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Message-ID: <34140asstr$1008695405@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Alexis Siefert <ealexissiefert@yahoo.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Monsters (Alexis S.) (MF rom tragedy)
Date: Tue, 18 Dec 2001 12:10:05 -0500
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<1st attachment, "Monsters.txt" begin>

Monsters (MF rom tragedy)
By Alexis Siefert

This is a work of adult fiction and should be read only by 
adults. It is also my work. Although I receive no compensation 
other than your comments, it is still my work. Please respect 
this and do not repost it somewhere else without talking to me 
first about it. If you are not allowed to read works with sexual 
content, either due to your age or by virtue of the laws in the 
geographical location in which you reside, please do not 
continue.

This story does contain some sexual content.  It also contains 
some harsh realities surrounding domestic violence and abuse.  If 
either of these subjects offend you, please do not continue.  
It's coded as a MF romantic tragedy for a reason.

I'd love to hear from you - please, please, please let me know 
what you think. Like most writers, I take what I do here very 
seriously, and I'd appreciate any feedback, suggestions, or 
comments that readers are kind enough to send.

Alexis (ealexissiefert@yahoo.com)

~~~~~~~

MONSTERS
(or Sometimes the Bad Guys Win)



She cried in her sleep sometimes. Actually, she cried in her 
sleep a lot of the time, but some nights were worse than others. 
She never really woke up when she cried, and she didn't exactly 
sob, not so as you'd really hear her, but it always woke him up. 
He'd roll over and look at her face; the shadows on her skin were 
always different depending on the phase of the moon or the clouds 
in the sky or the number of cars driving by their suburban home, 
but she was always beautiful. 

Tears shown on her cheeks in the faint light that drifted through 
the bedroom curtains. He never knew exactly how to help her, how 
to calm her and settle her restless, sad thoughts, so he did what 
he could. He would stroke her hair, pushing the sweat-dampened 
locks from her forehead. With his fingertips, he would gently 
wipe the tears from her cheeks, and he'd murmur nothing noises 
and soothing sounds to her. His voice was always soft but intense 
in the otherwise-silence of their bedroom. Eventually she would 
make a last hicoughy sob and relax against him, her breath 
slowing to the more gentle rhythm of dreamless sleep. 

They'd finish the night like that, her body curved into a "c," 
her hands tucked between her knees, and her forehead pressed to 
his chest. On these nights his arm, protectively wrapped around 
her shoulders, was usually asleep long before he was. Lying there 
in the dark, listening to the now-calm in and out of her 
breathing, he would sometimes imagine all the ways he could fix 
it, the ways he could make it better. 

The best ways were the ones she would never find out about. The 
commando raids late at night, sitting with a sniper rifle, 
watching through the scope. He had it planned down to the most 
minuscule of details, what he'd be wearing, what the weather 
would be like, and the movement of the wind over the dulled-blue 
barrel. He could feel the grass brush against the heavy cotton of 
his field BDU's as he lay propped up on his elbows, his cheek 
pressed to the smooth stock. He imagined her efforts to hide her 
delight as she read the report in the morning paper about an 
unexplained shooting. He'd sit across from her and smile, never 
letting on that he knew why she was suddenly so happy, why her 
dark moods had finally passed. Those were the best, and those 
thoughts were what kept his mind from the painful pinprick 
tingling of his fingertips as his hand fell asleep.

The problem was that he never knew where his sights were to be 
centered.   Charlotte had resolutely refused to tell him any 
specific details about where she'd come from.  "Oregon," she told 
him whenever he'd asked.  "Outside of Portland."  Then she'd 
change the subject with that manner of hers that said, "I've 
changed the subject, let's keep it changed."  Unfortunately, 
"outside of Portland" encompassed most of the state, which was, 
more than likely, her point.

So he'd let the subject stay changed and tell himself it was 
because she loved him that she'd never be more specific.  "It's 
your karma, Robert," she had said on more than one occasion.  
"I'd hate to think I put that temptation in front of you."  She 
loved him, and that was good enough for him - most of the time.

The other scenarios were good too. He'd intercede for her, 
stepping in front of her monster, doing battle with her demon. 
She'd be so grateful that she'd never be able to dream of a life 
without him. Of course that was the problem with that dream. 
There had to be something from which he could rescue her, which 
meant putting her back in the position that she left. No, as good 
as it is to be the hero, he couldn't risk that for her.

But there were other nights. There were nights when he was just 
plain tired. Nights when he knew that unfinished work tasks 
filled his desk in box, or nights when dinner had burned and his 
stomach was unsatisfied. Nights after days of long meetings and 
longer commutes and bumper-to-bumper traffic through smog-filled 
streets. On those nights he would lie in the dark next to her and 
find that all he could focus on was the numbness moving from his 
shoulder to his fingertips. He'd lie next to her and wonder how 
it would be if he'd never met her. If he'd never fallen so hard 
for her charms. If her laugh had never drifted into his soul and 
sent roots so deep into him that the thought of being without 
her, the thought of losing her was physically painful. He'd 
wonder if perhaps he wouldn't be better off without her. He 
imagined life without the hassles, life without the difficulties, 
life without the constant walking on eggshells and tiptoeing 
around her moods. 

He always felt guilty the morning after those nights; he'd find 
himself lavishing her with affection after those nights and 
inwardly cringing when she laughed about his sudden "amor ."  
She'd pour his coffee and giggle as his hand not-so-innocently 
brushed her robe and teased open the satin collar for an early 
morning peek.  She'd flick the dishtowel at him as she wiped 
toast crumbs from the countertop.  And then he loved her all over 
again.

