Monsters
By Alexis Siefert

This story does contain some sexual content. It also contains
some harsh realities surrounding domestic violence and abuse. 
The violence is NOT intended to be portrayed as erotic, and this
story doesn't fall in the genre of D/s or S/M.  I've coded it as
a "Romantic Tragedy" for a reason. 

This is a work of adult fiction and should be read only by
adults. It is also my work. Although I receive no compensation
other than your comments, it is still my work. Please respect
this and do not repost it somewhere else without talking to me
first about it. If you are not allowed to read works with sexual
content, either due to your age or by virtue of the laws in the
geographical location in which you reside, please do not
continue. 


Alexis (ealexissiefert@yahoo.com)

        MONSTERS
(or, Sometimes the Bad Guys Win)

She cried in her sleep sometimes. Actually, she cried in her
sleep a lot of the time, but some nights were worse than others.
She never really woke up when she cried, and she didn't exactly
sob, not so as you'd really hear her, but it always woke him up.
He'd roll over and look at her face; the shadows on her skin were
always different depending on the phase of the moon or the clouds
in the sky or the number of cars driving by their suburban home,
but she was always beautiful.

Tears shone on her cheeks in the faint light that drifted through
the bedroom curtains. He never knew exactly how to help her, how
to calm her and settle her restless, sad thoughts, so he did what
he could. He would stroke her hair, pushing the sweat-dampened
locks from her forehead. With his fingertips, he would gently
wipe the tears from her cheeks, and he'd murmur nothing noises
and soothing sounds to her. His voice was always soft but intense
in the otherwise-silence of their bedroom. Eventually she would
make a last hiccoughy sob and relax against him, her breath
slowing to the more gentle rhythm of dreamless sleep.

They'd finish the night like that, her body curved away from his,
her hands tucked between her knees, and her forehead pressed to
his chest. On these nights his arm, protectively wrapped around
her shoulders, was usually asleep long before he was. Lying there
in the dark, listening to the now-calm in and out of her
breathing, he would sometimes imagine all the ways he could fix
it, the ways he could make it better. The best ways were the ones
she would never find out about. The commando raids late at night,
sitting with a sniper rifle, watching through the scope. He had
it planned down to the most minuscule of details, what he'd be
wearing, what the weather would be like, and the movement of the
wind over the dulled-blue barrel. He could feel the grass brush
against the heavy cotton of his field BDUs as he lay propped up
on his elbows, his cheek pressed to the smooth stock. He imagined
her efforts to hide her delight as she read the report in the
morning paper about an unexplained shooting. He'd sit across from
her and smile, never letting on that he knew why she was suddenly
so happy, why her dark moods had finally passed. Those were the
best, and those thoughts were what kept his mind from the painful
pinprick tingling of his fingertips as his hand fell asleep. The
problem was that he never knew where his sights were to be
centered. Charlotte had resolutely refused to tell him any
specific details about where she'd come from. "Oregon," she told
him whenever he'd asked. "Outside of Portland." Then she'd change
the subject with that manner of hers that said, "I've changed the
subject, let's keep it changed." Unfortunately, "outside of
Portland" encompassed most of the state, which was, more than
likely, her point.

So he'd let the subject stay changed and tell himself it was
because she loved him that she'd never be more specific. "It's
your karma, Robert," she had said on more than one occasion. "I'd
hate to think I put that temptation in front of you." She loved
him, and that was good enough for him - most of the time.

The other scenarios were good too. He'd intercede for her,
stepping in front of her monster, doing battle with her demon.
She'd be so grateful that she'd never be able to dream of a life
without him. Of course that was the problem with that dream.
There had to be something from which he could rescue her, which
meant putting her back in the position that she left. No, as good
as it is to be the hero, he couldn't risk that for her. But there
were other nights. There were nights when he was just plain
tired. Nights when he knew that unfinished work tasks filled his
desk in box, or nights when dinner had burned and his stomach was
unsatisfied. Nights after days of long meetings and longer
commutes and bumper-to-bumper traffic through smog-filled
streets. On those nights he would lie in the dark next to her and
find that all he could focus on was the numbness moving from his
shoulder to his fingertips. He'd lie next to her and wonder how
it would be if he'd never met her. If he'd never fallen so hard
for her charms. If her laugh had never drifted into his soul and
sent roots so deep into him that the thought of being without
her, the thought of losing her was physically painful. He'd
wonder if perhaps he wouldn't be better off without her. He
imagined life without the hassles, life without the difficulties,
life without the constant walking on eggshells and tiptoeing
around her moods.

He always felt guilty the morning after those nights; he'd find
himself lavishing her with affection after those nights and
inwardly cringing when she teased about his sudden shows of love.
 She'd pour his coffee and giggle as his hand not-so-innocently
brushed her robe and teased open the satin collar for an early
morning peek. And when his hand "slipped" down the front for an
even less-innocent tweak, she'd flick the dishtowel at him as she
wiped toast crumbs from the countertop. And then he loved her all
over again. The day they met started out for him like most other
days. Early morning meetings to discuss whatever the business
catch phrase of the week was, followed by some minor bullshitting
around the burnt remains of the morning's coffee, then back to
his office to wade through memos and e-mails and other, sundry
details of the commercial real estate world. The phone was
propped between his chin and his shoulder, and he swiveled in his
desk chair to gaze out the window. His office, although a corner
office as befitted his status as senior-junior partner,
overlooked the frontage road aside the highway. The lack of view
wasn't worth complaining about though; it was a massive step up
from his former next-to-the-stairwell office he had shared with
two other office drones before he took off in the enchanting
world of commercial real estate development. Pushing a basket of
files to the side with his foot, he propped his heels on the
metal windowsill and leaned back in his "relaxed executive"pose.

That's when he saw her.

He saw her car first. Ditched cars weren't all that uncommon in
late October. The first snow always seems to catch people off
guard. No one has snow tires ready, and the auto/tire shops do a
brisk business for the first couple of weekends after the white
stuff starts to fall. This year the snow came early, even for
Anchorage standards, and a car nose- or tail-first in the ditch
was settling into one of those sights that quickly became
commonplace.

