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He smiles in a way that makes my stomach churn—he knows I’m lying. I swallow back bile in my throat.
“You were rude to me at the restaurant.” He pushes out of the chair and takes a couple of steps toward me. “Why would you do that?”
“I was working,” I tell him. “I was just doing my job.”
“I just wanted to tell you the good news.”
“What’s the good news?” I ask.
I should run. That’s what every cell in my body is screaming. ‘You’re in danger—you need to run.’ But maybe if I’m nice like he wants, he’ll leave me alone. I don’t have a clear path to the front door now. I start backpedaling up the stairs, not wanting to turn my back to him.
‘Run. He’s going to hurt you.’
But there’s nowhere to run. And why would he hurt me? My mouth goes dry, and I hear the blood pumping in my ears. Everything is loud, even in the silence. The way each stair creaks with my footfall is excruciating.
Guns. We have them. One in the kitchen, one in my mom’s nightstand. A rifle in the garage. Maybe…maybe I could get to the one in my mom’s room. There’s a phone in there, too. I could lock myself in, call someone for help, keep the weapon with me while I wait. Just in case.
“My zoning permit was approved. Looks like I get to stick around for a while.”
“Good for you. I’m sure my mom is thrilled,” I tell him, taking the steps a little quicker now.
“You’re not stupid,” he laughs, striding toward the staircase. “Surely, you’ve figured out by now that I’m not here for your mom. I’ve been watching you for a while now. You didn’t even notice, did you? I heard you call Jackie ‘Mom’ last week.”
Now, I do turn and run. I take the stairs two at a time and stumble over the top step. I pull myself onto my feet, but he grabs me by the ankle, and I fall hard, my face smacking into the hardwoods. I hear a crunching sound, and my nose goes numb. Blood pours down my face as I try to kick myself free of his grip.
“HELP!” I scream at the top of my lungs. “SOMEONE HELP ME! HELP!”
“Shut up!” he shouts. He kneels on the back of my knees and pulls my underwear down my legs. I hear him unbuckle his belt and scream again as he rolls me onto my back, pinning my arms in place.
“Look at you,” he says. “You’re a mess. Drunk and dirty, bleeding. Tits hanging out of your dress. Didn’t I tell you what was going to happen to you if you carried on like that?”
“Get off of me!” I yell, tears streaming down my face, my voice already hoarse from yelling. I struggle to get out from under him, but his size has me completely immobilized. I’m…helpless. And he’s right—no one is coming. “Let me go! Leave me alone!”
He releases one of my arms to pull the front of my dress down from my tits. I swing the free arm wildly, ineffectively hitting him in the side of the head as he runs his hands over them.
“I’m really going to enjoy this,” he says. He lowers his head like he’s going to try and put his mouth on me and gets close enough that I’m able to gouge the thumb on my free hand into his eye. I feel it digging deep into his eye socket, and he screams, pulling my arm away and pinning it next to my head again.
“You fucking bitch!” he yells, blood dripping from the socket. He bears down and starts thrusting against me, trying to force his way inside of me.
“Let me go!” I scream again, fighting against the crushing weight on top of me. “Let me go, let me go, let me go!”
And then, he enters me and I sob. I sob and sob, and I struggle while he thrusts and groans, and it’s the most disgusting sound I’ve ever heard in my life. I scream louder, but it doesn’t drown out the sounds or the fear or the pain. It doesn’t change what’s happening to me. And there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
He’s talking to me, but I block it out as best I can, trying to dissociate from my body and what’s happening to me. He’s telling me how good it feels, how he’s going to do this to me over and over again while I cry.
Then, I hear something else, something familiar—the distinct sound of an old shotgun racking a bullet into the chamber. I’ve known that sound since I was three years old. He must hear it, too, because his body stills inside me.
I see my mom standing above him, that old shotgun from the garage aimed at the back of his skull, bearing her teeth.
“Get…the fuck…out of my house,” she grits.
Grant releases my arms, and I scramble backward until I hit the wall. He pulls his pants up to his waist and stands slowly, raising his hands above his head. “Easy now…” he says.
“Shoot him!” I scream. “Mom! Shoot him!”
“She’s not going to shoot me,” he says. “Think of the consequences.”
“You have five seconds to get the fuck out of my goddamn house!” She starts counting. “ONE!”
