Robin Wasserman - Wrath

Kaia had always thought that, in a real emergency, life would be clearer, the picture sharper. You wouldn’t coolly wonder whether those self-defense classes had been a waste of money, you wouldn’t be as cold and calculating as you were in everyday life. You would recognize the need to act. Instinct would take over.

You wouldn’t wonder, Should I scream? Will that seem foolish? Am I overreacting? You wouldn’t wonder, coldly, curiously, What’s wrong with me? Why don’t I scream?

And then she heard the low purr of the zipper, felt it scrape against her skin, and then she did scream. She stopped thinking and wondering because it was real-he was on top of her, heavy, unmovable, and she screamed and spit and bit and tore at him, and still his hand clenched both her wrists and forced her arms down though her muscles screamed in pain, and when she slammed her forehead up into his, he barely moved, barely noticed, so intent was he on holding her down, shifting into position, wriggling out of his khakis with one hand while gripping her wrists with the other-

Her knee came up, hard. And connected. He dropped her wrists, grabbed his groin, doubled over with a soft sigh, and she sat up and punched him in the Adam’s apple. Twice, for good measure. Grabbed her purse-not her shirt, though, because he was on top of it, half sitting, half lying on the futon, grunting with pain. But before she could escape, he pulled himself up and lunged toward her. She darted away, but not fast enough, and he slammed her against the wall, the edge of the futon digging painfully into her lower back. He grabbed her hair, tugged her head back, his laughter hot against her skin.

One hand pinned between their bodies, her other flailed behind her, waving wildly through the air, then fumbling across the coffee table until she felt the head of his tacky marble copy of Rodin’s The Thinker . It was solid and heavy in her grasp, and in a smooth arc she hoisted it into the air and slammed it into the back of his head.

There was a surprisingly quiet thud, and he fell limp against her, the small statue slipping out of her trembling fingers and crashing into the floor. A splash of blood lit up the stone face.

Kaia pushed Powell’s inert body away, and it toppled to the floor, facefirst. She didn’t check to see whether he was breathing, or wipe the blood off the statue or her fingerprints off the doorknob. She didn’t cry, didn’t scream, didn’t hesitate.

She just left, fumbling with the lock, slipping out the door and stumbling on her way to the car. She pulled out of the driveway fast, without looking, and sped down the road into the darkness, away from town, away from people, turning up the radio and rolling down the windows to drown the night in cold air and loud music.

She blew through three red lights and hit open highway before realizing: She had nowhere to go.

“Hello?”

At first there was no sound on the other end of the line, then a harsh, rasping breath. And another. “I’m hanging up now,” Reed warned, and was about to, when-

“Wait. Reed, please…”

“Kaia?”

It was her, unmistakably. And yet somehow, not her-not cool, contained, a voice dripping icicles.

Reed was stoned, and had been zoned out for hours lying on his bed, strumming along to an old Phish album. But through the haze, he began to feel the beast creeping toward him. Trouble. But was she in it, or looking to cause it?

“Kaia, what is it?”

“I shouldn’t have… I didn’t mean-”

“What’s going on? What do you want?” She’s just mocking you, he told himself. Nothing between them had been real, why should this be anything but a cruel joke?

But she didn’t sound cruel. She sounded… broken.

“It’s all my fault.”

“What is?”

No answer.

“Kaia?”

“Kaia?”

Dial tone.

Another mistake. Kaia threw down the phone, cursing herself. She couldn’t do anything right.

Great idea. Call Reed for help. Throw yourself on his mercy . It was almost as brilliant as going to Powell’s house in the first place.

She was shivering.

So she pulled off onto the side of the road. No longer afraid of jackals or coyotes, or whatever lost and angry souls might be wandering the desert at night. What was left to fear?

She had no shirt. It was cold, a cloudless winter night, and she was curled up in the front seat of the Beamer, her cheek pressed against the smooth leather, wearing only her jeans and a black bra.

She wasn’t crying. She must have been, at some point-her face was wet, sticky against the leather seat. But she couldn’t remember. Could barely remember how she’d gotten there. The night was fading, the details blurring. She remembered only shards of moments: his hands on her wrists. The sound of the zipper. His body, limp and still. The blood. Driving faster and faster, the top down and the frigid air burning her face, roaring in her ears. Reed’s voice as she hung up the phone.

I have nowhere to go.

I have no one.

The road was dark, the only traffic an occasional truck thundering by.

She could get out of the car, stick out her thumb. Someone would pick her up, take her as far away as she wanted to go, leave everything behind. And, after all, there was nothing to leave.

Or she could turn the key in the ignition, drive back to her father’s house, slip inside and tear off her clothes, immerse herself in a scalding shower, cleanse herself of it all. Wash away his touch from her skin.

But instead she got out of the car, walked over to the highway emergency phone. She couldn’t use her cell, not for this call. She leaned against the cool steel, fingers hesitating over the receiver.

He didn’t deserve her help.

And maybe it was already too late.

But she lifted the receiver and, in a dull monotone, gave out the necessary information. No names, no circumstances, nothing that would connect her to the sordid mess. Just an address. Just, “Hurry.”

And when the ambulance arrived? They’d find her all over the apartment, wouldn’t they? Her shirt, her fingerprints, her hairs… his blood. If he woke up, who knew what he’d say. And if he never did…

She crawled back into the car and wrapped her arms around herself for warmth. She was so tired. Cold. Finished. Later there’d be decisions to make, consequences to bear. But for now, she couldn’t. Couldn’t go home, couldn’t go to the cops, couldn’t disappear on the open road. She was tired of fighting, of moving. She just wanted it all to stop. Just for a while, just long enough that she could get her bearings.

Long enough that she could stop trembling.

She was frozen, unable to do anything but curl up in a ball in the front seat, hug her knees to her chest, close her eyes against the darkness surrounding her.

She was spent.

She was tearless.

And she was on her own.

Miranda was grounded for two weeks.

And she’d never been happier.

When she’d strolled-more like floated-in the door at half past ten, her mother was waiting. Miranda had forgotten to pick her sister up after dance class, had skipped dinner, had disappeared without a word, had apparently worried everyone half to death.

She’d just smiled through her mother’s tirade, and her father’s gloomy silence. She’d ignored her sister’s pestering questions, waiting impatiently for the moment she could flee upstairs, shut herself in her bedroom, and relive the day, minute by minute.

She climbed into bed without changing out of her clothes, at first not wanting to admit that the day had officially ended. But then, thinking better of it, she wriggled out of her shirt and jeans and kicked them onto the floor, relishing the feel of the comforter against her bare skin. It reminded her of Kane’s hands.