Heather Lewis - Notice

I’d never been in exactly this position before. And when he turned me on my back I had to scramble for space in my throat – this cord clutching it and tightening and never seeming to give way no matter how I arranged myself.

I pulled my legs up under me, or my feet really. Kept them close together underneath me but my legs wide open before him. Held myself up with my thighs, the muscles in them waking up angry, forcing me to feel that part of my body again.

None of this worked. My wrists were down too close to my ankles and all the slack was in the wrong place. And this tugging around my neck wouldn’t stop, didn’t really stop even when I got my hands up under my shoulder blades. I kept trying to lift myself up, get myself off the cord. But I wasn’t doing well at this, and he was pressing down on my legs, and then pressing them further apart until I had to give way and wait him out.

I couldn’t not feel how he fucked me. Felt it more for all the feeling that had come back to my legs. I felt everything – the cutting in my wrists and ankles, my throat closed off, and the only good thing about this was it kept me from crying out loud. This feeling like some kind of victory until I realized it served him for me to be quiet.

He kept pounding at me until I went numb despite all the things stacked against it, though maybe it was just my blood wasn’t moving. That it couldn’t get past the cord anymore.

When he pulled out, I tried to turn on my side, turn away, but he was over me again, jerking off on my chest and my face until finally he went away. I curled up inside-out of how I wanted to be. My arms and legs behind me instead of tucked up in front of me. I was retching and trying to spit but my throat stayed too raw. I turned my head into the sheets to wipe his come off me. I kept turning my head into the sheets.

And, too, I listened. Heard them all moving around and talking, all these bustling noises, which I wanted to mean they were leaving.

But before they did, they came back to me. Burt said, “Just one more thing, sweetheart.” And I’d hated his calling me this all along, but hated it most now when I’d just begun to let myself think of Beth.

Burt said, “Gabriel wants a little trophy.”

I saw Jeremy had his knife out. I began to scramble. This coming before I could think about Ingrid’s husband having sent them – something I seemed to have known all along anyway.

“He wants proof we were here.”

Even with me still tied, it took the three of them to hold me down. Jeremy ran his fingers through my bush, smoothed it before he pulled at it. Before Burt said, “I can see why he’d want that pelt.”

I began struggling again but only inside myself. I didn’t want them taking this piece of me I’d only just realized I felt vain about.

He was still tugging on me, and then he rubbed at my clit. He said, “I think I want this for myself.” And in me this turned-on terror, this frothy airy stuff working my chest and running inside my head, not letting me leave.

He laughed and then tugged at my bush again. He said, “Don’t worry, darling. We won’t take the one thing you need.”

I didn’t move when he cut. It seared, felt warm in this way, but maybe that was my blood. He was quick about this, businesslike. And when he’d done it, I fell away from them.

He cut the cord and, soon as I could, I curled up. Curled up as tight and small as I could and just lay there, not moving, not hearing, not crying, not registering anything. Except Burt saying one last thing, “Here’s your souvenir. I figure you’ve earned it. Hell, sweetheart, I think you’re going to need it one day soon.” And he tossed a bullet my way. It thumped my back before falling somewhere behind me.

When I woke from this stupor I knew they’d left. Still, I didn’t move. I found I could move but didn’t. I didn’t want to look at what they’d done. I’d balled the sheets between my legs and could only see blood there.

When I finally untangled myself, it wasn’t as bad as I’d thought. They’d taken a strip from the side, not the whole of it. Still, when I made it into the bathroom, into the bathtub, the water stung. The thing hadn’t stopped bleeding and so the water was at first reddish and then turning less so as it filled in around me, becoming a lighter and fainter pink.

I stayed there until I felt scared again. Got out in a sudden rush that dumped water all over the floor. I found a towel laying in the sink. One they must’ve used because it had these swipes of brownish red. And when I saw this I dropped it, but then I picked it up again because I was shivering too much to move and find another.

I went into the bedroom, but in there were just more reminders and I needed badly to forget this. I stumbled around, bumped into things until I found my robe, and then the phone – this on the coffee table, near an ashtray and two glasses, a bottle of vodka they’d been into.

I got my own glass. Sat down on the couch and poured a drink. I stared at the phone. But I didn’t pick it up until I felt the robe – thin terry cloth sticking to me. And then I saw the blood matted to it, still spreading through the weave. Saw that I still hadn’t stopped bleeding.

I called Beth. She answered, sounding as sleepy and groggy as me, and I felt lonelier than I maybe ever had, her being there making me feel it more instead of less. I said, “I need to see you. I’m in real trouble.”

Her voice got suddenly clear and awake. “Are you home? I’ll come there.”

And I looked around the room and through the bedroom door, and said, “No. I mean, I’m home but please don’t come here.”

“Sweetheart, what is it? What’s happened?”

“Can I meet you somewhere?”

She took over then. She said, “Go to my office. I’m leaving right now.”

But she held on the line until I hung up first.

Now I felt better for having things to do, though I couldn’t do them well or fast. I tried putting on underwear but it hurt too much, catching that piece of me that wasn’t there. And the first few pairs of pants I tried felt the same way – hurtful, nicking me if I moved. I searched the floor and then my drawers for the loosest softest clothes I could find.

I ended up with a baggy pair of army fatigues, worn thin and soft. Found a crumpled bit of foil in the pocket, which only served to remind me how long I’d lived this way. But it didn’t stop me from hunching over it – half-naked with a lighter – trying to smoke what might be left in it.

I pulled an old shirt of my father’s from a bottom drawer, the fabric so old you could see through it. From habit, I tried tucking it in, but this hurt too, so I just let it hang, buttoned it the best I could and then began growing worried about all the time this was taking.

I put shoes on, put Beth’s coat on, finally found my keys and started for her office.

It was colder outside than I’d imagined and so I pulled the coat around me, feeling drafts everywhere through my loose clothes. I hadn’t managed socks, so my ankles felt it worst. The wind ate into the burns from the cord.

I trudged along, watching headlights coming at me and wondering what I must look like. I’d stayed far away from mirrors, not wanting to know this.

I arrived before Beth did, and so I sat on the little concrete step outside the door there. My hands were jammed into the coat’s pockets. I found a pack of cigarettes I’d left there and a lighter. I smoked one after another, my lips feeling too big, numb, leaving blood on each filter. I did this mechanically until her car turned in.

She came toward me, quickly crossing the lot, and seeing her, I felt suddenly dead. I stood beside her as she fumbled with her keys and the door. Caught a glimpse of her in the light there. Saw her seeing me and I didn’t like how she looked.