However, it's not often that one actually sees a car take the
nose-first spin-and-dive. The driver must have hit his breaks too
hard or too fast, because it was a spectacular glide across the
highway. It quickly became obvious that traffic wasn't going to
stop, and when no one emerged from the ditched car, he grabbed
his cell phone and coat and headed downstairs to see if the
driver was hurt. If nothing else, he'd earn his Good Samaritan
points for the winter, and it gave him a good excuse to step away
from the office for a bit. He knocked on the window first, but
when the driver didn't respond he opened the door, simultaneously
reaching for his cell phone to dial 911. She was slumped forward,
her head leaning on the steering wheel, both hands gripped on the
cracked vinyl covering. When he reached in to touch her shoulder,
she raised her head and turned to face him. She wasn't pretty.
She might have been pretty, even beautiful, at other times, but
her face was now a swollen symphony of purple, red, and blue.
Swelling obscured her cheekbones, and her nose had the telltale
lopsidedness of a recent break. His first thought was that she
had hit the dashboard; that for some reason her seat belt had
failed to lock when she impacted in the ditch. But once the
surprise passed, he could see that the bruises marring her face
were well set, deeply colored, and at least several days old. He
let out a low whistle then reached his hand down to meet her
opened one. With his other hand he unclicked her shoulder belt.
"Can you move, or would you rather I call an ambulance?"

She took his hand and stepped gingerly from the car. "Some Good
Samaritan you are. Don't you know you're never supposed to move
an accident victim?" He opened his mouth to chastise her for
being ungrateful when he saw the teasing glint in her eye.
Whatever comment he planned was cut short. As she stood, she
paled and swayed.

"Look, lady. Be careful. Maybe you should sit back down."

Her eyes were glazed and there was a flush of fever under the
paleness of her skin.

"Yeah. You're probably..."

She fainted.

They spent a year getting to know one another. She had come to
town with no apparent plan. He didn't have any direct reason to
trust her, but he went with his gut, or some other place that
inspired instinctive trust. He had a client who needed someone to
watch a small summer cabin. Instinct or not, she turned out to be
the perfect tenant. In exchange for keeping the home clean, the
rodents out, and the pipes running, she got a place to stay until
the owner came back up for summer hunting and fishing.

They met three mornings a week before work. Always for coffee,
always at the same place. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays,
lattés and bagels, and increasingly friendly conversation. He'd
talk to her for as long as possible, then realize that she'd not
said more than two or three sentences the entire morning. She was
like that. She drew him out, and he found himself telling her
things he didn't know he still cared about. Frustrations at work
became trivial once she had laughed at him for taking them too
seriously. She found work quickly. She started working through
the temporary agencies, taking whatever office position was
available that week. Soon companies were requesting her
specifically for blocks of employee vacations and holidays.
Within a couple of months she no longer had to take the low-level
front desk, look-pretty-and-answer-the-phone jobs, the jobs that
didn't question her apparent lack of office background. By
January she had been offered, and was able to take her pick of,
back office jobs at salaries that, although not stellar, were
high enough to let her start picking up the morning coffee tab on
occasion.

It was as though her growing independence helped her relax
personally as well as professionally. By March they were meeting
for lunch or dinner as well as coffee, and she started making
off-handed references to her life before Alaska. Nothing
specific, just a peek behind her curtain. Dinner was, more often
than not, something cooked together at either his apartment, or
the cabin she was still staying in. They'd eat sitting at the
counter or in front of a movie, wash the dishes together, and
maybe share a bottle of cheap wine, doing their critical
impression of whatever old film was showing on A&E. He found
himself expanding his entertainment circle at her gentle
insistence. She'd skim the morning paper as she nibbled her
bagel, making small hinting comments about whatever production
the symphony was producing, or about the relative merits of the
ballet the Miami touring company was bringing to the city that
month. He found that he actually enjoyed opera, at least he did
when he attended with Charlotte. By April he knew he loved her.

His apartment lease came up for renewal, and the cabin owner was
coming up for fishing season. They were both looking at housing
upheavals, so it made sense for them to start looking together.
They found a small house for sale. It wasn't hard to figure out
why it hadn't sold. Too big for a single person, too small for a
family, but situated in the middle of a family neighborhood. His
name on the mortgage, hers on the contract for deed between the
two of them.

They moved in the last week of May. As moves go, it was an easy
one. She hadn't had a need for new furniture living in the cabin,
so her move was finished in one cram-packed car trip. The
furniture was his, and like most moves, it was hectic-fun. A
rental truck and a couple of burly guys paid to help with the big
stuff, the rest thrown in boxes and bags and moved over in car
trip after car trip.  But they were finished and their helpers
had all gone home by the end of Sunday evening.

They collapsed on the sofa together in mock-exhaustion, feet
propped on boxes, the last of the "thanks for helping" beers in
their hands.

"Here's to a successful move, Charlotte." They clinked the
bottlenecks together in salute.

"Here's to friends with strong backs, Robert." Clink.

"And here's to..." Robert's voice trailed off as their eyes
locked. "Here's to you, Charlotte. Here's to the best friend I've
ever had. Thank you for doing this with me."

Charlotte pulled back, sitting sideways against the arm of the
sofa. She took a long swallow of her beer before answering.

"Thank you, Robert. For everything."

They moved into a routine quickly and easily. She in her room, he
in his, meeting for breakfast, dinner and movies together in the
rest of the house. They shared food in the refrigerator and did
each other's laundry. She picked up his shaving cream at the
grocery store; he remembered her mint cookies and cream ice
cream. They both grumbled until the coffee finished brewing in
the morning, and they fought for control of the television remote
in the evenings.

Each night they went to their separate rooms, their intimacy
ending at "good night." His room shared the wall with hers, and
he listened to her at night, settling for sleep. He knew the
sound of her bed creak as she shifted over to turn out her
reading light, and he listened for the change in her breathing
that said she had fallen asleep. Some nights he'd get out of bed
and stand in her doorway, watching the rise and fall of the
blanket across her chest as she slept.

That's when he realized that she cried in her sleep.

In June she started going to a doctor. A therapist, she told him.
"Just to work out some old issues. Sort of cleaning out the old
attic." He worried, but she kept it to herself, so instead of
asking, he started to watch her.

