Warning: Before you read this, I should let you know it contains some material only suitable for mature audiences. If you are easily disturbed, I recommend you not read this. On a brighter note, I'm really proud of this chapter. There is major character development and trauma involved. Please, please, please review if you enjoyed!
Disclaimer: I do not own Tuck Everlasting. Only Emily and other OCs.
"Emily Lorang, Dr. Isaac is ready for you," the secretary at the oak front desk declared around her chewing gum. Shuffling through a pile of paperwork, her ivy green eyes encountered mine. Around her mid forties, she had curly dark hair tinted with silver streaks, a sharp pointed nose, and thin lips smeared with pale pink lip gloss. With her index finger, her fingernails painted a vivid crimson red, she indicated to the door to the left at the end of the hallway.
"Thanks," I voiced my false gratitude, hoping I didn't sound as entirely rude as I felt. Springing from the plush vinyl waiting room chair, I flung the crinkled issue of Teen Vogue back on the table concealed under a haphazard array of puzzles, coloring books, and newspaper articles. On the carpeted floor, the tread of my boots was inaudible as I trudged down the hallway to room 3A. Lightly rapping on the door, my touch as delicate as if I were handling glass, I stood rigidly, my voice caught in my throat as a female called out, "Come on in, it's open."
After I pushed open the door, I halted at the threshold of the room, uncertain. Did I really want to do this? I contemplated. Biting my lip, I acknowledged my hands vibrating at my sides. Despite my anxiety, coursing through my veins like nervous adrenaline, I managed to stride across the room and plant myself on the leather couch. Crossing my legs in an attempt to be polite, I felt a strong urge to burst into a ridiculous theatric of tears. I didn't want to go through this again. Sifting through my emotions was agony, as painful as bringing a serrated blade to flesh. I fixated my gaze on my hands folded in my lap, observing the faint sliver of a scar tracing up my thumb from the time I accidently cut myself on a Progresso soup can.
"Emily, I know it's hard, but will you please look at me?" Dr. Isaac's tone was tender and placid.
Inhaling a gust of air, I slowly raised my head to examine the large figure of Dr. Isaac, a colossal giant of a woman. Her ashy blonde hair was swept up in a ponytail, framing her round, freckled face. Darkened with the heavy ink of an eye pencil, her brows accentuated her warm teak eyes, swimming with concern and understanding. Though she was older, her skin as wrinkled as a plum, there were deep laugh lines that crinkled around her eyes, and she had a radiant smile, emphasizing the little beauty that marred her facial features.
Although Dr. Isaac presented herself as nice enough, I had a sense of diffidence. I didn't know this woman at all. "I don't want to be here," I murmured, my voice cracking.
Like a bundle of cotton, Dr. Isaac's voice was soft and even, "Trust me, I know. What you went through was excruciatingly painful."
Anger cascaded through me as I proclaimed, "Then why are you making me go through it again! I already did therapy in New York for six months. What more do you want from me?"
While I was a seething cauldron of rage, Dr. Isaac managed her collected composure. "We have to process what happened to you. Now, I don't like it any more than you do... but Emily, I need you to tell your story just one more time. Can you promise me just this once?"
Through clenched teeth, I grumbled, "Just this once."
"Of course," she conceded, whipping out her clipboard adorned with a crisp, clean white sheet of note paper. Clicking her ink pen, she scrawled a time and date across the top, then motioned me encouragingly to begin.
Tears glistened on my cheeks as I explained the most traumatizing event of my life. Almost as if I'd traveled back in time, I suddenly wasn't in the bland beige room of Dr. Isaac's office, but rather in my old apartment in Manhattan.