~~~~~

The day they met started out for him like most other days. Early 
morning meetings to discuss whatever the business catch phrase of 
the week was, followed by some minor bullshitting around the 
burnt remains of the morning's coffee, then back to his office to 
wade through memos and e-mails and other, sundry details of the 
commercial real estate world. The phone was propped between his 
chin and his shoulder, and he swiveled in his desk chair to gaze 
out the window.  His office, although a corner office as befitted 
his status as senior-junior partner, overlooked the frontage road 
aside the highway.  The lack of view wasn't worth complaining 
about though; it was a massive step up from his former next-to-
the-stairwell office he had shared with two other office drones 
before he took off in the enchanting world of commercial real 
estate development.  Pushing a basket of files to the side with 
his foot, he propped his heels on the metal windowsill and leaned 
back in his "relaxed executive" pose.

That's when he saw her. 

Actually, he saw her car first.  Ditched cars weren't all that 
uncommon in late October.  The first snow always seems to catch 
people off guard.  No one has snow tires ready, and the auto/tire 
shops do a brisk business for the first couple of weekends after 
the white stuff starts to fall.  This year the snow came early, 
even for Anchorage standards, and a car nose- or tail-first in 
the ditch was settling into one of those sights that quickly 
became commonplace.

However, it's not often that one actually sees a car take the 
nose-first spin-and-dive.  The driver must have hit his breaks 
too hard or too fast, because it was a spectacular glide across 
the highway.   It quickly became obvious that traffic wasn't 
going to stop, and when no one emerged from the ditched car, he 
grabbed his cell phone and coat and headed downstairs to see if 
the driver was hurt.  If nothing else, he'd earn his Good 
Samaritan points for the winter, and it gave him a good excuse to 
step away from the office for a bit.  

He knocked on the window first, but when the driver didn't 
respond he opened the door, simultaneously reaching for his cell 
phone to dial 911.  She was slumped forward, her head leaning on 
the steering wheel, both hands gripped on the cracked vinyl 
covering.  When he reached in to touch her shoulder, she raised 
her head and turned to face him. 

She wasn't pretty.  She might have been pretty, even beautiful, 
at other times, but her face was now a swollen symphony of 
purple, red, and blue.   Swelling obscured her cheekbones, and 
her nose had the telltale lopsidedness of a recent break.  His 
first thought was that she had hit the dashboard; that for some 
reason her seat belt had failed to lock when she impacted in the 
ditch.  But once the surprise passed, he could see that the 
bruises marring her face were well set, deeply colored, and at 
least several days old.

He let out a low whistle then reached his hand down to meet her 
opened one.   With his other hand he unclicked her shoulder belt.  
"Can you move, or would you rather I call an ambulance?"

She took his hand and stepped gingerly from the car.  "Some Good 
Samaritan you are.  Don't you know you're never supposed to move 
an accident victim?"  

He opened his mouth to chastise her for being ungrateful when he 
saw the teasing glint in her eye.  Whatever comment he planned 
was cut short.  As she stood, she paled and swayed.

"Look lady.  Be careful.  Maybe you should sit back down."

Her eyes were glazed and there was a flush of fever under the 
paleness of her skin.  "Yeah.  You're probably..."

She fainted.
 
~~~~

They spent a year getting to know one another.  She had come to 
town with no apparent plan.  He didn't have any direct reason to 
trust her, but he went with his gut, or some other place that 
inspired instinctive trust.  He had a client who needed someone 
to watch a small summer cabin. Instinct or not, she turned out to 
be the perfect tenant.  In exchange for keeping the home clean, 
the rodents out, and the pipes running, she got a place to stay 
until the owner came back up for summer hunting and fishing. 

He took her out for coffee and they met for lunches.  She was 
reluctant to talk about where she had come from.   The look in 
her eyes whenever he asked bordered on panic, so he didn't push.  
But she was a near-perfect companion otherwise.   

It took months for him to move past coffee.  She used to laugh 
and quote movies to him whenever he looked at her for more than a 
friendly few seconds. 

"Oh, Robert.  You know, relationships that start under intense 
circumstances never last."

"Sandra Bullock in 'Speed,' Charlotte.  Too easy."

"Maybe."  Sip, pause, laugh, subject change.

They met three mornings a week before work.  Always for coffee, 
always at the same place.   Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, 
latt s and bagels, and increasingly friendly conversation.  He'd 
talk to her for as long as possible, then realize that she'd not 
said more than two or three sentences the entire morning.  She 
was like that.  She drew him out, and he found himself telling 
her things he didn't know he still cared about.  Frustrations at 
work became trivial once she had laughed at him for taking them 
too seriously.   

She found work quickly.  She started working through the 
temporary agencies, taking whatever office position was available 
that week.  Soon companies were requesting her specifically for 
blocks of employee vacations and holidays.  Within a couple of 
months she no longer had to take the low-level front desk, look-
pretty-and-answer-the-phone jobs, the jobs that didn't question 
her apparent lack of office background.  By January she had been 
offered, and was able to take her pick of, back office jobs at 
salaries that, although not stellar, were high enough to let her 
start picking up the morning coffee tab on occasion.  

It was as though her growing independence helped her relax 
personally as well as professionally.   By March they were 
meeting for dinner as well as coffee, and she started making off-
handed references to her life before Alaska.  Nothing specific, 
just a peek behind her curtain.  Dinner was, more often than not, 
something cooked together at either his apartment, or the cabin 
she was still staying in.  They'd eat sitting at the counter or 
in front of a movie, wash the dishes together, and maybe share a 
bottle of cheap wine, doing their critical impression of whatever 
old film was showing on A&E.  

He found himself expanding his entertainment circle at her gentle 
insistence.  She'd skim the morning paper as she nibbled her 
bagel, making small hinting comments about whatever production 
the symphony was producing, or about the relative merits of the 
ballet the Miami touring company was bringing to the city that 
month.   He found that he actually enjoyed opera, at least he did 
when he attended with Charlotte.  

By April he knew he loved her.  

His apartment lease came up for renewal, and the cabin owner was 
coming up for fishing season.  They were both looking at housing 
upheavals, so it made sense for them to start looking together.   
They found a small house for sale.  It wasn't hard to figure out 
why it hadn't sold.  Too big for a single person, too small for a 
family, but situated in the middle of a family neighborhood.   
His name on the mortgage, hers on the contract for deed between 
the two of them.

They moved in the last week of May.  As moves go, it was an easy 
one.  She hadn't had a need for new furniture living in the 
cabin, so her move was finished in one cram-packed car trip.  The 
furniture was his, and like most moves, it was hectic-fun.  Too 
many people from the office helping out, getting under each 
other's feet.  Lots of noise and confusion.  But they were 
finished and their helpers had all gone home by the end of Sunday 
evening.

They collapsed on the sofa together in mock-exhaustion, feet 
propped on boxes, the last of the "thanks for helping" beers in 
their hands.

"Here's to a successful move, Charlotte."  They clinked the 
bottlenecks together in salute.

"Here's to friends with strong backs, Robert."  Clink.

"And here's to..." Robert's voice trailed off as their eyes 
locked.  "Here's to you, Charlotte.  Here's to the best friend 
I've ever had.  Thank you for doing this with me."

Charlotte pulled back, sitting sideways against the arm of the 
sofa.  She took a long swallow of her beer before answering.

"Thank you, Robert.  For everything."

