, and you start to sob.
Then you feel an intense heat shine down on you. A harsh bright light bleeds through your shut eyelids, and you wonder where it's coming from, and why it's focused on you.
"Now, honey," says another man, "I'm going to open my fly, and you're going to open your pretty little mouth." The others laugh. "We're going to have ourselves a party."
"No," you say, and you struggle again, raw panic gripping you as you understand his lascivious intentions.
Then you feel something hard and cold press against your left temple.
"I think you'd better change your mind," yet another man says, his basso voice rich and deep. "Or someone's gonna have to come in here and clean up what's left of it."
I think I know this guy too.
"Caleb, please!"
An unseen hand crashes into your right cheek.
"Do you want me to hurt you more?" asks the man in front of you. "Do you want to die?"
Sobbing, you shake your head. Resigned to your fate, you settle on your knees, sitting down on your calves.
The men around you chuckle again, then you hear the tell-tale sound of a zipper opening.
He stinks, you think to yourself, gagging at the odors wafting into your nostrils. You open your mouth just to breathe.
"Hey," the man who sounds like Mark McIntyre says from behind you. "You didn't even have to tell her to open up." The rest of the men laugh again. "I guess she really wants it."
Something touches your slightly parted lips, and you quickly turn your head away, disgusted. A hand clamps down onto your face, the powerful fingers digging into your cheeks.
"It's showtime," the man in front of you says. He bats his erect phallus into your face. "No time for stage fright now."
He presses his fingers harder into your cheeks, and you can't help but open your mouth wider still.
"No teeth," he says. "If I feel any, you're dead. You get me?"
You nod. He releases his painful clutch on your face, and you keep your mouth open.
"Time to party."
With that he pushes himself into your mouth. At first you instinctively try to use your tongue to stop him from raping your mouth, but all it does is allow you to taste him.
You gag at the salty-bitterness, and you struggle to pull away from him. But the man holding your wrists behind your back shoves you forward, which forces the man inside your mouth to plunge even deeper. Before long saliva is leaking out of your mouth, dripping off your chin and drenching your shirt and chest.
The man inside your mouth then grabs the back of your head, wraps his fingers into your hair, and pulls you towards him. His raping appendage is now going into the back of your mouth, past your tonsils.
Can't… can't breathe.
You renew your struggles, ignoring the pain in your shoulders and scalp as you try to wriggle free from both men holding you.
Need… to breathe…
You're getting lightheaded from the lack of air. You think you're going to pass out, when the mouth rapist suddenly slackens his wrist and relaxes his grip on your hair. Your head snaps back, and you suck in the air greedily. Then you cough and spit, desperate to purge his foul taste from your mouth.
"Not bad," the man in front of you says. Although he sounds so familiar, you just can't identify whose voice it is. "You look all sweet and innocent-like, but I think you do this all the time." He spits on you. "You took me away from my wife, but I never did this with her. I'm glad you and I can party."
The rest of the men around you chuckle, and your cheeks burn not just from the tears that have been falling for minutes now, but more from the flush of humiliation and degradation from this latest barb.
Then you feel a thumb press on your eyes. You recoil, but the man behind you pushes you forward.
"Stop moving, damn it," says the man who raped your mouth. "Settle down." You feel the barrel of the gun on your forehead again.
You compel yourself to stop struggling. Satisfied, he puts a thumb on your eyes again, and though you feared him pressing down on them and possibly blinding you, he wipes the goop off them instead. But you keep your eyes shut as the light is still way too bright on you.
You never see him backhand you, but the slap is strong enough to make you yelp in pain and surprise.
"Now," he says, "you're going to open your pretty little mouth again, and you're also going to open those pretty blue eyes of yours." He slaps you again, not as hard, but just as degrading.
"I said open your eyes," he says more firmly.
"Maybe she likes it when she gets hit," the man who sounds like Caleb says.