The putrid stench of cat piss fragranced the teal carpets hiding the rotted baseboard beneath. Floral wallpaper garnished the walls, curling in the corners where water leaked in through the stained ceiling. Comparable to the capacity of a refrigerator box, the small apartment barely contained my and my mother's bedrooms and the narrow bathroom and kitchen we shared. Connected to the kitchen was the living room, stinking of musty linen curtains. In front of a television set propped on a plastic crate as a substitute for a TV stand was my great-grandmother's rocking chair and a worn couch, a faded shade of navy blue. An old film flickered across the screen as I worked diligently on my homework for coordinate algebra at the kitchen table. Next to my elbow were the remains of my dinner: a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, reduced to a pile of crumbs on a blue china plate. Silence devoured the atmosphere except for the repetitive scratch of my pencil against paper and the faint hum of the television in the background.
Content as a cloud watcher searching the azure haze of the noon sky, I was startled at the sudden urgent pounding at my door. As a result of the force exerted against the wooden frame, the door rattled on its hinges. Relentlessly, the stressor persisted hammering the door with an unforgiving fist. Fear slid through me, chilling me to the bone like the frigid atmosphere of a brisk winter day. Silently, soundlessly, I jolted out of the chair and padded to the door cautiously, acutely aware of the possible threat. On the beck of my neck I felt my hair raise on an end. As demanding as a wailing toddler, panic flared through my head. Swallowing hard, I gathered all the courage and demanded confidently, "Who is this?"
"Emily, open up, it's me, Mr. Carlyle," boomed a familiar gruff voice. Relieved, I unlocked the door to expose the towering stature of Mr. Carlyle, the manager of Caribou Residencies, the apartment complex where my mother and I resided. His steel-colored eyes trained on me, an arrogant grin etched across Mr. Carlyle's sharp features, and his crown of black curls lay in an arbitrary mess atop his head. Aside from being the size of the Empire State Building compared to the average person, Mr. Carlyle was burly with thick biceps, defined quad muscles, and washboard abs at age forty-three. Tonight he was clad in ripped jeans and an olive green shirt.
Though he appeared intimidating in appearance, Mr. Carlyle had a reputation for being the most benevolent citizen to inhabit the streets of Manhattan. Six months ago, when my mother and I had first moved into Caribou Residencies, Mr. Carlyle had been the first one to knock on our door with an inviting smile and a helpful gesture of helping us carry our heavy boxes up to three flights of metal stairs. While he and my mother would occasionally flirt, I would always snicker and giggle behind my hands, my cheeks reddening to the color of an apple.
However, no grin graced his face now. Rather than the inverse, his expression seemed apathetic, his gaze flat.
"Is everything all right, sir?" I queried, curious as a young child exploring a funhouse, nervously leaning against the door frame.
With false sincerity, he promised, "Of course. There's just a minor malfunction with the electrical wiring."
"Oh." I acknowledged, awkwardly running a hand through my hair. "Is it fixed now?"
"Well, I wondered if I could come in for a moment just to inspect that there's no damage to the dry wall." An indifferent monotone, his words glided smoothly off his tongue, his speech persuasive.
I hesitated, "Well, um... I was kind of doing my homework, so..."
"It'll just take a minute," Mr. Carlyle insisted, waving my argument away dismissively with his beefy hand.
"Could it wait until tomorrow when you can talk to my mom? She's working late tonight."
"No," Mr. Carlyle disputed, "it needs to be handled tonight. It's quite urgent."
Apprehension settled onto my shoulders like a boulder, digging painfully into the bone, damaging the tissue. Something felt completely wrong. Flickering behind Mr. Carlyle's eyes was an intense emotion that I was unable to decipher. In all honesty, it frightened me. "I guess you can," I whispered, opening the door wider.
"Thank you," he appreciated. Trudging into the compact apartment, he smiled a cold, reptilian smile down at me. "My Emily, aren't you a beautiful thing."
"Thank, you, sir," I nervously chittered.
"Such beautiful hair," he elucidated, pinching a strand of my hair between his fingers. In the light, it appeared as pale as a strand of fine white silk.
Shivers arched down my spine; discomfort prickled under my skin. I wanted to scream at him to not touch me, but the words got caught in my throat.
His eyes analyzing my body, he interrogated, "How old are you now, Emily?"
Weakly, I stammered, "Fourteen."