~~~~

They moved into a routine quickly and easily.  She in her room, 
he in his, meeting for breakfast, dinner and movies together in 
the rest of the house.   They shared food in the refrigerator and 
did each other's laundry.  She picked up his shaving cream at the 
grocery store; he remembered her mint cookies and cream ice 
cream.  They both grumbled until the coffee finished brewing in 
the morning, and they fought for control of the television 
clicker in the evenings.  And each night they went to their 
separate rooms, their intimacy ending at "good night."  His room 
shared the wall with hers, and he listened to her at night, 
settling for sleep.   He knew the sound of her bed creak as she 
shifted over to turn out her reading light, and he listened for 
the change in her breathing that said she had fallen asleep.  
Some nights he'd get out of bed and stand in her doorway, 
watching the rise and fall of the blanket across her chest as she 
slept.  

That's when he realized that she cried in her sleep.

In June she started going to a doctor.  A therapist, she told 
him.  "Just to work out some old issues.  Sort of cleaning out 
the old attic."  He worried, but she kept it to herself, so 
instead of asking, he started to watch her.  

For the first few weeks she pulled away from him, became 
withdrawn.  Then, in late July, it was as though a veil lifted.  
She started to laugh again during the day, touching him as they 
passed in living room, standing perhaps a bit too close as they 
prepared dinner together in the kitchen, letting her hand linger 
on his for a fraction of a second too long to be merely friendly.  
But she still went to her own bedroom at night, and she still 
cried in her sleep.

~~~~

They spent the month of August wringing the last bit of sunlight 
our of the long summer days.  She stretched his leg muscles 
dragging him on long hikes through the semi-marked trails of the 
Chugach State Park, and he taught her how to combat fish for 
salmon on the Russian River and the various creeks along the 
Seward Highway.   

They had spent the day fishing the Kenai River.   They came home 
hot, sunburned, and smelling of fish bait and river water.  They 
dropped the cooler on the kitchen floor and headed to their 
separate bathrooms for showers.   He had just lathered his hair 
and face when he heard the bathroom door click shut.

"Charlotte?  Is that you?  Don't worry, I'm not going to take all 
the hot water.  If it's bothering your water pressure, I'll be 
out in a minute."  He started to rinse.

"Don't bother, Robert."  She pushed opened the shower door and 
stepped in with him, hugging her body close to his as she closed 
the door behind her.  She took the cloth from the hook and traced 
a soapy line across his chest, down his sternum to his pubic 
hair.

He put his hand under her chin, turning her face up to meet his 
gaze.  "Charlotte?  Are you sure?"

She nodded and brought the cloth lower, wrapping her hand around 
him, feeling him harden at her touch.  Wrapping his arm around 
her waist, he drew her against his skin, feeling her breasts 
flatten against his chest.  Suds slicked the space between them, 
making her slippery in his embrace.  "If you're sure, let's do 
this the right way."

He took the cloth from her and gently soaped her back and 
shoulders, letting the water wash away sweat and river smell.  He 
turned her so her back was against him.  As she leaned into his 
body, his hands stroked over her shoulders, down her chest, 
painting the swelling of her breasts with the white foam.  

With deft fingers, he lathered her hair, scritching softly 
against her scalp, watching her face relax as her eyes closed.  
His hands gathered her hair gently, pulling the shampoo through 
to the ends, letting the water fall down her back, along the 
curve of her spine.  He bent his head and kissed the wetness of 
her neck.  Encouraged by her small moan, he bent further, his 
lips making trails in the water along her shoulder blade, 
brushing his lips down her back to the curve of her buttocks.   
His hands wrapped around her waist, and he tasted the mixed 
flavors of soap and sweat on the smooth, taut skin of her ass.  
With one hand, he brought the soapy cloth down the length of her 
leg to her foot, then up between her thighs, cleaning her gently.  

She arched her back, pressing her thighs against his hand, 
drawing him up with her fingers.  Turning to face him she 
whispered, "I'm clean.  Did you say something about doing this 
right?"

She slept in his arms that night, and for the first time he was 
able to hold her when she cried.