For the first few weeks she pulled away from him, became
withdrawn. Then, in late July, it was as though a veil lifted.
She started to laugh again during the day, touching him as they
passed in living room, standing perhaps a bit too close as they
prepared dinner together in the kitchen, letting her hand linger
on his for a fraction of a second too long to be merely friendly.
But she still went to her own bedroom at night, and she still
cried in her sleep.

They spent the month of August wringing the last bit of sunlight
our of the long summer days. She stretched his leg muscles
dragging him on long hikes through the semi-marked trails of the
Chugach State Park, and he taught her how to combat fish for
salmon on the Russian River and the various creeks along the
Seward Highway.

They had spent the day fishing the Kenai River. They came home
hot, sunburned, and smelling of fish bait and river water. They
dropped the cooler on the kitchen floor and headed to their
separate bathrooms for showers. He had just lathered his hair and
face when he heard the bathroom door click shut.

"Charlotte? Is that you? Don't worry, I'm not going to take all
the hot water. If it's bothering your water pressure, I'll be out
in a minute." He started to rinse. "Don't bother, Robert." She
pushed opened the shower door and stepped in with him, hugging
her body close to his as she closed the door behind her. She took
the cloth from the hook and traced a soapy line across his chest,
down his sternum to his pubic hair. He put his hand under her
chin, turning her face up to meet his gaze. "Charlotte? Are you
sure?"

She nodded and brought the cloth lower, wrapping her hand around
him, feeling him harden at her touch. Wrapping his arm around her
waist, he drew her against his skin, feeling her breasts flatten
against his chest. Suds slicked the space between them, making
her slippery in his embrace. "If you're sure, let's do this the
right way." He took the cloth from her and gently soaped her back
and shoulders, letting the water wash away sweat and river smell.
He turned her so her back was against him. As she leaned into his
body, his hands stroked over her shoulders, down her chest,
painting the swelling of her breasts with the white foam.

With deft fingers, he lathered her hair, scritching softly
against her scalp, watching her face relax as her eyes closed.
His hands gathered her hair gently, pulling the shampoo through
to the ends, letting the water fall down her back, along the
curve of her spine. He bent his head and kissed the wetness of
her neck. Encouraged by her small moan, he bent further, his lips
making trails in the water along her shoulder blade, brushing his
lips down her back to the curve of her buttocks. His hands
wrapped around her waist, and he tasted the mixed flavors of soap
and sweat on the smooth, taut skin of her ass. With one hand, he
brought the soapy cloth down the length of her leg to her foot,
then up between her thighs, cleaning her gently.

She arched her back, pressing her thighs against his hand,
drawing him up with her fingers. Turning to face him she
whispered, "I'm clean. Did you say something about doing this
right?"

She slept in his arms that night, and for the first time he was
able to hold her when she cried.

Charlotte never moved back into her room. They slowly converted
the space to an office, and the unspoken agreement of
relationship grew between them. He explored her body at night,
tracing scars without asking about their origins. Waiting for her
to open to him. And, gradually, she did.

"Marry me, Charlotte."

She laughed. "Robert, unless you know something happening in the
legislature that I'm unaware of, we both know that can'thappen."

"Charlotte, I'm serious. There's nothing to stop you from
divorcing him. I've got lawyer friends in Oregon. Let me make
some phone calls in the morning. This could all be over, and we
can start fresh."

"I don't know, Robert. I don't want to go back there for any
reason. Things are so good right now. I don't want to tempt fate.
What's wrong with what we have?"

"No, Charlotte. I'm tired of living in his shadow. Until you've
cut those ties he'll always be a part of our lives."

"I don't know," her voice faded before he cut her off.

"Unless you think you might want to go back to him."

An icy silence filled the room. He could hear the wind blow
through the bare trees outside the window, and there was a soft
'crunch' as if something big, probably one of the moose living in
the woods skirting the neighborhood, nosed through the trees,
searching for an overlooked leaf. It had been a hard winter, and
there was a feeling of hungry desperation pushing creatures into
less secure environments.

In that space between two halves of a second, a cloud passed
behind her eyes and he saw her as she was beside the road, a year
and a lifetime ago. Worn and hollow. His stomach lurched with
guilt, and he knew that had hurt as much as if he had raised his
hand to her. He knew that in doubting her resolution to be away,
that in accusing her of wanting to return to her painful past, he
had gone too far.

Then it passed, and he saw the cold anger reflected in the glint
of her eyes. She gritted her teeth and steeled herself with a
breath drawn through a clenched jaw. Her eyes locked with his,
and he silently begged her to tell him off, to draw on the
strength she'd spent the last year developing.

She shook her head slowly, twice, before she silently picked up
her pillow and the blanket from the foot of the bed. She closed
the door softly behind her and he could hear her settling in on
the sofa. The television clicked on.

The night grew colder.

She was back in the bed when he woke up that morning. She didn't
mention their argument, he didn't bring it up again, but it was
there. Silently hanging around the house with them. They weren't
always aware of it, but it popped up when they least expected it.
She began to drift away from him, and from whispered phone calls
and surreptitious shuffling of the afternoon mail, he knew that
she was making plans without him. He began to wait.

****

"How'd you get out?"

She hadn't expected that question to be the one they opened with.
Such a simple question, with such a complicated answer. But it
was one that she was prepared for. She and Robert had practiced
her presentation for seemingly endless hours. It had taken all of
her reserve courage to make this presentation. To agree to stand
before this group of pre-service counselors and recount what life
as an abused wife is really like. Her audience was filled with
social workers, Ph.D. program candidates. They had already spent
an hour going through the process, how abuse starts, how it
builds. She had walked them through the first years of her
marriage. The small fights, the first slap, the tearful apologies
and heartfelt promises that it wouldn't happen again. Flowers and
jewelry, and simple- sounding explanations. They had nodded
wisely as she explained her feelings of guilt and responsibility,
as she recounted his careful explanations delineating how it was
really her fault. She knew better, didn't she? And since she knew
how he liked things, it was really her fault if she did things
differently, thereby making him hit her.