Quick as a comment shooting across the night sky, Mr. Carlyle's hand yanked an object out of his belt. Before I could release a single scream, a silver switch blade was plunged into my side. At that instant I felt hot and cold as blood poured from the wound. Cries of pain rolled through my body as I jerked the reddened knife from my side. As I observed the handle speckled with my blood, my salty tears mingling with the crimson liquid, I was suddenly slammed against the wall by the body of Mr. Carlyle. My head cracked loudly against the baseboard as he engulfed me in his grip, covering my mouth with his hands so I couldn't call for help. Rough and calloused, they tasted of sweat the dirt of the street. Upon my instincts I bit down hard on his hand. His blood cascaded down my tongue, bitter with the tang of cruelty. Kicking my feet, I landed a blow to his groin. Yowling like a cat, Mr. Carlyle dropped me onto the floor as he clutched his sensitive spot.
Scrambling away on my hands and knees I attempted to crawl over to the phone in the kitchen. Like a waterfall, blood trailed across the floor, turning the carpet into a vile rusty color. His eyes watering, Mr. Carlyle screamed, "You bitch!" Staggering over to where I lay, defeated, he grabbed me by the shirt and slapped me across the face, my flesh raw and stinging as his hand connected with my cheek.
Effortlessly, he hefted me to my feet and hauled me over to the couch. Glass shards scattered across the floor, the results of uncontrollable rage, as Mr. Carlyle knocked aside a porcelain lamp and thrust me face down onto the scratchy material of the couch. Curled in a fetal position to protect myself, I began to sob as he jerked my legs into a straight position, my head reclined against the arm rest. Unstrapping his belt, Mr. Carlyle used it to bind my hands together in front of me, then concentrated on the area below my waist.
Too shocked to object, I watched in horror as he jerked my plaid pajama pants down to my ankles. Lust burned in his eyes, as he salivated his lips, like a dog begging for a bone covered in hunks of thick red meat. His fingers probed under my Hello Kitty panties, stroking my vagina. He was a demon sent straight from Hell; his task was to enable the death of me.
"Please," I wept, desperation unimpeded in my sobs.
For a moment, he hesitated, peering down at me with a cold, amused expression. Chuckles reverberated through his chest, mimicking the cruel sound of nails on a chalkboard. Terror deluged me, paralyzing my whole body as he traced his fingers up my shirt and under my bra. His fingers wound around my nipples and pinched them roughly, twisting. Wincing in pain, I allowed a sob to escape my mouth, a cry of a young child engulfed in darkness.
Hooking his fingers in my panties, he pulled them down to join my pants, a peculiar combination: plaid, Hello Kitty, and polka-dot neon socks. Wet and warm like a summer rain, Mr. Carlyle slowly, sinfully, licked the flesh of my inner thigh, a guttural, deep growl rumbling in his throat. Unable to unveil the courage to resist him, I simply lay in shock, shuddering as he nipped me in a sensitive area.
Several minutes slipped away in this fashion. As his hands roamed my petite body, they were rough, unyielding, harsh. However, much to dismay, the pain escalated as a new sensation ripped through my body. Glancing briefly at the hulking form of Mr. Carlyle, I witnessed his unzipped jeans, his boxers down to reveal a part of his body that permanently left an imprint in my memories. He jammed his massive penis into my body and an unfamiliar searing distress flooded throughout my body.
Panting like a dog, he crudely slid his member into my core and vigorously thrust. I felt ready to burst at the sheer size of him. Unable to suppress it, I yelped in discomfort, tears streaming down my cheeks in a torrent of sadness and pain.
"Shut up!" he thundered, gasping from exertion. Despite the sweat that glistened on his brow, the hunger in Mr. Carlyle's eyes had not subsided. Like an arrow, another wave of pain stabbed through my body as he continued to rip his member through my aching core, moaning, the noise resembling a homeless man begging for a scrap of food. Briefly I felt so nauseous I was afraid I would throw up and make him angry.