~~~~

Charlotte never moved back into her room.  They slowly converted 
the space to an office, and the unspoken agreement of 
relationship grew between them.  He explored her body at night, 
tracing scars without asking about their origins.  Waiting for 
her to open to him.  And, gradually, she did.

~~~~

"Marry me, Charlotte."

She laughed.  "Robert, unless you know something happening in the 
legislature that I'm unaware of, we both know that can't happen."

"Charlotte, I'm serious.  There's nothing to stop you from 
divorcing him.  I've got lawyer friends in Oregon.  Let me make 
some phone calls in the morning.  This could all be over, and we 
can start fresh."

"I don't know, Robert.  I don't want to go back there for any 
reason.  Things are so good right now.  I don't want to tempt 
fate.  What's wrong with what we have?"

"No, Charlotte.  I'm tired of living in his shadow.  Until you've 
cut those ties he'll always be a part of our lives."

"I don't know," her voice faded before he cut her off.

"Unless you think you might want to go back to him."

An icy silence filled the room.  He could hear the wind blow 
through the bare trees outside the window, and there was a soft 
'crunch' as if something big, probably one of the moose living in 
the woods skirting the neighborhood, nosed through the trees, 
searching for an overlooked leaf.  It had been a hard winter, and 
there was a feeling of hungry desperation pushing creatures into 
less secure environments.

In that space between two halves of a second, a cloud passed 
behind her eyes and he saw her as she was beside the road, a year 
and a lifetime ago.  Worn and hollow.  His stomach lurched with 
guilt, and he knew that had hurt as much as if he had raised his 
hand to her.  He knew that in doubting her resolution to be away, 
that in accusing her of wanting to return to her painful past, he 
had gone too far.

Then it passed, and he saw the cold anger reflected in the glint 
of her eyes.  She gritted her teeth and steeled herself with a 
breath drawn through a clenched jaw.  Her eyes locked with his, 
and he silently begged her to tell him off, to draw on the 
strength she'd spent the last year developing.

She shook her head slowly, twice, before she silently picked up 
her pillow and the blanket from the foot of the bed.  She closed 
the door softly behind her and he could hear her settling in on 
the sofa.  The television clicked on.  

The night grew colder.