"Nah," the man who violated you replies. "She's not that brave.
"Isn't that right, sweetheart?"
You hear the click of the hammer on the gun being pulled, and just the sound of it is enough for you to open your eyes at last.
"That's it. Now," he says as he steps closer to you again, "let's see how quickly you can get me off."
With that he pushes himself back into your mouth. You see him pass the handgun to someone to his right, then he grabs your head with both hands.
"Keep her covered," he says, grunting as he thrust in and out of your mouth.
It's clear to you he is enjoying himself.
You, on the other hand, are not.
He is punching the inside of your mouth, going in and out like an over-revving piston in an engine, and your jaw muscles are rapidly approaching the point of exhaustion just from the effort to keep your mouth open as wide as possible. You are ever-mindful of his warning: "No teeth, or I'll blow your brains out."
I hate this.
Then, in the midst of your dehumanizing suffering, you hear Diana again.
"I know you hate this, Julie."
You don't know if it's caring or cruel of her to echo your own thoughts so precisely.
"But this is what they want."
As ever, something inside you tells you to ignore her voice, but you still hear her; her words still penetrate into your mind. You try to distract yourself, so you look up. You don't want to, but to see your rapist's face would give you something else to think about. But although you can feel, hear and taste everything right now, for some strange reason you cannot see his face. All you can see of it are the frames of his eyeglasses and his dark hair.
"That's it," you hear him grunt. "Look at me. And know you took me away from my family."
He keeps saying that.
Why?
Then the memory of a conversation you had just a few weeks ago enters your mind.
It was between you and Fred King, just a couple of weeks before you and your group raided the Los Angeles Medical Center.
Your group needed medical supplies, and Fred, with whom you had taken pre-med classes for a couple of terms a few years ago, helped you gain access to one of the Los Angeles Medical Center's medical supply rooms.
"Don't ask me to do this again, Julie." He had said then.
"We can't guarantee that, Fred."
"They're tightening security. It's getting too dangerous."
"It's no picnic for us either."
"Yeah, but I'm not a resistance fighter. I'm a doctor."
"We need doctors, Fred. We need you."
"I'm getting too scared; I've got a family."
Fred.
You blink, and you look up at the man raping your mouth. Now you can see his face.
It is Fred, but his face is charred, blackened, disfigured, grotesque.
You remember him driving the ambulance you hoped to escape the hospital in. You know he had crashed the ambulance, after you heard the pulsing whine of a Visitor weapon discharging. You never got to look into the driver's cab after the ambulance crashed, but you know that Fred got killed, either by a Visitor weapon hitting him or because of the crash.
I'm sorry.
I'm so sorry.
"That's right," he says, smiling down at you. "It's me, Julie. And what's happening is all your fault." He stops thrusting for a moment, then pushes in as deeply as he could.
His member in your throat is cutting off your air again, and you try to thrash anew.
"I'm part of your group now," he says, which makes everyone around you laugh. "Happy?"
You then feel someone's hands go beneath the hem of your top, settling on your breasts. Cruel fingers start to massage them, lingering on your nipples, then give them a rough and painful squeeze.
"No bra," says Mark. "I always knew you were a slut." He takes his hands off of you, then rips your shirt apart with ease, exposing your torso. "This is why I joined this outfit in the first place."
"When we're done with round one, maybe you ought to give her a thorough strip search," Caleb says.
Everyone starts laughing at your degradation again, when Diana speaks to you. "Why do you fight, Julie? Why lead all these people? Your cause means nothing to them.
"Moreover, YOU mean nothing to them."
You feel hands on your breasts again.
"Come on, fellas!" Mark yells. "She's open for business!"
No…
NO!
Fred pulls out a little bit, then starts thrusting in and out as before.
"You are nothing but a plaything for them to enjoy," Diana says directly into your mind.
You don't want to believe her, but now you see the other men begin to crowd around you in an ever-tightening circle.
