Tiffany Scandal - Jigsaw Youth

I shouted, “What the fuck?” Reached for the lamp on the nightstand and raised it.

Naked and confused on the floor, you looked around and grabbed your things and bolted without even a word. The front door slammed shut. I didn’t even bother to get up and lock it. I sat on my bed, trying to process what just happened, staring at my sweats and underwear around my ankles. I felt sore. I got changed, suddenly feeling very cold. I stuffed my clothes in the trash. Even though you were gone, I searched the apartment. I didn’t feel any relief that it was empty. Imagine defeat as a tidal wave, the way it seems distantly calm, like any other wave until suddenly your whole world’s under. I bolted the door, finally, and sank to the floor with my back against it. I thought of that look on your face before you ran.

I wasn’t stupid. I only ever went out with friends. I was careful with my drinks. I never let advances go far because bars weren’t the kinds of places I wanted to meet people. I always imagined what would happen to me, if someone tried. I was sure I’d put up a fight. Punch or kick or scratch, anything I could find. They tell you to use your keys or use pepper spray. You imagine this like it’ll be a street fight or something. Like there’ll be a confrontation first. Society tells us we’re responsible for ourselves, for whatever happens. You can run away from a rapist. But what happens when they come for you in your sleep?

The only thing I could manage, after the fact, was to ask, What the fuck?

I didn’t get to tear off your ear, kick you in the groin, claw at your face. It was done before I knew it was happening. I wanted to stand over your broken body, telling you what a piece of shit you are. I wanted to take something from you. I was so furious I couldn’t cry. But as soon as I noticed the faint smell of your cologne on the sheets, the torrent began, seeming like it’d never stop.

I blew my nose and started to manically clean the apartment. I disinfected everything, even stuff I knew you never touched. I threw away all of my sheets. It hadn’t even seemed like you’d touched the couch. I imagined you pacing around after I’d gone to bed. When I sat on the bare mattress and still smelled it, it was like your scent had soaked all the way through. It was on my skin, too.

I turned on the shower as hot as it would go. Steam fogging the small room. It was hard to breathe, but better than breathing you. I cooked myself, scrubbing until my skin was raw enough to bleed. I sat until the water got cold. I wiped at the mirror when I got out, and looked at myself. My ass black and purple with bruises. How long was it happening before I woke up?

I closed the drapes and sat uncomfortably in the dark. The wood floor hurt to be on, but I didn’t want to lay on my stomach. I never wanted to be in that bed again. Tucking my knees to my chest, I chanted to myself I’ll be okay, I’ll be okay, I’ll be . .

The next morning, I woke up on the floor, sore from several things. I thought about calling the police, but never hit the last number. After I hung up the phone, I found myself staring at the mattress. It had to go. I flipped it on its side and slid it out the door, trying not to breathe it in. I called down the stairs of the complex and, when no one answered, let it fall. The mattress bent into an L-shape against the wall, and stopped at the landing.

I left it in front of the dumpster and started to walk away. But something nagged. It didn’t fit there. I looked at it until I decided what needed to be done. I dragged it across the sidewalk until I reached the block where the Rambler was. I didn’t drive my car much, I didn’t need to in a city with a robust transport system. I leaned the mattress against the trunk and slid it up onto the roof. I wandered across the street to the Fred Meyer and bought a can of black spray paint and some twine. Back outside, I tied the mattress to the roof through the windows until it was snug. I drove to your street. Untied the twine and dragged the mattress off, onto your lawn. I shook the spray paint and wrote it quickly.

When your girlfriend looked out through the curtains, I was just pulling away. I glanced back at the mattress, askew at the front stoop, covered in grime from its journey:

CHRISTIAN J. RAPED ME ON THIS

A few days passed before you started to text me again. Your first text acknowledged the mattress I left at your house and you described the act as “cute.” Then you said we should hang out again. It wasn’t a question. The more I ignored your texts, the more aggressive you became. It really got under my skin that I never noticed that you could be a total psychopath. I hated you and yet here you were, trying to talk to me. I hated seeing your name on my phone, but I didn’t want to delete your contact info and accidentally respond. When your name came up again, I threw my phone across the room, where it continued to vibrate against the floor.

Then a few weeks later, you came to see me at work. I can’t say I was surprised; this was something I’d been dreading. And, of course, it was slow — the Recession had just kicked into high gear, and the owner was desperate for business. It was a shitty greasy spoon diner at the heart of one of the few parts of the city not yet gentrified. JOE’S specialized in artery-clogging food and roaches that randomly dropped from the ceiling.

You strolled in past the “Please wait to be seated” sign, and sat yourself at a table in my section. My boss hammered on the restroom door while I went through a panic attack. When I emerged, I took Joe aside and told him that I didn’t want to serve you, and he asked me why, but I couldn’t say. So he told me to suck it up — you were the first customer we’d had in hours, and he’d cut the other server early. I could have walked out, but I needed the job. I walked over to your table and offered you coffee. I took your order and avoided you, only interacting when it was necessary.

I watched you open a book and read, smirking the whole time. I kept writing “die” over and over on the notepad I’d taken your order with, hoping it’d somehow happen. Looking up, I saw Joe pointing at me from the kitchen, perking up his posture and doing the money-sign with his fingers, then pointing at you. I brought the coffee pot over and asked if you wanted desert.

Joe paid on time, but he was still a scumbag. There was one time I heard a conversation he was having with his friend, talking about how he wanted to have the waitresses wear shorter skirts to increase business. I noticed his friend staring at me and licking his lips. Could feel them undressing me with their eyes. I don’t know what the friend said, but I heard Joe say, “She’s practically covered in tattoos. Who knows what she’s got.” I wanted to call them out, but it was hard enough to find work, let alone temp work. I bit my tongue and ignored them.

I went to your table and asked if you needed more coffee, and dropped off your bill. Your mug was still almost full. You kept staring at your book, ignoring me. I wanted to smash the pot on your face. I wanted to hear you scream. But your smell struck me and I had to walk away. I didn’t even go back for your money until you were gone.

I bussed the table and brought the money to the register. Joe stood there, arms crossed over his chest. Wanting to know what kind of a tip you left. I handed him the book and let him count.

“Seven, eight. . ten. . shit, almost fifty-percent. If that had been me, I wouldn’t have left you shit.”

He pocketed some of the money.

“Now take care of this.”

He handed the book back to me, to put the money in the register. But the check was short. “Joe. .”

“I told you, take care of it,” he shouted, walking back into the kitchen.