~~~~

She was back in the bed when he woke up that morning.   She 
didn't mention their argument, he didn't bring it up again, but 
it was there.  Silently hanging around the house with them.  They 
weren't always aware of it, but it popped up when they least 
expected it.    She began to drift away from him, and from 
whispered phone calls and surreptitious shuffling of the 
afternoon mail, he knew that she was making plans without him.  
He began to wait.

~~~~

"How'd you get out?"

She hadn't expected that question to be the one they opened with. 
Such a simple question, with such a complicated answer.  But it 
was one that she was prepared for.   She and Robert had practiced 
her presentation for seemingly endless hours.  It had taken all 
of her reserve courage to make this presentation.  To agree to 
stand before this group of pre-service counselors and recount 
what life as an abused wife is really like.    Her audience was 
filled with social workers, Ph.D. program candidates. They had 
already spent an hour going through the process, how abuse 
starts, how it builds.  She had walked them through the first 
years of her marriage.  The small fights, the first slap, the 
tearful apologies and heartfelt promises that it wouldn't happen 
again.  Flowers and jewelry, and simple-sounding explanations.    
They had nodded wisely as she explained her feelings of guilt and 
responsibility, as she recounted his careful explanations 
delineating how it was really her fault.  She knew better, didn't 
she?  And since she knew how he liked things, it was really her 
fault if she did things differently, thereby making him hit her.    

She had shared a little of her past with them, just to give them 
a feel of what it takes to set a woman up for such a marriage.  
The early death of her parents, the string of foster homes.   The 
unsettling years between five and eighteen.  A serious lack of 
parental guidance, and way too much independence at an early age.   
It was all so step-by-step, almost textbook.  He professed to 
love her, he lavished her with gifts and attention.  He showed 
her what he called love.  She hadn't seen it before, and on the 
surface it seemed like love.  So she met and fell in love with 
her Prince Charming, and for the first few months everything was 
beautiful.  They entertained, they looked good together.  He 
dressed her in finery, and decorated her in shiny, expensive 
baubles, and he trotted her out as his little hostess.  They were 
"such a delightful couple."  They threw wonderful parties, and 
they were seen where they needed to be seen.  She glittered and 
sparkled and laughed.  He was suave and charming.   It all seemed 
ideal.  

Of course, that was the problem.  He "seemed" instead of "was."  
He had mannerisms instead of manners.  He believed that etiquette 
could substitute for breeding.  And, despite rising economically 
above his more-than-humble beginnings, he never really left 
behind his trailer-trash upbringing.  He married looking not for 
someone to love, but for someone to blame.   Be careful of the 
true believers; they only become more extreme as time goes on.

She reached for the water glass on the table beside her and 
sipped, giving herself a few extra seconds.  She cleared her 
throat softly and began.

"It's not short answer, so you might want to get comfortable."  
That was good for a small chuckle from her 'audience.'  "I used 
to do the grocery shopping every Friday afternoon.  Part of my 
'job' was to plan the meals for the house and for any events we 
were hosting that week, and when the grocery ads came out in the 
Friday newspaper I compared prices, made up shopping lists, and 
spent the day at whatever stores had the best deals.  In 
retrospect, it was significantly less efficient and more time 
consuming that it should have been, considering that we didn't 
save that much money by driving from store to store, and frankly, 
saving twelve dollars a week on groceries shouldn't have been a 
high priority.  But it was yet another form of control--he could 
keep my day fully occupied and accounted for if I had to spend it 
at 4 different grocery stores, 2 dry cleaners, the dog groomer, 
and his office.   Remember that I still had a couple of hours or 
so of paperwork to do for him at the end of the week in addition 
to the household management chores.  So I'd leave with him on 
Friday mornings, armed with my to-do list for the day and enough 
blank checks to cover each stop--no more, no less."

She paused and took a deep breath.   Her hands, still holding the 
water glass, had begun to tremble again.

"Anyway.  Friday evenings after work he'd compare my shopping 
lists, the grocery receipts and the checkbook to ensure that all 
the numbers matched up.  For a long time this made sense to me.  
After all, he was the architect, and he was the one who paid 
attention to details, and I was just a girl.  And, as he 
frequently reminded me, one prone to making mistakes.  

"About 18 months before I left, I decided that maybe I needed to 
figure out a way to get some unrecorded funds of my own.  Given 
the way things were set up at the time, there wasn't a chance in 
hell I could skim from the grocery or household funds.   We had 
one checkbook for our joint account--like so many things it made 
sense at the time.  He said that it made it too easy for mistakes 
to get made if we were running two different series of check 
numbers.  So he held on to the checkbook and pulled out however 
many checks I'd need for whatever I was doing.  He gave me credit 
cards for everything else I needed; I carried a gas station card 
to take care of the car, and a Visa for places that didn't accept 
checks or for unscheduled stops.  I didn't have an ATM card, and 
even if I did I couldn't very well go withdraw funds from our 
account without him knowing about it.  It took me about a week, 
but one Friday morning as I was going through the sale ads it 
came to me.  It wasn't going to be fast, but it would be doable.

"After the cashier rang my grocery purchases, I had written the 
check, and she had given me my receipt, I would "discover" two or 
three extra coupons that I had "forgotten" to give her.  Silly 
me, so sorry.   Since they rarely added up to more than a dollar 
or two, it wasn't a big deal for her to simply ring them 
separately and give me the cash back.  I figured that I averaged 
about a dollar a week at each store, three stores a week.  It 
wasn't much, but knowing that I had a tiny reserve fund building 
up bolstered my spirits more than I can describe.  I cut a small 