She had shared a little of her past with them, just to give them
a feel of what it takes to set a woman up for such a marriage.
The early death of her parents, the string of foster homes. The
unsettling years between five and eighteen. A serious lack of
parental guidance, and way too much independence at an early age.
It was all so step-by-step, almost textbook. He professed to love
her, he lavished her with gifts and attention. He showed her what
he called love. She hadn't seen it before, and on the surface it
seemed like love. So she met and fell in love with her Prince
Charming, and for the first few months everything was beautiful.
They entertained, they looked good together. He dressed her in
finery, and decorated her in shiny, expensive baubles, and he
trotted her out as his little hostess. They were "such a
delightful couple." They threw wonderful parties, and they were
seen where they needed to be seen. She glittered and sparkled and
laughed. He was suave and charming. It all seemed ideal.

Of course, that was the problem. He "seemed" instead of "was." He
had mannerisms instead of manners. He believed that etiquette
could substitute for breeding. And, despite rising economically
above his more-than-humble beginnings, he never really left
behind his trailer-trash upbringing. He married looking not for
someone to love, but for someone to blame. Be careful of the true
believers; they only become more extreme as time goes on.

She reached for the water glass on the table beside her and
sipped, giving herself a few extra seconds. She cleared her
throat softly and began.

"It's not a short answer, so you might want to get comfortable."
That was good for a small chuckle from her 'audience.' "I used to
do the grocery shopping every Friday afternoon. Part of my 'job'
was to plan the meals for the house and for any events we were
hosting that week, and when the grocery ads came out in the
Friday newspaper I compared prices, made up shopping lists, and
spent the day at whatever stores had the best deals. In
retrospect, it was significantly less efficient and more time
consuming that it should have been, considering that we didn't
save that much money by driving from store to store, and frankly,
saving twelve dollars a week on groceries shouldn't have been a
high priority. But it was yet another form of control--he could
keep my day fully occupied and accounted for if I had to spend it
at 4 different grocery stores, 2 dry cleaners, the dog groomer,
and his office. Remember that I still had a couple of hours or so
of paperwork to do for him at the end of the week in addition to
the household management chores. So I'd leave with him on Friday
mornings, armed with my to-do list for the day and enough blank
checks to cover each stop--no more, no less."

She paused and took a deep breath. Her hands, still holding the
water glass, had begun to tremble again.

"Anyway. Friday evenings after work he'd compare my shopping
lists, the grocery receipts and the checkbook to ensure that all
the numbers matched up. For a long time this made sense to me.
After all, he was the architect, and he was the one who paid
attention to details, and I was just a girl. And, as he
frequently reminded me, one prone to making mistakes.

"About 18 months before I left, I decided that maybe I needed to
figure out a way to get some unrecorded funds of my own. Given
the way things were set up at the time, there wasn't a chance in
hell I could skim from the grocery or household funds. We had one
checkbook for our joint account--like so many things it made
sense at the time. He said that it made it too easy for mistakes
to get made if we were running two different series of check
numbers. So he held on to the checkbook and pulled out however
many checks I'd need for whatever I was doing. He gave me credit
cards for everything else I needed; I carried a gas station card
to take care of the car, and a Visa for places that didn't accept
checks or for unscheduled stops. I didn't have an ATM card, and
even if I did I couldn't very well go withdraw funds from our
account without him knowing about it. It took me about a week,
but one Friday morning as I was going through the sale ads it
came to me. It wasn't going to be fast, but it would be doable.

"After the cashier rang my grocery purchases, I had written the
check, and she had given me my receipt, I would "discover" two or
three extra coupons that I had "forgotten" to give her. Silly me,
so sorry. Since they rarely added up to more than a dollar or
two, it wasn't a big deal for her to simply ring them separately
and give me the cash back. I figured that I averaged about a
dollar a week at each store, three stores a week. It wasn't much,
but knowing that I had a tiny reserve fund building up bolstered
my spirits more than I can describe. I cut a small hole in the
seam of the mattress and hid the cash there each week. It was
simple enough to sew up the hole and cover it with a bed sheet,
and there wasn't any reason for him to even notice the mattress
as long as I kept the bed made correctly. Periodically I'd take
out the singles and exchange them at the grocery store for tens
or twenties, to keep the bulk from becoming noticeable. The only
real risk of discovery I took was the overnight bag I kept packed
and stashed under the center of the spare-tire in my trunk. I was
afraid that Mark would have a reason to check the car someday,
and I had no idea how I'd explain it. But by that point, I
figured I could take just about anything he'd dish out. If he had
wanted to kill me, he'd have done it by now. I knew that he
valued his playthings too much to do any permanent damage to one
of them." Her face grew impassive, and the audience could see the
revulsion in her posture. She shook it off. "Anyway. In eighteen
months I had a little more than $200. Like I said, it wasn't
much, really, but it was enough to give me some peace of mind. It
wasn't enough to give me the push I needed, the confidence to
leave though.

"That took something else."

"I was a klutz. I know that becomes the most common trait
associated with beaten spouses because we're constantly
'tripping,' catching ourselves when we 'fall,' which of course
explains the three broken wrists during any given year, right?
And the several facial bruises from when we run into door frames,
or cabinets, or when we smash our fingers in the car door a
couple of times each season is most often attributed to our lack
of Ginger-Rogersesque abilities. So I realize that it sounds like
I'm still making excuses. "However, I really am somewhat of a
klutz; my parents had some foresight when they chose not to name
me 'Grace.' I worked for a friend of his, in a law office, four
days a week. Our office was set up like, well, an office. Two
rows of cubicles down the center of a room for the secretaries
and clerks with offices around the edges. As a documents-
manager, I rated a step up from a cubicle. Not a corner
office--those were reserved for associates--but one of the
middle, inside offices. It would have to be either be a junior
employee's office or a file room because it completely lacked
natural lighting, and it was too far from the senior partners'
offices to be politically strategic. So, I had this habit known
throughout the firm of coming out of my office door in a hurry,
rounding the corner, and smacking my hip on the corner of the
first desk in the row. Poor Sandi. It got so that she couldn't
keep anything on the edge of her desk; I was sure to knock it
over. "Anyway, I almost always had a spectacular bruise on my
right hip and thigh from her desk, so you can see that it wasn't
much of a stretch for Mark to be able to call me into work
because I had injured myself. He did that on occasion. But
usually he called personnel to let them know that I was 'sick'
and would be out for a few days. I was generally out just long
enough for the most serious of bruises to fade a little, or for
enough residual soreness to fade so that I could walk without
drawing attention to myself. A day or two at a time, every couple
of months. The rest of the time? Well, let's just say that
Hollywood has nothing on me when it comes to make-up expertise."