Every single one is not wearing any pants. And every single one of them is holding a cellphone, each one pointed at you.
All except for one of them. The one exception, you only now realize, is holding a professional-grade video camera, upon which is mounted the bright light shining in your eyes. He just shifts position, allowing some of the men to get closer to you.
They're filming this.
They're all filming this!
Your heart is racing harder than ever. As bad as being orally raped and having your breasts molested are, the very thought of all these men recording your violation and degradation is more than you can endure.
I can't handle this anymore.
I can't.
I CAN'T.
It's at that moment you realize that for Mark to fondle your breasts, he had to have freed your arms. The realization brings a fresh explosion of headache, but the elation of knowing your hands are now free compensates for it.
Without thinking, you grab and squeeze Fred's testicles as hard as you can. It produces the desired result, and he screams in pain as he pulls out of your mouth, doubling over and crashing into his cohorts who have closed that circle around you. Thanks to the light on the camera you're able to see the opening, and you dash away, crawling under the open bottom section of wall you'd found by accident earlier.
Mark is the first to react to your escape, and you feel him grab your ankle. But you kick him with your other foot, and you feel glass and metal crack and crumple under your sole, even as you hear his painful exclamation.
"She's getting away!"
You don't look back, running with an arm covering your chest, wet from all of the drool that dripped out when you were being orally raped.
But you can hear them scurrying under that wall now, then getting to their feet and chasing after you.
It's so dark. I can't see.
But I can't let them get me.
I can't.
I CAN'T.
But even as you run blindly through the darkness, a voice inside you implores you to listen to it. It is the voice of reason, a voice you've been listening to for all of your life. All of these horrors you're living have drowned it out.
But now it is speaking to you.
Don't panic.
You're at headquarters. You ought to know this place since this has been your home for the last few months now..
"You can't get away!" Caleb calls out to you. "It's useless to run!"
Don't listen to them.
Terror and dread squeeze your heart in a painful grip as you hear the echoes of their feet chase after you.
They're getting closer.
"Stop running!" Fred yells at you. "You won't get away anyway!"
DON'T LISTEN TO THEM.
You keep running down the halls, not seeing where you're going and still relying on a hand on the wall to guide you as you go.
Suddenly you crash into something in front of you.
It turns out to be someone.
His powerful arms wrap around you, lifting you bodily off the floor and throwing you into the wall. This stuns you, and you fall down.
You feel his weight pin you down, his hot breath on your neck, a hand cupping your left breast.
"No!"
"Is this what you want?" Diana asks you. "Is this what you want, Julie?"
"No!'
You ball up your fists and strike at the man pinning you down, but although this hurts your hands as you hit his hard, muscled body, it's clear to you that it's not affecting him at all.
"Is this what you want, Julie?"
"No… no!"
I don't want this.
I don't want this.
You see nothing. The darkness is perfect.
But you feel everything. His hot breath on your skin. The terrible weight keeping you in place, unable to move. His hard muscles, telling you just how much stronger he is compared to you. His hand cupping your breast. The heat of his body, pressed hard against your own. Even the bulge that is growing as it presses against your crotch.
And you hear everything. His hard breathing, not from exertion, but from excitement, his lust-filled anticipation. You just know it from the sound of it. The sounds of footsteps in pursuit almost on top of you. Your own whimpers, borne from fear of what will happen next. The rapid drumbeat of your heart in your ears.
And you smell everything. The pungency of sweat. The odor of dust in the air. Mark's foul stink sticking in your nostrils.
I DON'T WANT THIS.
"This is what they want," says Diana, the sympathy you hear and feel in her voice giving the alien quaver in it a plea for you to keep listening to her.
"They want to hurt you, Julie."
No.
"NO!"
I don't want this.
His weight is crushing you, and you can hardly move. You feel for his face with your hands, and you dig your fingernails into his cheek.