Although I wanted to be anywhere but this moment, I could not escape to the solace of my imagination. I was stuck in the revulsion, doomed to what felt like an eternity of suffering. Squeezing my eyes shut, I welcomed the darkness, an unexpected gift in the violation of my mind and body.
Without warning, Mr. Carlyle suddenly released his grip on me, and I was relieved of his weight pressing against my torso. Though I refused to observe my surroundings, I heard the thundering of his feet, and the sound of him tugging his zipper closed. In the distance, police sirens wailed, a single star in the black expanse of the night sky. The door slammed loudly, the hinges creaking in protest, and I was abandoned on the couch, shaking like a leaf, hysterical sobs racking my weakened and sore body.
At that moment, four police officers, adorned in tan uniforms decorated with badges and complicated belts, exploded through the door and ambled through the apartment, their guns raised in defense. "All clear," one with a bushy copper mustache informed his fellow officers.
My mother came racing in, her mascara smudged and smeared, her eyes rimmed with red. Scooping me into her arms, she sobbed into my hair. "My baby," she whispered. "I'm so sorry."
"Mommy," I whimpered, fixating my gaze on her loving hazel eyes, brimming with grief. Sniffling, I embraced her, afraid to let go.
"Later, the police filed a report that I had been raped by Jonathan Carlyle on October 10, 2010 at 9:17 pm." I met Dr. Isaac's unwavering stare, shakily taking a breath before continuing. "Even though he was brought to trial and found guilty, I still feel empty. It's almost like he's stolen a piece of me, something I cannot recapture. Forever I will be scarred, unable to anticipate the future because I'm caught in my past."
Dr. Isaac interrogated, "How have you coped with it? According to your mother, you've been handling it pretty well for the past year."
Chuckling darkly, I countered, "I didn't used to."
Her interest piqued, Dr. Isaac persisted, "Tell me more. Fill in the blanks."
"The first few months, after the incident, when I was seeing dozens of therapists and on countless medications, I began cutting to balance the stress in my life." Voluntarily, I tugged my sweater sleeve to expose the horizontal scars marring both my wrists, silver lines against the pale flesh of my inner arms.
"When did you stop?"
"After my mother caught me in the act," I admitted, my thoughts swimming with images of me standing before my bathroom sink, a razor blade speckled with blood in hand. "My mother completely freaked out and threatened to send me to the hospital." I added, "That's not all. I may have snuck a couple of cigarettes in the process, but the main point is that I was mess. For nearly a year it seemed like my entire life was unraveling at the seams. I was depressed. In addition to sleeping whenever I got the chance, I was never motivated to do anything. Activities I participated in required too much effort, so I rarely ever enjoyed them. Life became a hopeless abyss, where I felt I would keep falling and never hit the bottom. On Christmas I attempted suicide by trying to overdose on sleeping pills. I just saw no point to living in a world where the only emotions I could experience were loss and agony."
"What changed?" Dr. Isaac scrutinized me with question, her eyes deep with perception and understanding.
"Well," I surmised, "nothing really."
Dr. Isaac cocked an eyebrow skeptically."You're serious?"
"Yes. Why?" I probed, irritation evident in my tone.
"According to your mother," opposed Dr. Isaac, "you've made exceptional progress over the past year."
Rolling my eyes, I snorted, "She was the one who sent me here in the first place. Why would she do that if I was making alleged 'progress'?"
"She was worried that the move would cause some old stress to resurface."
"It didn't," I retorted, angrily shoving my hands in my jean pockets. "Can I go now?"
Sighing warily, Dr. Isaac allowed, "I guess, since your time is up, but there's one more thing I want to ask."
"Go ahead."
Propping her chin on her elbow, she interrogated, "What is your perspective on yourself now?"
The question hit me like a punch in the stomach. Gasping, I uttered breathlessly, "I'm unlovable, disgusting, irredeemable, and damaged. Does that answer your question?" Wiping away the tears that had gathered in the corners of my eyes, I stormed out of the room, slamming the door loudly behind me.