With an almost-smile, she looked up from her water glass to find
Robert in the seats before her. He was there, just as he said he
would. He offered her a wink and a nod. She continued.

"It was a Wednesday. I had been married for about four years, or
maybe it was forty. Maybe it just felt like a lifetime." She
paused for a sip. "Four years, one month and eighteen days. It
was flu season, and I had--once again--put off getting a flu
shot. Invincible I wasn't, and I could feel it starting. So at
lunch I told our receptionist that I was taking the rest of the
day off, and I grabbed a cab home.

"When I got there, Mark was already home. It wasn't unusual for
him to be 'home' during the day--he based his business out of the
house--but it was unusual for him to be out of the office. And,
he had company.

"I knew his friend. A fraternity brother-turned poker and
football buddy. When I saw that he was entertaining, I mumbled
some sort of apology for intruding and tried to leave, but he
stopped me. Apparently I was the reason for their meeting. Well,
sort of. Me and a hockey game.

"The way he explained it was that Craig, his friend, had admired
me for quite some time. You see, this was meant as a compliment.
I was supposed to be proud and grateful. So, instead of their
normal case of Cubans or brandy, they made a more unique bet. If
Mark's team won, he'd get the use of Craig's houseboat for the
weekend. If they lost, Craig would get me for the weekend."

She smiled slightly at the collective small gasp from her
audience. Even the most jaded of adults can be shocked when shown
the seamier side of sexual deviancy. It's so different when
looking at a real person instead of reading a textbook case
study.

"Hockey allows for something that many other sports don't. They
tied." She smiled, and her audience relaxed back into their
chairs.

"So, instead of calling it a draw and playing the next game, Mark
and Craig decided instead to just pay the bets as though they had
both lost. Or, more precisely, as though they had both won. Mark
would take the boat for the weekend, and Craig would stay at the
house with me. Apparently they were there working out the
details.

"Then I guess I did something that neither of them had expected.
Remember that I had come home with the beginnings of the flu.
When I realized that Mark was effectively turning me over to his
friend, it hit me full force. Or maybe it was just a bad
croissant from breakfast." Good for another chuckle. "Either way
my stomach had had enough. I grabbed the trashcan from under the
desk and vomited. Craig gagged, and Mark was furious. I think he
thought that I had done it on purpose. That I was deliberately
trying to embarrass him or make him have  to renege on his bet.
He hustled me into the bathroom, slapped me, and started pulling
my dress off. When he had me stripped, he tossed me into the
shower stall, turned the water on, and ordered me to get cleaned
up.

She rubbed her right bicep, remembering the bruises his fingers
had left. "He came back a few minutes later and pulled me from
the shower. I tried to grab the towel off the counter as I
struggled behind him, but he took it from me and held it out of
reach in his other hand. He dragged me into the living room,
tossed the towel on the carpet in front of his friend, and dumped
me, naked and dripping from the shower, at Craig's feet.

His voice rang hollow in her memory, and as she continued, her
face took on an ugly sneer, mimicking his tone as she spoke.
"'Now, Charlotte. We had intended to make the exchange Friday,
but since you're home, and obviously the office isn't expecting
you back, I see no reason to wait. I'll just go pack.' I remember
hearing him leave the room before I was able to look up. Craig
was watching me, watching the water soak the towel and the carpet
under me, but he didn't move until Mark was out of the room."
This was where she faltered. When they had 'rehearsed,' she and
Robert couldn't decide just how much was appropriate to share in
this forum. They had decided to play it by ear, to see their
audience's reaction before getting too detailed and graphic. It
was silent in the small lecture hall.

In her mind she relived those few minutes that seemed to last for
an eternity. The plush carpet left impressions in her palms and
the towel had scraped rough burns on her shins when she landed.
She felt Craig's hand grip her hair, squeezing the cold water out
and down her naked back. Goosebumps rose on her arms as she felt
his fingers draw her long tresses into a thick ponytail and pull
at her scalp. He bent down low over her shoulder and his voice
rasped in her ear. "Mark's told me about you. You're quite
'resilient,' aren't you, Charlotte?" he growled, and she
struggled to keep her face impassive as his cigar- tainted breath
filled her nostrils. "I've been looking for a gal who can take
things a little 'rough.' I'm sure we're going to have a lot of
fun this weekend, aren't we? Maybe test the limits a bit?" With
his free hand, he brought the smoldering cigar under her crouched
body and held it beneath the curve of her breast. She tasted the
bile rising in her throat and her stomach knotted. The muscles in
her back tensed as she flinched away from the heat beginning to
scorch her tender flesh.

A cough from somewhere in the audience brought her back to the
present. She shuddered, then began to shake. Robert stood and
started up middle aisle, between the rows of listeners. Charlotte
visibly faltered, and her voice cracked as she looked out over
the hall. Robert knew she was searching for her courage; she
found it as her eyes locked to his. By the time he reached the
front row, she had calmed, regained her composure, and held her
hand up--indicating that he should sit. He took an empty seat in
the front row. Charlotte shook off the memories and started
again. Her voice had lost its personal warmth, but she continued.
"The next thing I knew, Craig was throwing Mark a set of keys to
the houseboat, and he was walking out the door. I spent the next
few hours at the hands of yet another monster. Craig was cruel,
sexually sadistic, but he wasn't as concerned as Mark with
maintaining my long-term health." She smiled ruefully.

"It was a long weekend." The audience laughed nervously at her
obvious understatement.

"I was honestly sick. I was feverish and my body refused to keep
anything down. And when Craig said he was looking for someone who
could withstand 'rough,' he wasn't overstating his position. He
was angry that I was ill, I think perhaps he was figuring that
Mark got the better end of the bargain, and he was apparently
determined to get the most out of the weekend before Mark came
home.