And you suddenly see an older man's face in front of you. He is dressed all in red. Your fingers are sinking into what feels like skin, but isn't. You're grabbing at that false skin with your fingertips and you're pulling, revealing greenish black scales underneath. The scales feel moist, slightly sticky, but although this repulses you somewhat you keep on tugging on the false skin over them until you see two half-faces: one looks human, while the other does not.
You blink, and you're back in the darkness pinned underneath a man whose intentions have so far been unspoken but have been all too obvious.
You feel him shift above you, and hear a zipper opening.
And you feel his fingers dig into the waistband of your sweatpants, pulling them down slowly…
I DON'T WANT THIS.
You don't know why, but you feel compelled to turn your gaze towards your feet. At first all you see is darkness, but then it morphs into images of yourself enveloped in a blue-white mist.
When all you see is the darkness, you feel that great weight crushing you, as well as the feeling of clothes on your skin. Then when see your body surrounded by that mist and that all-pervading blue light.
The shifting sensations and images transition from moment to moment. The only constant, really, is the massive and ever-growing pain radiating from your every nerve to your brain.
What's real?
What's not?
I'm going crazy. I'm going crazy.
"You don't exist!" you scream. "You don't exist! You're not there! You're a mind game!"
Every fiber of your being – your heart, your mind, your very soul – is desperate to believe what you're screaming now.
"You're just a stupid mind game!"
You put this thought you are so desperate to believe on a loop in your mind.
You don't exist! You're not there! You're a mind game!
You're just a stupid mind game!
You lay still, grimacing from the hot heavy weight pressing down upon your body. It's a bit hard to breathe, but you keep your focus not on this, but on what you keep on telling yourself.
You don't exist! You're not there! You're a mind game!
You're just a stupid mind game!
Then, suddenly, you don't feel him pinning you down anymore. Nor do you feel his hot breath on your bare skin. Instead you feel nothing but a weird sensation of both pleasant warmth and painful cold on your skin.
You don't hear the approaching footfalls of the other men chasing after you. Instead you hear that persistent, ever-present tone in your ears.
And you don't see the darkness. Instead you see nothing but yourself standing in the midst of a cloudy mist bathed in a shimmering sea of blue.
You keep on repeating that thought in your head – You don't exist! You're not there! You're a mind game! You're just a stupid mind game! – and find that as long as you do, it pulls you back and keeps you rooted to the here and now.
I need something real.
I need something real.
I NEED SOMETHING REAL.
Then you realize that if there's anything that keeps you anchored to the present moment, it is pain. Real pain.
Somehow you can tell the difference between the pain you know is real – the pain in your heart, the pain of cramping and spasming muscles, the pain in your head – and the pain that exists only in the sick fantasies come to life in your mind.
So you bite the back of your hands, the right one first, then the left. You bite down until you draw blood from them. The pain from the self-inflicted wounds throbs in time with every beat of your heart, but it is enough to let you know that you're standing in the middle of this room, tired out of your mind, and seemingly every single one of your nerves pulsating with pain signals.
Then the blue light disappears. You start to shiver almost immediately as the comforting warmth that accompanied it gives way to the already cold air in the room.
Another blue light appears from somewhere above you. Whereas previously it had been an all-encompassing presence, this blue light manifests itself as a single shaft that hits a point about two feet in front of your toes.
You keep your eyes on that shaft of light, tilting your head up, trying to follow it to its point of origin, when it starts to revolve around you. So you follow its path as it crosses from your right to your left, disappearing past the limits of your peripheral vision then reappearing on the other side, then crossing over in front of you as before.
The light's revolutions around you gradually increase in speed. At first you're able to follow it easily, but as time goes by the blue shaft is moving so fast around you that you don't see a single distinct beam.
Now it looks like a curtain of blue light, moving as if blown by an invisible breeze.
And the more you watch the light, the dizzier you get.
I can't take much more of this.