hole in the seam of the mattress and hid the cash there each 
week.  It was simple enough to sew up the hole and cover it with 
a bed sheet, and there wasn't any reason for him to even notice 
the mattress as long as I kept the bed made correctly.  
Periodically I'd take out the singles and exchange them at the 
grocery store for tens or twenties, to keep the bulk from 
becoming noticeable.   The only real risk of discovery I took was 
the overnight bag I kept packed and stashed under the center of 
the spare-tire in my trunk.  I was afraid that Mark would have a 
reason to check the car someday, and I had no idea how I'd 
explain it.  But by that point, I figured I could take just about 
anything he'd dish out.  If he had wanted to kill me, he'd have 
done it by now.  I knew that he valued his playthings too much to 
do any permanent damage to one of them."  Her face grew 
impassive, and the audience could see the revulsion in her 
posture.  She shook it off.  "Anyway.  In eighteen months I had a 
little more than $200.  Like I said, it wasn't much, really, but 
it was enough to give me some peace of mind.  It wasn't enough to 
give me the push I needed, the confidence to leave though.  

"That took something else."

"I was a klutz.   I know that becomes the most common trait 
associated with beaten spouses because we're constantly 
'tripping,' catching ourselves when we 'fall,' which of course 
explains the three broken wrists during any given year, right?  
And the several facial bruises from when we run into door frames, 
or cabinets, or when we smash our fingers in the car door a 
couple of times each season is most often attributed to our lack 
of Ginger-Rogersesque abilities.  So I realize that it sounds 
like I'm still making excuses.

"However, I really am somewhat of a klutz; my parents had some 
foresight when they chose not to name me 'Grace.'   I worked for 
a friend of his, in a law office, four days a week.  Our office 
was set up like, well, an office.  Two rows of cubicles down the 
center of a room for the secretaries and clerks with offices 
around the edges.  As a documents-manager, I rated a step up from 
a cubicle.  Not a corner office--those were reserved for 
associates--but one of the middle, inside offices.  It would have 
to be either be a junior employee's office or a file room because 
it completely lacked natural lighting, and it was too far from 
the senior partners' offices to be politically strategic.  So, I 
had this habit known throughout the firm of coming out of my 
office door in a hurry, rounding the corner, and smacking my hip 
on the corner of the first desk in the row.  Poor Sandi.  It got 
so that she couldn't keep anything on the edge of her desk; I was 
sure to knock it over.

"Anyway, I almost always had a spectacular bruise on my right hip 
and thigh from her desk, so you can see that it wasn't much of a 
stretch for Mark to be able to call me into work because I had 
injured myself.  He did that on occasion.  But usually he called 
personnel to let them know that I was 'sick' and would be out for 
a few days.   I was generally out just long enough for the most 
serious of bruises to fade a little, or for enough residual 
soreness to fade so that I could walk without drawing attention 
to myself.  A day or two at a time, every couple of months.   The 
rest of the time?  Well, let's just say that Hollywood has 
nothing on me when it comes to make-up expertise."

With an almost-smile, she looked up from her water glass to find 
Robert in the seats before her.   He was there, just as he said 
he would.  He offered her a wink and a nod.  She continued.

"It was a Wednesday.  I had been married for about four years, or 
maybe it was forty.  Maybe it just felt like a lifetime."  She 
paused for a sip.  "Four years, one month and eighteen days.  It 
was flu season, and I had--once again--put off getting a flu 
shot.  Invincible I wasn't, and I could feel it starting.  So at 
lunch I told our receptionist that I was taking the rest of the 
day off, and I grabbed a cab home.

"When I got there, Mark was already home.  It wasn't unusual for 
him to be 'home' during the day--he based his business out of the 
house--but it was unusual for him to be out of the office.  And, 
he had company.

"I knew his friend.  A fraternity brother-turned poker and 
football buddy.   When I saw that he was entertaining, I mumbled 
some sort of apology for intruding and tried to leave, but he 
stopped me.   Apparently I was the reason for their meeting.  
Well, sort of.  Me and a hockey game.  

"The way he explained it was that Craig, his friend, had admired 
me for quite some time.  You see, this was meant as a compliment.  
I was supposed to be proud and grateful.  So, instead of their 
normal case of Cubans or brandy, they made a more unique bet.  If 
Mark's team won, he'd get the use of Craig's houseboat for the 
weekend.  If they lost, Craig would get me for the weekend."

She smiled slightly at the collective small gasp from her 
audience.  Even the most jaded of adults can be shocked when 
shown the seamier side of sexual deviancy.  It's so different 
when looking at a real person instead of reading a textbook case 
study.

"Hockey allows for something that many other sports don't.  They 
tied."  She smiled, and her audience relaxed back into their 
chairs.

"So, instead of calling it a draw and playing the next game, Mark 
and Craig decided instead to just pay the bets as though they had 
both lost.  Or, more precisely, as though they had both won.  
Mark would take the boat for the weekend, and Craig would stay at 
the house with me.  Apparently they were there working out the 
details.

"Then I guess I did something that neither of them had expected.  
Remember that I had come home with the beginnings of the flu.  
When I realized that Mark was effectively turning me over to his 
friend, it hit me full force.  Or maybe it was just a bad 
croissant from breakfast."  Good for another chuckle.  "Either 
way my stomach had had enough.  I grabbed the trashcan from under 
the desk and vomited.  Craig gagged, and Mark was furious.  I 
think he thought that I had done it on purpose.  That I was 
deliberately trying to embarrass him or make him have to renege 
on his bet.  He hustled me into the bathroom, slapped me, and 
started pulling my dress off.  When he had me stripped, he tossed 
me into the shower stall, turned the water on, and ordered me to 
get cleaned up.

She rubbed her right bicep, remembering the bruises his fingers 
had left.  "He came back a few minutes later and pulled me from 
the shower.  I tried to grab the towel off the counter as I 