"The days ran together and became an almost endlessly repeating
loop. He woke up, ate while I watched, sitting on the kitchen
floor at his feet. I'd heave and he'd get angry. I knew at that
point that my cheekbone was broken, and I was pretty sure that my
shoulder wasn't going to be the same anytime soon. After he ate,
he'd drag me to the shower with him." She trembled again. "Then
he started." A muffled gulp from the audience stopped her
narrative.

"I'm sorry. Let me skip ahead."

"It must have been the second or third night, and Craig was
starting to wear down. For some reason, before going to sleep, he
hadn't tied one of my wrists as tightly as he had been. I hadn't
slept, not really, since he got there. I was exhausted,
dehydrated, and hurt. And I knew I was done. I knew that when
Mark came home, things would never be the same, and I knew that I
wasn't going to be even remotely safe anymore. So, when I
realized that I was loose and that Craig was snoring, I untied my
other wrist, grabbed my robe from the closet door, my purse from
under the bed, my money-stash from under the mattress, and I
sneaked out to my car.

"He must have heard the front door, or the car door, or
something, but before I got the car out of the driveway, he was
there. He pulled open the car door and dragged me to the
driveway. I screamed, and a neighbor must have heard because a
porch light next door came on. Craig panicked, took his foot off
of my collarbone and backed off a step. I don't remember much
else, except I know I got back into the car and drove off."

"I drove for an hour or so, trying to focus. It had been so long
since I had had to make any real decisions. And, despite my
little sneaking about with the money, I hadn't made any real
plans about what to do or where to go. I was aimless, so I got on
the highway and started driving. I used my gas card while I was
in the state, charging gas and convenience store food for as long
as I could, but I knew that as soon as Craig contacted Mark, he'd
cancel the card. I also knew that he'd be able to figure out
where I was from the gas station charges, so I spent a couple of
hours stopping at the stations and pleading "stranded traveler."
I'd pay for someone's gas with my charge card; they paid me the
cash. It's amazing what people will do. I know that most people
knew what was going on. There was no way that a stranded traveler
would look like I looked. But this way, I think, they figured
they were helping without really getting involved.  People don't
like to get involved, you know."

"Anyway, by the end of the night, I had doubled my cash, and I
figured I had enough gas money to get me where I wanted to go.
So, I headed north. At that time all you needed to get into
Canada was your driver's license as ID, no passport or other
paperwork, so I figured I'd head up here. Alaska. The true `last
frontier.'

"And, as they say, the rest is history."

*****

One morning she was gone.

Even before he saw the note on her pillow, he knew she was gone.
There was an emptiness, more than the absence of coffee burbling
from the kitchen. More than the morning silence that would
normally be filled with the rhythmic drone of the morning radio
news Charlotte always listened to. He had teased her about her
addiction to morning NPR reports. "Left-wing liberal
namby-pambies," he called them when he wanted to tease.

But the house was still. Then he saw her note.


        Dear Robert ~
        You were right.   It's time to cut ties.  Please don't try to 
  come to me.  This is something I have to do on my own.  My 
  lawyer tells me this shouldn't take more than a couple of days.
  I'll call you when it's over and we can celebrate.

                        Love,   Charlotte.

He wanted to cheer, to rejoice. But there was a sinking feeling
in the pit of his stomach.

*****

Common wisdom is that, after an extreme physical trauma,
unconsciousness is the body's way of healing. The brain shuts
down so that the body can funnel resources to the damage.

Common wisdom is full of shit.

Her brain replayed the attack in an endless loop, and her body
thrashed in the hospital bed. Endlessly she pulled the rented SUV
into the lot and parked it. She couldn't get it into a space
under the lamp, but she parked where she thought was close
enough. The yellow pool of light added a noir feel to the scene,
and she half-expected to see a Chandler-esque character leaning
against the lamppost, smoking an unfiltered cigarette. Then
again, she was happy, and her mind was doing silly somersaults
around things. The hearing had been a quick, anti-climatic
affair. She didn't want anything of his, and although Mark was
furious about the divorce -- he apparently hated the thought of
losing his playthings -- there wasn't much he could do to stop
it. It lasted just long enough for the judge to do enough to feel
like he had a part in things. He adjusted some of the property
divisions--after all, those credit cards did have her name on
them, and strangely enough, domestic violence doesn't factor into
property settlements in a no-contest divorce state. He reassured
himself that she really didn't want part of the house (Mark would
have fought her on that one), and it was a done deal.

A phone call to the airlines and she had changed her early
morning flight to the last of the red-eye flights leaving
tonight. She had a quick celebration drink with her lawyer in the
pub across from the courthouse; then, as the sun was beginning to
set, she headed back to the airport with the windows down, the
cool fall air blowing through the car. 'Bad to the Bone' was
playing at decibel level much too high to be considered
respectable for a woman out of her teens.

It was a longish drive from the small town courthouse to the
Portland airport, and darkness had set fully by the time she
arrived. The night air had chilled as the sun disappeared, so the
windows had risen, the bass level had been reduced, and Charlotte
had pulled her sweater out of the overnight bag she brought as
her only luggage. She pulled her cell phone from her purse and
speed-dialed their home number, letting the car idle at the edge
of the parking lot. Robert answered quickly.  Trying for his,
"this had better be important, because it's late at night" voice,
but failing.  He had been waiting by the phone and his voice
betrayed his anxiety.

"It's me, Robert. It's done, and I'm on my way home. I'll catch a
cab from the airport, and I'll be home when you get up in the
morning. What do you say we go shopping when I get home? Maybe
for a matched set of rings?"

She cruised into the parking lot as Robert's voice filled her
ear. "Damn," she muttered softly.

"What's wrong, hon?" Teasingly, "not having sudden second
thoughts are you?"

"'Course not. The parking lot is full." She turned the car around
and exited. "I'm going to have to head out to the overflow lot
and hike in. No big deal." She pulled into the distant parking
lot and into a space. "I'll see you in the morning, but you'd
better have the coffee going. You know how I like it."

