Johnny remembered only vague impressions of the journey home. Most people averted their faces or crossed over to the other side of the walk as he stumbled past. A few hands reached out to offer assistance, but he brushed them away. An hour later, Johnny reached the haven of his apartment, glad that most of the residents of the building were not about, and he succeeded in making his way upstairs without seeing or being seen by anyone.
After locking the door behind him, he tilted a chair beneath the knob, to serve as an extra brace against intruders.
He stood motionless in the kitchen for several long minutes, and then began to assess the damage. Taking a couple of deep, experimental breaths, he gently palpated his ribs. They burned like hell, but nothing felt broken. He winced as his fingers touched the lump on his head. It stung and he thought it must have been bleeding earlier. Panting slightly as his legs began to tremble in response to a wave of pain that rolled through his belly, he stumbled over to the bathroom.
Johnny studied his reflection in the mirror. The trail of dried blood dripping down from his hairline confirmed his earlier suspicion. The split lip and the abrasions and the bruises appeared no worse than he expected. But the eyes staring back at him belonged to a stranger.
Stepping into the shower fully clothed, he turned the water temperature up as hot as he could stand. He stripped off his T-shirt and running shorts, kicking them to the far side of the stall. He scrubbed and scrubbed, unable to get clean. Tears, blood and sweat swirled down the drain, as he slid down the tiled wall, sobbing, wishing he could disappear down the drain as well. He stayed crouched under the spray until long after the hot water run out, until finally, teeth chattering, the shivers drove him from the shower.
After toweling off, he reached for the toothbrush. As the toothpaste began to foam in his mouth, he choked. He hurriedly spit it out and managed to control the gagging before vomiting this time, and settled for using mouthwash instead.
While he was getting dressed in the bedroom, the phone rang. Startled, he glanced at the clock. The face read almost half past one. "Dammit." He had forgotten about his promise to Roy. As he stood listening to the rings, unable to decide whether or not to answer it, the decision was made for him when it stopped ringing.
Returning the towel to the bathroom, he saw the sodden lump of clothing still inside the shower. With a jerk of the wrist, he yanked the curtain closed and slammed the bathroom door shut on the way out, then stood motionless outside the doorway for several long minutes. Seized by a restless energy, he began to pace agitatedly between the kitchen and the living room, stopping to peer out the window after each circuit, navigating like a lost plane eternally circling in a dense fog, unable to locate the control tower.
The ringing of the phone once again startled him and he automatically crossed the room to pick it up, jarred out of his holding pattern. "Hello?"
"Hey, Junior! What's up? I thought you said you were coming over. Susan is getting pretty impatient for her Uncle Johnny."
"Uh…" He thought furiously for a plausible excuse. He began pacing again in a tight circle, tethered by the phone cord. "I'm sorry. I meant to call you. I… uh… I don't feel so good right now."
"Oh? What's wrong?"
He grasped at the first thought that entered his head. Vomiting. His insides felt like they were destroyed. "Uh… I guess it's the flu or something."
"I'm sorry to hear that. Guess those steaks will have to wait until another time."
"Uh, yeah. Look, I gotta go."
"Okay. Take care. See you Thursday."
Johnny hung up the phone and gazed into space. What was he going to do about work on Thursday? How would he explain the cuts and bruises on his face? He hadn't even thought that far ahead. A sudden panic washed over him and he resumed his flight pattern. Five paces to the wall. Turn. Ten paces to the kitchen. Twelve paces around the table. Twenty paces around the living room to the window. Move the curtain aside and look out. Five paces to the wall. Turn.
He stopped short when he barked his shin on the leg of the kitchen chair he had used to brace the door. When had the apartment gotten so dark? He groped for the light over the stove and cringed at the sudden brightness when it flickered on. The clock above the sink read almost eight o'clock.
For lack of something better to do, he opened the refrigerator and stared inside. As usual, the shelves were almost empty, but a six-pack of beer sat on one shelf. He grabbed it, planning to use it to induce forgetfulness. Maybe when he woke up, it would turn out to have all been a nightmare. He pulled the tab off the beer and brought the can to his lips. The instant he smelled the brew, his stomach convulsed and he heaved into the sink. Nothing but bitter bile came up. Breathing through his mouth, he dumped the beer into the drain and ran the water for several minutes. Then leaning down, he rinsed out his mouth under the faucet, and spit into the sink several times.