struggled behind him, but he took it from me and held it out of 
reach in his other hand.  He dragged me into the living room, 
tossed the towel on the carpet in front of his friend, and dumped 
me, naked and dripping from the shower, at Craig's feet.

His voice rang hollow in her memory, and as she continued, her 
face took on an ugly sneer, mimicking his tone as she spoke.  
"'Now, Charlotte.  We had intended to make the exchange Friday, 
but since you're home, and obviously the office isn't expecting 
you back, I see no reason to wait.  I'll just go pack.'  I 
remember hearing him leave the room before I was able to look up.  
Craig was watching me, watching the water soak the towel and the 
carpet under me, but he didn't move until Mark was out of the 
room."  This was where she faltered.  When they had 'rehearsed,' 
she and Robert couldn't decide just how much was appropriate to 
share in this forum.  They had decided to play it by ear, to see 
their audience's reaction before getting too detailed and 
graphic.   It was silent in the small lecture hall.   

In her mind she relived those few minutes that seemed to last for 
an eternity.  The plush carpet left impressions in her palms and 
the towel had scraped rough burns on her shins when she landed.  
She felt Craig's hand grip her hair, squeezing the cold water out 
and down her naked back.   Goosebumps rose on her arms as she 
felt his fingers draw her long tresses into a thick ponytail and 
pull at her scalp.   He bent down low over her shoulder and his 
voice rasped in her ear.  "Mark's told me about you.  You're 
quite 'resilient,' aren't you, Charlotte?" he growled, and she 
struggled to keep her face impassive as his cigar-tainted breath 
filled her nostrils.  "I've been looking for a gal who can take 
things a little 'rough.'  I'm sure we're going to have a lot of 
fun this weekend, aren't we?  Maybe test the limits a bit?"  With 
his free hand, he brought the smoldering cigar under her crouched 
body and held it beneath the curve of her breast.  She tasted the 
bile rising in her throat and her stomach knotted.  The muscles 
in her back tensed as she flinched away from the heat beginning 
to scorch her tender flesh.   

A cough from somewhere in the audience brought her back to the 
present.  She shuddered, then began to shake.  Robert stood and 
started up middle aisle, between the rows of listeners.   
Charlotte visibly faltered, and her voice cracked as she looked 
out over the hall.   Robert knew she was searching for her 
courage; she found it as her eyes locked to his.  By the time he 
reached the front row, she had calmed, regained her composure, 
and held her hand up--indicating that he should sit.  He took an 
empty seat in the front row.

Charlotte shook off the memories and started again.  Her voice 
had lost its personal warmth, but she continued.  "The next thing 
I knew, Craig was throwing Mark a set of keys to the houseboat, 
and he was walking out the door.  I spent the next few hours at 
the hands of yet another monster.  Craig was cruel, sexually 
sadistic, but he wasn't as concerned as Mark with maintaining my 
long-term health."  She smiled ruefully.

"It was a long weekend."  The audience laughed nervously at her 
obvious understatement.  "I was honestly sick.  I was feverish 
and my body refused to keep anything down.  And when Craig said 
he was looking for someone who could withstand 'rough,' he wasn't 
overstating his position.  He was angry that I was ill, I think 
perhaps he was figuring that Mark got the better end of the 
bargain, and he was apparently determined to get the most out of 
the weekend before Mark came home.  

"The days ran together and became an almost endlessly repeating 
loop.  He woke up, ate while I watched, sitting on the kitchen 
floor at his feet.  I'd heave and he'd get angry.  I knew at that 
point that my cheekbone was broken, and I was pretty sure that my 
shoulder wasn't going to be the same anytime soon.  After he ate, 
he'd drag me to the shower with him."  She trembled again.  "Then 
he started."  A muffled gulp from the audience stopped her 
narrative.  

"I'm sorry.  Let me skip ahead."

"It must have been the second or third night, and Craig was 
starting to wear down.  For some reason, before going to sleep, 
he hadn't tied one of my wrists as tightly as he had been.  I 
hadn't slept, not really, since he got there.  I was exhausted, 
dehydrated, and hurt.  And I knew I was done.  I knew that when 
Mark came home, things would never be the same, and I knew that I 
wasn't going to be even remotely safe anymore.  So, when I 
realized that I was loose and that Craig was snoring, I untied my 
other wrist, grabbed my robe from the closet door, my purse from 
under the bed, my money-stash from under the mattress, and I 
sneaked out to my car.

"He must have heard the front door, or the car door, or 
something, but before I got the car out of the driveway, he was 
there.  He pulled open the car door and dragged me to the 
driveway.  I screamed, and a neighbor must have heard because a 
porch light next door came on.  Craig panicked, took his foot off 
of my collarbone and backed off a step.  I don't remember much 
else, except I know I got back into the car and drove off."

"I drove for an hour or so, trying to focus.  It had been so long 
since I had had to make any real decisions.  And, despite my 
little sneaking about with the money, I hadn't made any real 
plans about what to do or where to go.  I was aimless, so I got 
on the highway and started driving.  I used my gas card while I 
was in the state, charging gas and convenience store food for as 
long as I could, but I knew that as soon as Mark contacted Craig, 
he'd cancel the card.  I also knew that he'd be able to figure 
out where I was from the gas station charges, so I spent a couple 
of hours stopping at the stations and pleading "stranded 
traveler."  I'd pay for someone's gas with my charge card; they 
paid me the cash.  It's amazing what people will do.  I know that 
most people knew what was going on.  There was no way that a 
stranded traveler would look like I looked.  But this way, I 
think, they figured they were helping without really getting 
involved.

"Anyway, by the end of the night, I had doubled my cash, and I 
figured I had enough gas money to get me where I wanted to go.  
So, I headed north.  At that time all you needed to get into 
Canada was your driver's license as ID, no passport or other 
paperwork, so I figured I'd head up here.  Alaska.  The true 
'last frontier.'

"And, as they say, the rest is history."