She smiled and disconnected as she turned off the car and stepped
out into the inadequate, pale light. She reached for the back
seat door to grab her bag, and Robert's highly suggestive "hot
and sweet" comment still echoed in her ears when the first blow
hit. Her lip split and blood filled her mouth. Her knees buckled;
she could feel her shirt ride up and the metal door handle scrape
her chest as she began to slide to the pavement. "Not so fast,
Pigeon." He grabbed her arm and hauled her back to her feet. He
turned her easily and leaned her back up against the car. He
towered over her, blocking the light with his considerable bulk.
His hands gripped her shoulders, holding her tight against the
door.

She licked her lip, copper-taste coating her tongue, and she
struggled to form words.

"M... Mark, Don't do this." She winced and brought her hand up to
her chin, wiping blood from her swelling lips. "Please, Mark. Let
me go."

"Oh God, I'm sorry Charlotte." His voice took on an
almost-pleading tone. "I didn't mean that, it was an accident.
Come home doll. Let's just forget all this and start over." His
eyes traveled her body. "Look at you, baby-doll. You need me. You
need what I can do for you. We'll go to the mall, buy some new
outfits and make you pretty again for me. It will all be fine."

"Mark, I'm not your doll, and I am going home. My home isn't with
you anymore." She tried to remember if she had seen anyone in the
rental-car kiosk when she had pulled in. Was she completely alone
out here?

The sallow light from the post cast eerie shadows on his face,
and she could see it harden in anger. She willed her body to
relax, playing for time. She had no idea if anyone would hear her
if she screamed, and she knew that she wouldn't have more than a
minute or two after she opened her mouth. The glaze in his eyes
was beyond the rage she knew from the past.

His grip tightened and his fingers dug into her shoulders. Her
fingers started tingle as he restricted the blood flow to her
arms. She shifted her feet, trying for a more secure stance. He
glanced down at the pavement as she moved. He picked up his left
foot and placed it deliberately over her right, pressing hard,
pinning it to the pavement. He shook his arms, knocking her back
hard against the car. Her head struck the metal, and stars burst
behind her eyes. Salt-tears burned at the split in her lip.

Bending down, Mark stuck out his tongue and licked the tears
across her cheek, leaving a sloppy trail from her jaw to her
temple. She could smell alcohol. He hissed in her ear, "It was
easy in court, wasn't it, Pigeon? You were so smug in there with
that bitch lawyer of yours. You thought you could do things
without me, didn't you? Did you get what you wanted?" He shook
his head and glared reproachfully at her. "I can't believe you
wanted out, Pigeon. We were so good together." Like a parent to a
naughty child. "No more playing, Pigeon. No judge, no lawyers.
Just you and me, the way it's supposed to be." One hand went
tight around her throat, blocking her air. He held her there as
her body tensed and her hands flew up around his. She struggled
to pry his fingers from her windpipe. He leaned heavily against
her.

Mark's hand fumbled against her back as he pulled the door handle
up. He loosened his grip and she drew a frantic breath into her
burning lungs. The web clouding her vision cleared.

Still holding her by the throat, he pulled her roughly aside as
he wrenched the door open. He lifted his right hand and struck
her across the mouth with a hard backhand slap. Blood covered his
knuckles. His fingers caught at the collar of her cotton blouse
and pulled. The thin fabric tore easily, leaving her chest bare.

"Stay still baby-doll. Stop fighting. You know this is for the
best." She struggled harder, clawing into his arms with her
nails. His eyes narrowed to angry slits, and he pressed his fist
under her bottom rib, pushing in and upwards against the fragile
bone. "I mean it, Charlotte. Stay still." With a fast, hard
movement he pulled his arm back, then struck hard at her side.
She gasped, and the sickening sound of cracking bone surrounded
her as her rib started to give way to his fist.

Her legs collapsed beneath her, and she slumped in his grip. The
sudden weight shift threw him off guard and he let her fall to
the pavement. She felt skin tear as he grabbed her ear and pulled
her back to her feet. The memory of someone telling her that it
only takes a few pounds of pressure to pull off an ear floated
absurdly to her brain. She could hear the ripping sound.

He tore her sweater from her shoulders, and as her mouth opened
to draw in a pained breath, he forced the acrylic fabric between
her teeth, stifling any noise she might have made. He turned her
roughly in the open car door, bending her at the waist and
sending fresh spikes of pain through her side. He pressed her,
face first, into the leather seat of the truck, pinning her hands
beneath her chest. One hand held her around her throat as the
other reached under her skirt and pulled at her tights. When they
failed to give way to his handling, he swore under his breath and
reached into his pocket, pulling out a small Leatherman. After
prying the blade open with his teeth, he brought the edge between
her legs, drawing the sharp point up the inside of her thigh,
leaving a thin line of blood beneath the shredding cotton.

The thicker cotton of the crotch resisted the blade, and he
pressed harder, cutting through her tights and the cotton panties
to the skin beneath. Blood pooled between her legs and under her
belly. She could feel him fumbling with his own pants, then a
painful, tearing stab through her middle as he forced himself
between her legs.

"C'mon baby doll. You can do better than this. Loosen up for me."
He pulled back, out, and placed the blade at her opening and
pressed. "Either loosen up, or I'll do it for you, Charlotte."

Her skin sliced and she screamed into the sweater. He dropped the
knife to the floorboards and thrust hard, lubricated by her
blood. Pounding hard and fast, his fingers dug into her neck and
side.

"Hey! You! You guys can't do that here! I've called security!"

Mark jerked back, and as he pulled Charlotte forcefully to her
knees, she spat the sweater from between her lips. Blood pounded
in her ears, and she wanted desperately to shout for help, but
her throat closed and her rib screamed. She managed only a
strangled cry. He kept one hand around her neck, and held out his
free hand "Stop there, little boy. This is between me and my
wife. It doesn't concern you."

The footsteps slowed as they approached closer to the car,
apparently close enough to glimpse inside. "Sir, I'm going to
have to ask you to... Shit!" Scared panic entered his voice.
"Lady, don't worry, I've called security, they'll be here in a
minute..." She choose that moment to fight. He was distracted.
Maybe distracted enough. Charlotte kicked back with her leg,
striking Mark's thigh. He roared and pulled her backwards, out of
the truck and on to the pavement behind him.