Returning to the living room, he switched on the television, but the tinny sound of canned laughter from the sitcom irritated him. He flipped the channels, but could find nothing better to distract him, so he finally turned it off and lay down on the sofa, left arm over his head.
He must have dozed for a while, because the sound of someone whimpering woke him up. Confused, Johnny glanced around the room, unable to locate the source. Then, he realized it must have been him making the pitiful, mewling sounds. Rolling onto his side, he curled up into a little ball and, hugging the pillow to his chest, began to cry soundlessly.
Face stiff with dried tears, he lay very still, hoping that the lack of movement would ease his pain. His head and face throbbed with every beat of his heart. His ribs hurt with every breath. His back hurt. His gut hurt. He felt a sticky wetness and knew something was seeping. It scared him, wondering how bad it was, since he couldn't see, only touch. Johnny pushed himself up off the sofa and headed to the bathroom for another shower.
Like before, he stayed under the hot, stinging spray as long as he could, and when the water began to cool, he left the shower. This time fear and fatigue rather than the icy temperature of the water caused his trembling. There was no way he would see a doctor. What to do? His mind raced like a rodent on an exercise wheel, endlessly running, getting nowhere. Who could he ask? Making an anonymous call to an emergency department carried too much risk; someone might recognize his voice. Johnny pulled out the phone book and turned to the front section, scanning the emergency information. Printed there on the inside cover was a number for a rape crisis center.
"Mercy General Rape Crisis Center. My name is Christy. How may I help you?"
"Uh… my girlfriend was raped and I've got a question," he said hesitantly, starting to shiver.
"Yes? Please continue."
"Uh…" His voice caught, so he cleared his throat. "She doesn't want to go to the doctor. Will it heal by itself or will it need stitches?"
"She really should be seen by a physician. We can make arrangements…"
"No! No doctors!" Breathing became more difficult and it felt like a band constricted his chest while tremors shook his body.
"It's okay, sir. Try to remain calm. Sir? Sir?" The woman's voice sounded distant, as if coming out of a long tunnel. It took him three tries to hang up the phone. The call had not been a good idea.
Still shivering, he crawled under the covers in his bed. He checked the alarm clock on the bedside table. It said midnight. Surely that couldn't be right? Time was passing so quickly. He lay in bed, feeling like he would never be warm. Sleep eluded him as well, as every time he began to doze off, images from his ordeal would start to play against the screen provided by his closed eyelids. Finally he slept.
A beautiful day. He was jogging...checking the chicks in the park, a hunter on the prowl. He ran past a clump of bushes, and a strange sound caused him to stop in his tracks. Before he could investigate, a lion with a shaggy, red mane leapt from the tangle of vegetation. There was no time to wonder what a lion was doing in the park, he just knew he had to get away. He ran faster than he had ever run in his life, but it was no use, the beast was still behind him. No matter how fast he ran, the lion still pursued him. Lungs heaving, pulse pounding staccato in his brain, he fled deeper into the park. Beneath him, the earth changed from hard-packed dirt to sticky mud. It pulled at his feet with a wet, sucking sound, slowing his flight. The lion drew nearer. He could feel the heat of the beast, smell the stink of raw flesh in the fetid breath. He sensed the coiled power ready to spring, and screamed as steel talons ripped into his flesh. The lion's densely muscled body threw him to the ground like a rag doll, and pinned him there, helpless. He looked up into the beast's bright eyes, and saw Barnes laughing at him.
Johnny yelled, sweat pouring off him as his arms and legs tangled in the bedding. Finally freeing himself, he gingerly sat on the edge of the bed. What time was it now? The face of the clock read half past one. Sticky with sweat and head pounding, he decided to take another shower.
