INK (13 of 15)

This is the thirteenth installment of the short story "Ink" by Steve Metcalf as it first appeared in the second Event collection "Iron Bay."

INK

Steve Metcalf

Chapter Twelve

The Rape

The hand over her mouth did nothing to stem the tide of her tears. Bren had woken up into a horrifying blend of nightmare, raunchy sex comedy and cautionary after-school special. She had woken up, naked from the waist down, to a young boy thrusting into her, his hand over her mouth to prevent her from crying out.

Four of the freshman girls were invited to a party at Josh McKibben’s house. Stereotypically, his parents were out of town. He was a senior and a starter on the football team. Over the course of the evening, the four girls were plied with increasingly strong drinks. Before she passed out, Bren remembered being led to a bedroom in the back of the huge house – catching a glimpse of one of the other girls being led down a similar hallway. They locked eyes for a half-second, pleading, searching, hoping that somehow they could help each other. Unfortunately, the other girl was taken into a room and the door was latched shut behind her. Seconds later, Bren passed out.

Now.

Terror.

And pain.

The nightmare was horrifying in its clarity. The event. The final straw. Kira tossed and turned in bed, grinding her teeth. In real life, she cried out.

Fifteen years ago, in the nightmare, she alternated between trying to keep her eyes closed to shut out the entire experience and forcing her eyes wide open to record whatever she could to tell the police. The room was dark and she couldn’t make out any details of the boy thrusting into her. She began shaking her head back and forth.

The boy simply clamped his hand harder around the bottom half of her face. He moved his hand up an inch and covered her nostrils. She panicked.

She couldn’t breathe.

Suddenly, he stopped moving and leaned in close, his beer-soaked lips touching her right ear.

“It would have been more fun if you had just stayed asleep,” he said and then laughed, quietly, yet cruelly.

He began thrusting again, in earnest. He had moved his hand down and Bren sucked in a huge breath through her nose. She began to wonder if he was late for an appointment. Absently, she laughed. But only in her mind. But only in a part of her mind that was still capable of humor. The rest of her mind was shutting down – like turning off a row of light-switches that controlled the illumination of a long corridor. Snap. Darkness. Snap. Darkness. Snap. Darkness.

The cold, barely-lit part of her mind that was still absorbing details assumed that he was a classmate. She only recalled seeing students at the party. There were no adults. Not even any college kids. This kid in particular began to pick up speed.

Bren forced her eyes open to capture details. Clothing. Haircut. Mannerisms. Face, even, if possible, in the dark room. She would make him pay.

“I jerked off three times today so I wouldn’t go off too soon,” he continued sawing into her. His words were sickening and actually triggered a gag reflex. She threw up a teaspoon of bile into her mouth. With a groan, she swallowed it back down. And the last light was switched off in her mind. All that remained was the evil, ancient mind. The part of her brain that only dealt in action and reaction. She remembered noticing that it was red. And it seemed to grow in strength.

With a grunt, the young boy pulled out and spilled his load on her stomach. He was heaving and sweating and panting. Suddenly, the door opened four inches. A beam of light from the hallway knifed its way across the beige carpeting.

“Christ, Marty, let’s go,” said the man from the hallway, not willing to come in. “It’s almost midnight.”

“Fuck off, Chad,” came the still-panting voice above her. “You had your turn.”

Martin Gustavson. Marty. Chad DiNapoli.

The door closed and they were once again in darkness. She could feel him wiping the quickly cooling goo from her lower stomach. Shortly, he stood up and buttoned his pants. He turned to leave and Bren grinned.

“You’ll pay for this,” she whispered.

Marty turned his head and looked over his shoulder, one hand on the door.

“And fuck you, too,” he said, and left.

* *

Bren awoke rested and relaxed for the first time in 15 years.