Her head hit the cement. The parking lot light faded completely.

Waking up isn't like the movies portray it to be. It's not
delicately fluttering eyelids and, "oh-my-goodness! Where am I?"
It's fighting to the surface from the bottom of a pool.
Sputtering and coughing your way to consciousness. The
inevitable, "where am I" question is the brain's way of buying
time. She knew where she was, and she knew what had happened. She
also knew that she wasn't going to be able to talk about it. The
room was dark. There were shadows of light coming through the
pulled curtain, but it was obviously night. Someone was sitting
in a chair by the window, watching her. Her throat burned, and
for a moment she couldn't breath properly. Her hands flew to her
lips, scrambling at the obstruction.

"Stop, Charlotte." The figure, Robert, had moved to her side. He
placed his hands over hers, calming them. "They've got a tube in
your throat to help you breathe. Don't try to talk until I can
get them to take it out. I'll get a nurse."

Within a few minutes the nurse had summoned a doctor and the tube
was out, but it hurt too much for Charlotte to do much more than
question with her eyes, and ask for a pen. Robert shook his head.
"We can try, hon, but you're pretty banged up. I'm not sure
you'll be able to write.

It took some maneuvering, but with the right pillows at the right
angles, Charlotte was able to support her arm enough to scribble
out a few words.

"How?"

"How did I get here?"

Charlotte nodded.

"I flew in this morning. The hospital called me. Well, the
hospital called the house. I answered."

More scribbling "When?"

"It's Thursday night. You were brought in late last night."

Scribble. "Home?" She winced as the movement of her hand jostled
her shoulder.

"Not yet, hon. I'm sorry. They want to keep you here just to be
safe."

She shook her head and scribbled , "Home, Robert. I need to go
home."

He put his hand out to stroke her matted hair. "I'm sorry,
Charlotte. You need to stay. But I'll be here with you. I'm not
going anywhere."

"Mirror. Purse."

He took her purse from the hospital bag they had used to store
her belongings and held the compact open for her to see. Tears
formed at the corners of her eyes as she looked, turning her head
to see the bruises on her jaw. She lifted her hand to feel the
back of her neck.

Robert grabbed her wrist gently before she touched. "Don't
Charlotte. You've got some stitches back there."

She gestured for the pen again. "What all?"

"Stitches?" Nod.

"Just three places, Charlotte. The back of your head where you
hit the cement parking stop, and behind your ear. They had to
reattach part of your ear."

She held up three fingers in question.

"Yeah, three places. They had to sew up between you legs,
Charlotte. The doctor said it wasn't too bad though. Like a bad
tear during childbirth. They've got you on antibiotics to keep
any infection away."

"Hurts."

"I know it does, Charlotte. I know. He really worked you over.
The police want to talk to you when you're able."

She shook her head frantically.

"Not now. We'll wait until tomorrow. They did most of their exam
when you were unconscious, and they arrested Mark this morning.
The rental car kid got his license plate number before Mark
cocked him."

Scribble, "No police." Fast, angry triple underline under 'no.'

"Just rest now, honey. We'll worry about that tomorrow."

She jerked away from his hand, groaning softly at the movement.
Scribble, "You go home."

"No Charlotte, I'd never leave you here alone."

She set the pen down and closed her eyes, turning her face away
from his, shutting him out. In a few minutes she was asleep.

He was still there when she woke up; he was snoring softly in the
hospital armchair with his legs propped up on the windowsill
heater. They had spent the day talking to doctors, police, and
counselors. She had answered questions and suffered the
indignities of rape victims everywhere.

Through it all, Robert was there. Watching, offering support,
treating her with kid gloves. Holding when he could, stroking
when he couldn't hold her. Filling her water, changing her
blankets. She watched his eyes, she saw her pain reflected in
them. She watched him bite back questions, and she knew from the
set of his shoulders that he was angry. Not with her, but with
himself for not being there. And, by extension, she knew he was
angry with her for not letting him be there with her.

As she dozed that night, he dozed, and she thought. He knew all
that happened to her. He knew how Mark had abused her, he knew
how Mark had beat her, and now he knew how Mark had taken his
revenge. He knew. There was no time to quietly rebuild up her
strength and face what had happened. And that was too much for
her to bear. She tested her movements quietly, trying not to wake
him. There was a pitcher of water on her bedside table, and her
purse was still where Robert had left it, on the chair by her
bed.

She moaned quietly as movement sent waves of pain through her
body. It was impossible to tell where it was coming from.
Everything hurt. Everything screamed. But it would only be for a
few minutes. She pumped the button on her "on demand" painkiller
pump attached to the back of her hand. The small, quick dose of
morphine was enough to help her over the side of the bed to her
open handbag. She could see what she wanted, lying in the
zippered inside pocket.

Careful not to wake Robert, Charlotte unzipped the pocket and
slipped the bottle into her hand before sinking painfully back
onto the pillows. She lay for a minute catching her breath. When
the waves of pain-induced nausea passed, she hit the pump again
with her thumb, hoping that enough time had passed for another
dose to be available. She closed her eyes and opened the bottle,
silently thanking her pharmacist for not requiring a childproof
cap.

Slowly, two at a time, she swallowed the pills, letting her
stomach settle after each dose. There was no point in rushing.
She knew if she didn't take it slow, her stomach would knot up
and repel the sedative, defeating the point entirely.

It took a long, slow hour, and most of the pitcher of water. She
hit the morphine button every fifteen minutes for an added kick,
and by the end of the bottle her mind had begun to fuzz, the
edges had softened, and she knew she only had a few more minutes
to be awake. She slipped the bottle under her pillow and pulled
the rolling bed-table over her legs. She wrote quickly, her hand
shaking, making the note difficult to read. She silently laughed
at herself for not writing the note before she took the pills.
That's your problem, Charlotte, you don't plan for the future. 


    Dear Robert, 

   I love you. But this has hurt you. I can't work through your pain 
   and mine. I do love you. I always have.    

                                 Charlotte. 

She closed her eyes and lay back on the pillow. The darkness
pulled over her thoughts, finally burying her pain. 


The End