CHAPTER 5

When Lillian arrived at her flat, everything was as she’d left it. Beige carpets, quaint furniture and porcelain cups visible through the glass of the armoire. Her alarm clocked flashed mute atop the nightstand. 6:00 AM. On a normal day, she’d awake at 6AM, boil Pearl Dragon tea and sip its aromatic flavor whilst gazing the sunless horizon.

Her first thought had been drive to the hospital or the Police Station but mindless routine had arrived her here. Home. A place of comfort; the illusion of safety. Habit guided her actions. Her fingers and feet shuffled her kitchen to prepare tea and change clothes. She couldn’t. She’d failed. She needed air; she slid the glass doors to her balcony.

The overcast skies hued stillborn grey. The ocean scented the breeze; it kissed her skin wet. Harshly, she inhaled. Her faucet dripped listlessly in background:

Plop. Plop. Plop.

“I feel so dirty...”

Bluhhdoop.

“So ugly.”

Splash!

Dumb bitch.

She ran a glass of warm water from the kitchen faucet and collapsed into the couch. She drank, gulped. She grimaced. She could still taste him. Her fingertips grazed her scratched collarbone and shoulders. Her nails clutched wads of hair; she curled fetal and lamented. “Dumb bitch.” The words jammed in her chest.

“It was probably the wrong fucking address. You think James would buy drugs from a place so sketch? Dressed all... like that for yourself; you probably--Stop.”

Lillian thought to call someone, anyone, but they’d taken her phone. She’d felt itchy. She’d felt numb. Shivering and hot. Hurriedly, she stripped the clothes they’d given her and fled to the bathroom. She flashed the vanity lights and examined herself naked. Her snowy skin dulled, knees, wrist and shoulders scratched ruddy. Across her abdomen he’d written in sharpie.

“Slut. Mi amor. Quiet & Agreeable.”

Violet lines of mascara cascaded her face. I look like a clown. She choked back tears. She felt a fool. She changed clothes and slid the ones they’d given her into a plastic bag. Lilith. She washed her face. She resolved. She wouldn’t shower less she rid any evidence. She rolled her eyes and slid the money, pills and weed into a dresser. Lousy minx.

It was still morning when she arrived the hospital. She hadn’t eaten. She wasn’t hungry. She wasn’t tired, just frightened and seething. The day still hadn’t felt real. She shuffled through automatic doors, dressed in a college alumni hoodie and dark grey sweatpants. Her hair still disheveled and her eyes ruddy from sleeplessness and shed tears. The attendant took one look at Lillian and knew. She was ushered to a small room. She traded her name, insurance card and driver’s license for a clipboard. A doctor arrived at some point--a man.

He’d a black toupee and crows feet that crinkled gently at the corners of his glasses. His smile reached his hazel eyes.

Why was he smiling?

“Good morning.” The Doctor said.

What the fuck was so good about it?

He was a professional, gentle and direct. He’d asked her some questions and monotonously Lillian had answered. After some-odd five minutes of customary exchange, Lillian mumbled.

“You’re as nice as everybody seems.”

“Pardon?” The Doctor inquired.

“Sorry... It’s nothing.” Lillian smiled; she hadn’t need to. She didn’t need to comfort him.

Make sure you save some of that kindness for yourself.

She vomited the words. “I need to call my Mother.” The doctor handed her a phone. “Of course.” He bowed gently then exited.

The dial tone stretched forever. She hadn’t considered what she’d say. How she would explain it. Which details to accentuate and which were unimportant. Her mom answered. “Girl, I’ve been trying to reach you.”

Lillian just regurgitated everything. Every thought and emotion she’d felt in thirteen hours.

“Mom, something bad happened and I’m sorry.” Lillian apologized profusely. “I was raped, Mom.” Her voice crumpled in the microphone. “I was raped and I was so stupid. Careless. You taught me better; I know you did. The way I was dressed... I didn’t listen to the signs. I should’ve never put myself in that situation. But I was stupid, Mother. I didn’t listen. Because I didn’t take those precautions as a woman. I don’t know what to do from here.” They wept. “I feel gross. I don’t like myself. What do I do from here? How do I help myself?”

The Doctor peeked through the door, nodded and acknowledged to give her more time. Behind him Lillian could see the black boots and navy blue uniform of a police officer. Lillian considered the arduous and painful task it would be prosecuting Elijah and testifying; her gut clench.

“Mom. The Police are here. I’m going to talk to them and call you back. Please. Please, Mom. Let me tell, James. I know you are angry, but please. I love you.” The phone clicked.

Her mother had warned her for years about watching the company you keep. She’d never liked James. He was the fraternity type, daring, charismatic if not reckless at times. But these were all the reason she liked James. He was fun. He made her feel safe and wanted.

“No man who cares for or respect his women would send her to deal.”

But he was the one who’d sent her there. Elijah’s words haunted her. His amber eyes and lupine gaze felt fresh and lecherous across her body; she shivered. She’d felt raw and exposed even all these miles away.

CHAPTER 6

The artificial light of the hospital room sheened from the glasses of Lillian’s examiner. The M.D. was bantam lady with porcelain features and long chestnut hair knotted into a bun. Her bangs framed an oval, petite face. She’d soft brown eyes and pursed pink lips that indicated neither disgust nor displeasure.

What is she thinking?

Lillian lay still beneath the halogen lamp. Her alabaster skin clammy and sweat shimmering from her brow. Her back sunk into the thin wax sheet of the examination table. Lillian’s eyes squinted; it wasn’t that it was too bright. She simply did not want to see.

Please, tell me what you are thinking.

The pallor white of the hospital reminisced Lillian of the Viewing Room. Her fist clenched. The antiseptic uniformity of an infirmary. Hospitals don’t feel homely; her own flesh felt foreign. Lillian’s breaths shortened. Her chest fluttering, rising and falling beneath the thin fabric of her teal hospital gown. She’d already missed the warmth and breadth of her hoodie and sweats.

“Open your mouth, please.” The Doctor requested.

Lillian complied. Lillian had only communicated in the form of head nods and shakes to ‘yes or no’ questions. She’d felt dissected on a wax sheet. Splayed and poked and prodded.

My breath must be rancid.

Lillian winced at the thought. If it had been, the doctor’s expression muted beneath the sea green of her surgeon mask.

Her cheek was cotton swabbed and her fingernails scraped for evidence. The doctor combed Lillian’s hair and meticulously examined for bruises and abrasions. Each cut cleaned and each finger and toe scrubbed. Elijah had left so much of himself all over her. And his hair, his flesh beneath her nails, his scent, saliva and residue were all collected for investigation.

The Doctor scribbled each detail with discreet eyes.

Say something. Please. Reaffirm. That it is me still in this body.

The Doctor adjusted her phone as she photographed Lillian’s wounds and abrasions. Lillian lifted her arms and turned for each angle she’d requested. Lillian’s fingertips grazed the swollen lumps of flesh that were her own neck and collarbone. A virulent leash of purple and red welts choked her jugular. The Doctor grabbed some wipes and began cleaning Elijah’s sharpie taunts from Lillian’s abdomen.

She took her blood; even her urine was filed in some glass flask or container to determine if she’d been transmitted a disease or malady. The tests had returned negative and that did ease Lillian. The Doctor made mention of emergency contraception; her docile brown eyes flickered emotive as she explained to her the systems by which a woman in Lillian’s circumstance could seek help. She’d offered Lillian her card, bowed and exited the room.

Hours later Lillian found herself at the Police Station. Feeling Interrogated.