Everything around you is whirling like crazy, worsening the nausea you already feel. So you close your eyes, hoping that cutting yourself off from the visual stimuli overwhelming your brain would provide some relief. To your chagrin, though, doing so does not attenuate the sensation of the universe spinning out of control one bit.
"No…" you gasp feebly. "Help me, please."
Your abdominal walls and diaphragm now start to contract involuntarily, and the muscle spasms are enough to make you bend over, dry-heaving. Yet this does not relieve your nausea nor your dizziness.
You wanted pain.
You wanted it to be real.
You've got more than you've ever felt in your life.
And it's all real.
"Help me, please," you say again. You are shocked at how pathetic your voice sounds as you plead for relief to –
Who can hear me? Who can help me now?
I feel so damn lonely.
This realization – that you are so alone and abandoned – slices open the wound in your psyche even further, making it bleed and throb ever worse.
There's nobody left.
Everyone's left me.
There's no one here to help me.
A pair of tears, hot against the coldness of your skin, burn their way down your face. Despite all the pain you are feeling, the heat from these falling tears stands out.
You dry-heave again, this time just barely keeping down the acidic vomitous eruption that has found its way into your throat.
Then you hear the best sound you've heard in a long time.
"Julie," Diana calls out to you. "I'm going to make all that pain go away."
No.
Don't listen to her.
You look around, trying to see if you can see her who is speaking to you through the blue curtain of light that surrounds and entrances you.
"I'm here to help."
Yes… YES! Help me!
DON'T LISTEN TO HER.
"Come to me; reach out to me."
You can't see where she is, but just hearing her voice – listening to what she's telling you – is enough to heal some of the pain that defines your universe now.
Reach out… reach out to you.
You don't know where she is, but your arms start to rise from where they are by your sides. They inch up, slowly, inexorably, and as they do it feels like the pain is also ebbing away.
"I want to help you, Julie. Let me help you."
Your arms are still inching upwards when you catch sight of them in front of you.
"No!"
The wounds on the back of both of your hands explode in pain again as you pull your arms back. You stare at your palms for a few moments before turning your hands over, again biting down onto the already-damaged skin and drawing fresh blood.
"This is real," you gasp. "This is real. This is real!"
You let your hands drop down to your sides again, letting your mind focus on the throbbing coming from them.
This pain is my companion.
I don't feel so alone.
Then Diana speaks to you again.
"Julie, tell me, when was the first time you were abandoned?
"Tell me, Julie."
Don't listen to her!
"Tell me."
You close your eyes, determined to not listen to her voice. But as soon as your eyes close you off from the world, you enter another.
It's warm out today, but not unpleasantly so.
You breathe in, and the sweet smell of grass in the springtime and the various flowers around you all in bloom fill your mind.
It makes you smile.
You're out at a park playing with your friends Jenny and Susie Becker, twins who lived just down the street from your own home. They're seven, just one year older than you, but they've taken to you like you're their younger sister. Like so many times before you're out on a play date with them, watched by their mom, Rhonda. As usual the plan is for you to go home with them, where, at around six thirty in the evening, either your mom or your dad would come pick you up.
You look around, and there are quite a few people at the park. You've never been to this one before; it opened up just a week or so ago. You've been excited to come here, to try out the new jungle gym, swings, and slides. You were so happy when your mom told you that today you were finally going to go to the new park.
But as you search all the faces, you find that you don't recognize anybody.
"Jenny? Susie?" you call out. "Mrs. Becker?"
But no matter where you look or how loudly you call out their names, you can't find them.
You think about going home by yourself. It's not that far, just four blocks away. You're pretty sure you know the way back home. You know you'd recognize all the different houses and other visual landmarks that you always see when momma or daddy drove around with you in the car; you've always been looking out the car window, just taking the world in as you go.
The thought occurs to you that maybe you ought to ask someone – anyone – for help. But your parents' admonitions ring pretty loud and clear in your mind: "Don't talk to strangers, Julie."
