Part 30 (1/2)

I'm safe. Safe. He said I was safe.

All that I've been holding back-the pain and my fear-washes over me and I start to cry again. ”My arm,” I say. ”I-I'm going to be sick. My arm and my hand-it hurts so much. Please help me get my arm down.”

”Stay calm. Do you know where you are? Can you tell me your name?” His hands move to the knot tying my hand to the bed.

”Jess. I'm Jess Jordan. I'm at the Peterson's house. At a party.”

”It's a flipping necktie,” he mutters, letting go of my wrist. ”I'm going to have to cut the knot off with my knife. Are you okay with that? Can you hold completely still?”

I nod. He pulls out a large, black pocket knife and slices through the knots. My arm flops next to me like it's not part of me anymore. It takes all of my concentration to pull it under the sheet. It's so numb I can only register the weight of it pressing onto my bare chest.

”That looked pretty bad.” He holds my gaze. His eyes are scanning my face. I look away and see my clothes heaped in a clump near his feet and my head starts to spin all over again. ”Are you hurt anywhere else? Have you been raped?”

”Almost, I think. Almost,” I whisper.

”You sure?” His voice lowers. ”I'm a.s.suming you weren't tied like that of your own free will?”

”No.” I cry harder. My arm is slowly waking up...it's pins and needles. Thousands of them, all at the same time. I groan.

He sniffs at the half-empty gla.s.s beside the bed. ”This is pure vodka. How much have you had to drink tonight? Do you remember if you took any pills? Smoked anything?”

”No. No. I drank those lemonade things downstairs. And I didn't feel good. He-a guy-told me if I came up here where it was quiet I'd feel better. He told me that was water. He made me drink it. And then I couldn't move at all.” I'm gasping for breath between sobbing. ”He made me drink so much of that.” I choke. ”He...said.”

He said I was beautiful.

”Who was it? I need a name. Who brought you up here?”

”I don't know. I thought he was nice.”

I lean over and vomit on the carpet. On the officer's shoes.

On my tangled, inside-out new, blue s.h.i.+rt that's crumpled in a heap.

”s.h.i.+t!” The officer moves back. ”Okay. Okay. Breathe slowly. You're okay. I'm thinking you're a very lucky girl. You're going to be fine. Nothing happened. You're going to be just fine.”

He walks into the bathroom and returns with a small, silver wastebasket lined with a pink, powder scented plastic bag and places it under me.

I vomit again-this time all over the wads of tissue at the bottom of the basket until there's nothing left. ”I need to go home...but I can't move my legs.”

”Okay...hold tight. We're going to get you out of here by ambulance. There's a possibility you've been drugged.”

I stare, and stare, and stare at the seash.e.l.ls next to the bed in a crystal bowl.

I make myself believe that if I stare long enough, I might wake up a second time at the beach and none of this night will have been real. This is all just a dream. The room spins all over again.

A dream. A dream. This is all just a dream.

I tell myself this over and over until my voice chanting these words is the only thing I hear. The seash.e.l.ls are the only thing I can see.

A second officer, a woman, enters the room.

She bends next to me, blocking my view of the seash.e.l.ls in the bowl. More questions. I try my best to answer: ”Jess Jordan. I'm fourteen. No. Didn't smoke. No needles. No pills. I live on Ridge Road. Number 55. I don't know. He made me drink something. He had brown hair, brown eyes...and he was tall. Really tall, and so strong. Too strong. My Mom is at 443-8763.”

The first officer comes close again, his face still apologetic. Sad.

His voice has turned gentle, but he says it again: ”She's a very lucky girl. You are a very, very lucky girl.”

”You are honey,” the woman officer agrees. I close my eyes. ”A very lucky girl.”

I'm done talking to them.

Lucky. Lucky. Lucky. Lucky girl. Only...I don't feel very lucky.

The memories wash over me.

My hoodie being unzipped and pulled off.

”It's pretty hot up here to be wearing that,” he says, laughing after I'd choked back half of the acid tasting drink he's forced down my throat. He smiles as though he hadn't just been very mean. As though we're friends.

My upper arms ache where he's still gripping me. ”There you go. Have just a little more.”

He pours it down my throat again. I try to not swallow. My t-s.h.i.+rt front is drenched. I cough, and some goes down my throat. I push at him and try to stand-to run-to hit him, but instead, I fall onto the carpet with a thump.

That makes him laugh. ”Whoa there. That's right. Give it a minute to settle in.”

He reaches toward me and pulls the hair band out of my ponytail while I'm there-lying on the Peterson's beige carpet.

”Nice,” he says, running his hand through my hair and pulling it out around my face.

I try to stop him but my hand is now made of wood. It only moves a few inches and then stops at my hip.

”You're almost there. I'll get you some water,” he says.

He smiles and pulls me up, depositing me onto the bed easily as though I'm a rag doll. He's whistling as he walks into the bathroom. Like everything's normal.

I manage to drag myself up and hold onto the bed frame. My eyes are on the door, but I can't move toward it. He returns, but not with what he'd promised. He looks into my eyes as though he's looking for something; but I can no longer register his face, or what he looks like. Where I am...and possibly...even who I am fades away into the buzzing that's filling my head.

All I can see is a swirl of black eyes and a strange, knowing smile that I don't like at all.

He pulls my blue s.h.i.+rt up over my head, then, my cami. My bra comes next.

”No.” My voice is only a whisper. My limbs won't move.

He touches me...and I am not able to stop him...and I can no longer see his face...

”I'm going to make you feel really good. And you're going to make me feel really good. It's going to be fun.”

”No. No. I don't want this. Please,” I moan, managing to push his hands off my body and I sit up, but he easily pushes me back down.