This time he showered quickly and finished before the water started to turn cold. But now he was shivering anyway, and some part of his brain recognized the signs of shock and he knew he needed fluids. Something hot sounded appealing, so he went into the kitchen and put the kettle on to boil, leaning against the wall while he waited. Sitting down and getting back up out of a chair was too uncomfortable and too much work. When the coffee was ready, he stood at the sink, just in case, hands wrapped around the mug. He took a cautious sip. It stayed down. He tried another. It, too, stayed down. He finished the coffee and glanced up at the clock. Quarter past two. Now Johnny felt like he had fallen into a time warp; he could not remember another time when the hands of the clock had moved so slowly. What to do? Too tired to pace the apartment any longer, nothing to watch on television, no desire to eat, the only other options left appeared to be lying down on the sofa or lying down on the bed. Both seemed equally unappealing and he couldn't decide. The coffee warming his belly relaxed him somewhat, the small amount of caffeine having no noticeable effect. Suddenly, reacting to the sensation of falling, he jerked awake with a start. Apparently, he was sleeping on his feet. Scrubbing a weary hand across his eyes, he finally chose the sofa.
Johnny lay on the sofa in the state between waking and sleeping, body aching, vivid memories returning in surreal bits and snatches as the assault played over and over. He couldn't control his body. He couldn't control his mind. He was too exhausted to do anything more than just lay there and breathe. Finally he slept.
He stood inside a cavernous building. Bloody mangled carcasses hung from hooks-what they had once been, man or beast, he didn't know. No one else was there. The emptiness echoed his footsteps, the quiet of the place buzzed in his ears. The only other sound was the drip, drip, drip of blood, trickling from the corpses, hitting the cold, concrete floor. He was alone, and afraid. A weak cry-Human? Animal?- whimpered from behind a wooden table. Hesitantly, he crouched down to look. A man lay there, huddled and shivering. He reached out a hand to touch him, but a voice shrieked, "Run! Run!" Terrified, he fled, running down a seemingly endless, empty corridor with no doors, listening for the sound of footsteps following behind. The air grew colder as he ran, chilling his hands, numbing his legs, icing his blood. A figure stood at the end of the corridor, and he ran towards it, looking for help. He grabbed the man, and turned him around.
"Hello, skinny boy," smirked the man. No! He tried to run, only to find that his feet had frozen to the floor. Then Barnes was all over him, he was everywhere, touching, laughing, hurting, oh god, it hurt. Then Barnes dragged him back to the room of carcasses, and hung him up, bleeding and broken, but still alive.
The phone rang. Startled, he bolted upright, then gasped as waves of pain rolled through his body, protesting the sudden movement. Picking up the phone, he croaked a hello into the receiver.
After a brief pause on the other end, Mike's concerned voice asked, "Johnny? Are you okay?"
Mike! He had forgotten all about his plans to go running with Mike this morning. "Uh… Hey, sorry, I forgot to call you. I… ah… I got the flu or something. Can't kee' anything dow'." The split lip made it difficult to speak clearly.
"Oh, that's too bad. Well, you take care and I'll see you later."
"Yeah, bye." Johnny started to twist around to hang up the phone, but stopped as pain from his protesting ribs knifed through him. If anything, he felt worse now than he had a few hours earlier, now that stiffness had begun to set in. He shifted his weight, which set fire to his belly and his back. Damn! How was he going to get off the sofa? Using his arms, he gingerly scooted himself to the edge of the sofa and leaned forward, bracing his arms on his legs, pushing himself up. Damn, that hurt! Panting slightly, he slowly made his way over to the bathroom in search of aspirin. By the time he got there, shivers wracked his body once more, whether from the exertion or the beginnings of a fever he didn't know. He searched the medicine cabinet for the bottle of aspirin. Where the hell did he put it the last time he used it? Maybe the kitchen. Moving as if he were made out of spun glass that the slightest careless movement might shatter, he made a pain-filled trek to the kitchen. A search of the cabinets yielded nothing. Leaning against the refrigerator, he couldn't stop the tears of pain and frustration from once again squeezing out as his knees buckled. He slid down to the floor, curled up in a ball and cried. Quieting after a while, listening to the hum of the refrigerator and comforted by the warm air gently blowing on his back from the refrigerator fan, he fell back asleep.