So you choose to walk home.
You decide you want to walk by the new houses being built two blocks from the park. There's something about the new houses that fascinates you. You can't help but wonder if your own home was once like these new ones; you imagine that it did. Or maybe your fascination comes from the fact you've been watching those empty plots of land transform into an actual house. Whatever it is, it takes you away from the most direct route to home.
You're about a block away from the new houses when you get that unmistakable, unsettling feeling that you are being followed.
You look over your shoulder.
And sure enough, you see him.
You know him.
You don't like him.
You don't like the way you feel whenever he's around, whenever he looks at you.
The way he's looking at you now.
You remember the times when he would hug you, and you never liked the way his hugs felt.
It always felt wrong whenever he was around.
"Julie," he calls out.
You break into a run. You turn to look behind you, and he has started to run as well.
"Julie," he calls out again. He is closer to you now. Almost a full block away when you started running, he's cut the distance in half.
He's a lot bigger than you, and he runs much faster than you. You think quickly, and decide that you'll hide in one of the new houses being built.
You get in through the door, run up the stairs, and squeeze yourself into a closet in one of the unfinished rooms. Thankfully it has its door already installed, so you slide it closed.
"Julie," he calls once more, his voice coming from downstairs. It is laced with a certain intent you can't quite identify, but you instinctively feel and know is just wrong. "Where are you, girl?"
For a minute or so you hear nothing. Then the boards on the stairs start to creak as he makes his way to the second floor. "I know you're up here."
You hold your breath, afraid that he would hear you if you did so much as breathe, and curl yourself up into a small ball.
That's when you discover you've got a problem.
I really need to pee.
You'd been holding it in for a while; you thought you'd hang on until you got to the Beckers' house and you could use their restroom.
Obviously you can't do that now.
"Come on out. I just want to have fun with you." His voice is louder now, and it's almost enough for you to let go.
The sounds of wooden flooring protesting under his feet stops. You know he has stopped at the doorway into the bedroom you're in despite not being able to see him.
"Julie," he says, his voice so loud now it echoes in your mind. "I know you're here somewhere. Just come on out."
To your horror you feel the floor under you move. It's a tiny movement, but you know that he has entered the bedroom and is walking towards where you are.
The door to the closet slides open.
And there he is.
You gasp, and you feel the warm wetness spread down your legs as you lose control.
"Aww, you've pissed yourself," he taunts, his face looking like a cat's that's caught up with a mouse.
He looks like a giant as he looms over you. You think about trying to escape, but he has blocked the way out of the closet.
"No!" you scream as he reaches down for you. You slap away at his hands, but as tiny as you are compared to him the gesture is as laughable as it is ineffective.
Just like a python wrapping itself around its prey, his arm coils around your waist. He then lifts you easily out of the closet.
"Let's get rid of these wet things," he says as he tugs on your shorts. You try to kick him, but he's way too big, way too strong. You're a mosquito stinging an elephant.
He puts you down on the floor and holds your wrists in one hand, pushing them down on your belly. You're still trying to kick him with your unencumbered legs, but you can't reach him, now that he has knelt down beside you.
"Stop squirming," he says. He then presses down hard on your stomach, which not only hurts, but also makes it hard to breathe. "If you relax, you won't get hurt." He looks down at you, his eyes boring into yours. "You understand?"
Too afraid to get hurt, too afraid of him, you nod meekly.
"Good. Now," he says as he pulls your panties off, "we're finally going to have some fun."
Your heart is going so hard and fast, you can practically feel its manic thumping throughout your entire body. At first you watch his free hand as it starts to make its way to between your legs, but just before he touches you you close your eyes.
"You're breathing so hard and fast, girl," he says to you as you wait for his hand. "Just relax."
You try to do as he says, but it's no use. You're getting dizzy from hyperventilating.
I'm so scared.
Please don't hurt me. Please.
Then you feel his fingers on you, lingering on a part of your body that nobody has ever touched in the same way as he is doing now, and you squeeze your legs together. You want to scream, but you're far too afraid.
He just laughs at you as he forces your legs apart.
"That wasn't so bad, was it? Did it feel good?"
You can't do anything but whimper, and you start to cry quietly as you feel his hand on you again.
This time he's a little bit more forceful, pressing down and moving his hand in random directions. His finger touches a certain part of you, and you gasp in surprise as the nerves there send their signals straight to your brain.
You don't understand what he's doing, or why you feel the way you do, but instinctively you know it's wrong.
No. No.
I hate this.
You gasp, then yelp as you feel one of his fingers go inside you.
"I bet you're enjoying this, huh, Julie?" he says as he pushes his finger deeper into you.
No!
The area between your legs feels like a knife is slicing through it, and you imagine his finger to be a big, fat, disgusting worm moving around inside you. Again you squeeze your legs together, but nothing you do makes him stop.
If anything, he makes it worse by turning his hand and curling his finger inside of you.
"Stop," you beg. "Please! It hurts."
But he doesn't stop. He lets go of your arms and pulls your shirt up and runs his fingernails on your skin. You can't help but shiver at his touch.
"Please stop," you beg again.
He continues to ignore you. You just lie there and weep silently until, many minutes later, he finally stops. He smiles down at you, then reaches for your underwear and shorts. They are still wet when he drops them onto your belly.
"That was fun," he says. "I've been waiting forever to do that to you, Julie."
You curl yourself into a ball and cry, facing away from him.
"Maybe we can do that again, hopefully soon."
He moves your wet shorts and underwear closer to your face. You stay still.
"Don't tell anyone about this," he warns. "If you do, remember, I know where you live." He puts his hand on your butt, rubbing it then squeezing it. "You or your mommy and daddy might get hurt if you tell anyone."
You slap his hand without looking at him, just wishing he would go away. He gives you another squeeze, one last touch between the legs, then gets up from the floor.
"See you around, kiddo."
He walks out of the room and down the stairs, while you stay where you are, still curled up tight, crying. You don't know how long you stay there, but the whole time your heart is just beating like crazy.
And it hurts. It hurts so bad.
You close your eyes. When you open them again, you find yourself sitting in a bed that's not your own. You're in a gown you've never worn before, wrapped in a blue flannel blanket you've never seen before.
The panic that explodes within you at that moment only makes the pain in your chest worse. Then you become aware of your mother's tight embrace.
"Momma."
"It's okay," she tells you. "It's okay, Julie."
You look at her, her face the very picture of kindness. You've always imagined that you would grow up to be just like her, to look just like her, so beautiful and gentle and loving. Daddy always said you were your momma's mini-me. You are filled with warmth and comfort as she holds you tight.
"Momma," you say again, your voice so small and quiet. Your arms tighten around her.
"It's okay, Julie," she reassures you. "You're going to be alright."
Your eyes shift from your mother's face, and you take in the unfamiliar surroundings.
"You're in the hospital," she explains. "Dr. Runquist says you're going to be alright."
Just then two men and a woman file into the room. One of them is your father. By their clothes, you can tell that the woman, dressed in a white coat over her colorful blouse and black slacks, is a doctor, while the other man is a police officer.
"Julie," your dad, Thomas, rushes to you. He gives you a tight, comforting hug. "You okay, pumpkin?"
You give him a kiss on the cheek and nod.
"That's my girl."
Your mom squeezes your hand. "This is Officer Frentzen," she says. "And that pretty lady is Dr. Runquist."
"Hi, Julie," Dr. Runquist says, her voice soft and low. "Your parents tell me you're a brave girl. How old are you?"
You look at your mom, not wanting to speak.
"Go on, Julie," your mom, Gabrielle, encourages you. "She's here to help." You see Dr. Runquist smile at you. Officer Frentzen does the same when you look at him. "We're all here to help."
"Six," you say, finally. "I turned six on July 11."
"Wow!" Officer Frentzen says. "Six years old! And your folks here tell me you're really brave!"
You blush, unused to such praise from a complete stranger.
But you also start to wonder.
Why do they keep telling me I'm so brave?
You look at your mother again. She squeezes your hand as she draws you close to her.
"Julie, look at me," she says. You tighten your arms around her, then let go and look at her.
Her eyes are swimming, though the tears haven't fallen yet. Through all this, she looks at your with her gentle smile.
"I know this won't be easy," she starts to say, "but we have to know. Can you tell us what happened?"
You widen your eyes at the question, then bury your face into your mom's chest. You start sobbing.
"I don't want to," you say. "I can't."
"I know, baby," your mom says as she kisses the top of your head. She gives you another tight hug. "But we have to know what happened."
"But I'm scared!" you whimper. "I'm too scared, Momma!"
"Shhh." She hugs you again. "It's okay."
"I know you don't want to talk about it, Julie," Dr. Runquist says, "but it's important to know."
"It's over now," your mom reassures you.
"Besides," your dad says, "Officer Frentzen will make sure everything is going to be okay."
"That's right, Julie," the police officer says. "I'm here to help. We're all here to help."
"Be brave," your mom says to you as she dries your tears with gentle fingers. "You ARE brave. It will be okay."
You swallow hard, and you notice your heart is going crazy again.
Do I really need to talk about it?
He knows where we live. He said he's going to hurt me, momma, or daddy if I ever told anyone what happened.
Your mom kisses the top of your head again, then ruffles your hair. You love the way her fingers move, the way they calm you down. After a few minutes of this and silence, she asks, gently, quietly, "Can you tell us who did it?"
You look at your mom's face through your tears. "It… it was Uncle Frank…"
Your mom gasps, and your dad says what you know are bad words that you should never repeat. But the thing you notice above everything else is your mom's embrace on you slacken as soon as you named who it was you hurt you.
"It can't be… it can't be," your mom says, her voice barely audible.
"I want… I want to –" your dad starts to say, but Officer Frentzen asks him a question.
"Who's Uncle Frank? Is he a relative or –"
"He's my brother," your mom replies. "Thomas, please –"
Your parents look at each other, and you can feel the anger and the hurt radiating from both of them.
The silence in the room that follows crushes you, squeezing your heart and choking your breath and making your head and your throat hurt from all the crying. Your mom rises from where she's seated on the bed and walks away from you.
And this is when you feel it most sharply.
You feel abandoned and alone.
No.
NO!
Then you hear Diana again, after what seems like forever not hearing it.
"You're alone, Julie. I know how much it hurts you to be so lonely and alone."
There's no one here for me.
"You'll always be lonely.
"Unless you reach out to me."
No.
NO.
Pain permeates the entirety of your being. Everything that you are is wracked in agony.
Momma. Momma!
Don't leave me.
PLEASE.
I'm sorry.
I'm so sorry.
Guilt has your heart in a vice, and it feels like it's about to come apart at the seams as it beats in a rapid, arrhythmic frenzy. You grab for your heart, feeling it running amok as you put your palm on your chest.
"You'll always be alone, unless you reach out to me."
You try to respond, to say no, to her voice, but now you start to wonder why you don't see the hospital room anymore. Your parents have disappeared, and so have Dr. Runquist and Officer Frentzen. All you can see now is that shimmering blue curtain of light that surrounds you.
Blackness then starts to encroach on your vision as you notice the pain in your heart is still getting worse and you're having great trouble breathing, just gasping for air.
The blue curtain of light disappears, and you're in the darkness again.
Yellow-tinged lights then fill and replace the darkness. And the pain in your heart is still getting worse.
You feel your legs weaken.
I think I'm falling.
And then you feel nothing at all.