~~~~

One morning she was gone.  

Even before he saw the note on her pillow, he knew she was gone.  
There was an emptiness, more than the absence of coffee burbling 
from the kitchen.  More than the morning silence that would 
normally be filled with the rhythmic drone of the morning radio 
news Charlotte always listened to.  He had teased her about her 
addiction to morning NPR reports.  "Left-wing liberal namby-
pambies," he called them when he wanted to tease.  

But the house was still.  Then he saw her note.

"Dear Robert,

You were right.  It's time to cut ties.  
Please don't try to come to me, this is 
something I have to do on my own.   My 
lawyer tells me that this shouldn't take 
more than a few days.  I'll call you when 
it's over. 

					Love,
					Charlotte."

He wanted to cheer, to rejoice.  But there was a sinking feeling 
in the pit of his stomach.

~~~~~

Common wisdom is that, after an extreme physical trauma, 
unconsciousness is the body's way of healing.  The brain shuts 
down so that the body can funnel resources to the damage.  

Common wisdom is full of shit.

Her brain replayed the attack in an endless loop, and her body 
thrashed in the hospital bed.   Endlessly she pulled the rented 
SUV into the lot and parked it.  She couldn't get it into a space 
under the lamp, but she parked where she thought was close 
enough.   The yellow pool of light added a noir feel to the 
scene, and she half-expected to see a Chandler-esque character 
leaning against the lamppost, smoking an unfiltered cigarette.  
Then again, she was happy, and her mind was doing silly 
somersaults around things.  

The hearing had been a quick, anti-climatic affair.  She didn't 
want anything of his, and although Mark was furious about the 
divorce -- he apparently hated the thought of losing his 
playthings -- there wasn't much he could do to stop it.  It 
lasted just long enough for the judge to do enough to feel like 
he had a part in things.  He adjusted some of the property 
divisions--after all, those credit cards did have her name on 
them, and strangely enough, domestic violence doesn't factor into 
property settlements in a no-contest divorce state.  He reassured 
himself that she really didn't want part of the house (Mark would 
have fought her on that one), and it was a done deal.

A phone call to the airlines and she had changed her early 
morning flight to the last of the red-eye flights leaving 
tonight.  She had a quick celebration drink with her lawyer in 
the pub across from the courthouse; then, as the sun was 
beginning to set, she headed back to the airport with the windows 
down, the cool fall air blowing through the car. 'Bad to the 
Bone' was playing at decibel level much too high to be considered 
respectable for a woman out of her teens.  

It was a longish drive from the small town courthouse to the 
Portland airport, and darkness had set fully by the time she 
arrived.  The night air had chilled as the sun disappeared, so 
the windows had risen, the bass level had been reduced, and 
Charlotte had pulled her sweater out of the overnight bag she 
brought as her only luggage.   She pulled her cell phone from her 
purse and speed-dialed their home number, letting the car idle at 
the edge of the parking lot.   Robert answered in his 'this had 
better be important, 'cause it's really late at night' voice.

"It's me, Robert.  It's done, and I'm on my way home.  I'll catch 
a cab from the airport, and I'll be home when you get up in the 
morning.  What do you say we go shopping when I get home?  Maybe 
for a matched set of rings?"  

She cruised into the parking lot as Robert's voice filled her 
ear.   "Damn," she muttered softly.  

"What's wrong, hun?  Teasingly, "not having sudden second 
thoughts are you?" 

"'Course not.  The parking lot is full."   She turned the car 
around and exited.   "I'm going to have to head out to the 
overflow lot and hike in.  No big deal."  She pulled into the 
distant parking lot and into a space.  "I'll see you in the 
morning, but you'd better have the coffee going.  You know how I 
like it."

She smiled and disconnected as she turned off the car and stepped 
out into the inadequate, pale light.   She reached for the back 
seat door to grab her bag, and Robert's highly suggestive "hot 
and sweet" comment still echoed in her ears when the first blow 
hit.  Her lip split and blood filled her mouth.   Her knees 
buckled; she could feel her shirt ride up and the metal door 
handle scrape her chest as she began to slide to the pavement.  

"Not so fast, Pigeon."  He grabbed her arm and hauled her back to 
her feet.  He turned her easily and leaned her back up against 
the car.   He towered over her, blocking the light with his 
considerable bulk.  His hands gripped her shoulders, holding her 
tight against the door.

She licked her lip, copper-taste coating her tongue, and she 
struggled to form words.  "M... Mark, Don't do this."  She winced 
and brought her hand up to her chin, wiping blood from her 
swelling lips.  "Please, Mark.  Let me go."

"Oh God, I'm sorry Charlotte."  His voice took on an almost-
pleading tone.  "I didn't mean that, it was an accident.  Come 
home doll.  Let's just forget all this and start over."  His eyes 
traveled her body.  "Look at you, baby-doll.  You need me.  You 
need what I can do for you.  We'll go to the mall, buy some new 
outfits and make you pretty again for me.  It will all be fine."

"Mark, I'm not your doll, and I am going home.  My home isn't 
with you anymore."  She tried to remember if she had seen anyone 
in the rental-car kiosk when she had pulled in.  Was she 
completely alone out here?  

The sallow light from the post cast eerie shadows on his face, 
and she could see it harden in anger.  She willed her body to 
relax, playing for time.  She had no idea if anyone would hear 
her if she screamed, and she knew that she wouldn't have more 
than a minute or two after she opened her mouth.   The glaze in 
his eyes was beyond the rage she knew from the past.  

His grip tightened and his fingers dug into her shoulders.  Her 
fingers started tingle as he restricted the blood flow to her 
arms.    She shifted her feet, trying for a more secure stance.  
He glanced down at the pavement as she moved.  He picked up his 
left foot and placed it deliberately over her right, pressing 
hard, pinning it to the pavement.  He shook his arms, knocking 
her back hard against the car.  Her head struck the metal, and 
stars burst behind her eyes.   Salt-tears burned at the split in 
her lip.  

Bending down, Mark stuck out his tongue and licked the tears 
across her cheek, leaving a sloppy trail from her jaw to her 
temple.  She could smell alcohol.  He hissed in her ear,  "It was 
easy in court, wasn't it, Pigeon?  You were so smug in there with 
that bitch lawyer of yours.  You thought you could do things 
without me, didn't you?  Did you get what you wanted?"  He shook 
his head and glared reproachfully at her.   "I can't believe you 
wanted out, Pigeon.  We were so good together."  Like a parent to 
a naughty child.  "No more playing, Pigeon.  No judge, no 
lawyers.  Just you and me, the way it's supposed to be."  One 
hand went tight around her throat, blocking her air.  He held her 
there as her body tensed and her hands flew up around his.   She 
struggled to pry his fingers from her windpipe.  He leaned 
heavily against her.

Mark's hand fumbled against her back as he pulled the door handle 
up.  He loosened his grip and she drew a frantic breath into her 
burning lungs.  The web clouding her vision cleared.  

Still holding her by the throat, he pulled her roughly aside as 
he wrenched the door open.  He lifted his right hand and struck 
her across the mouth with a hard backhand slap.  Blood covered 
his knuckles.  His fingers caught at the collar of her cotton 
blouse and pulled.  The thin fabric tore easily, leaving her 
chest bare.    

"Stay still baby-doll.  Stop fighting.  You know this is for the 
best."    She struggled harder, clawing into his arms with her 
nails.  His eyes narrowed to angry slits, and he pressed his fist 
under her bottom rib, pushing in and upwards against the fragile 
bone.  

"I mean it, Charlotte.  Stay still."  With a fast, hard movement 
he pulled his arm back, then struck hard at her side.  She 
gasped, and the sickening sound of cracking bone surrounded her 
as her rib started to give way to his fist. 

Her legs collapsed beneath her, and she slumped in his grip.  The 
sudden weight shift threw him off guard and he let her fall to 
the pavement.  She felt skin tear as he grabbed her ear and 
pulled her back to her feet.  The memory of someone telling her 
that it only takes a few pounds of pressure to pull off an ear 
floated absurdly to her brain.  She could hear the ripping sound.

He tore her sweater from her shoulders, and as her mouth opened 
to draw in a pained breath, he forced the acrylic fabric between 
her teeth, stifling any noise she might have made.   He turned 
her roughly in the open car door, bending her at the waist and 
sending fresh spikes of pain through her side.  He pressed her, 
face first, into the leather seat of the truck, pinning her hands 
beneath her chest.  One hand held her around her throat as the 
other reached under her skirt and pulled at her tights.  When 
they failed to give way to his handling, he swore under his 
breath and reached into his pocket, pulling out a small 
Leatherman.  After prying the blade open with his teeth, he 
brought the edge between her legs, drawing the sharp point up the 
inside of her thigh, leaving a thin line of blood beneath the 
shredding cotton.  

The thicker cotton of the crotch resisted the blade, and he 
pressed harder, cutting through her tights and the cotton panties 
to the skin beneath.  Blood pooled between her legs and under her 
belly.  She could feel him fumbling with his own pants, then a 
painful, tearing stab through her middle as he forced himself 
between her legs.  

"C'mon baby doll.  You can do better than this.  Loosen up for 
me."  He pulled back, out, and placed the blade at her opening 
and pressed.  "Either loosen up, or I'll do it for you, 
Charlotte."    

Her skin sliced and she screamed into the sweater.  He dropped 
the knife to the floorboards and thrust hard, lubricated by her 
blood.  Pounding hard and fast, his fingers dug into her neck and 
side.

"Hey!  You!  You guys can't do that here!  I've called security!"

Mark jerked back, and as he pulled Charlotte forcefully to her 
knees, she spat the sweater from between her lips.  Blood pounded 
in her ears, and she wanted desperately to shout for help, but 
her throat closed and her rib screamed.  She managed only a 
strangled cry.

He kept one hand around her neck, and held out his free hand    
"Stop there, little boy.  This is between me and my wife.  It 
doesn't concern you."

The footsteps slowed as they approached closer to the car, 
apparently close enough to glimpse inside.   "Sir, I'm going to 
have to ask you to... Shit!"  Scared panic entered his voice.  
"Lady, don't worry, I've called security, they'll be here in a 
minute..."

She choose that moment to fight.  He was distracted.  Maybe 
distracted enough.  Charlotte kicked back with her leg, striking 
Mark's thigh.  He roared and pulled her backwards, out of the 
truck and on to the pavement behind him.  

Her head hit the cement.  The parking lot light faded completely.

~~~~

Waking up isn't like the movies portray it to be.  It's not 
delicately fluttering eyelids and, "oh-my-goodness!  Where am I?"  
It's fighting to the surface from the bottom of a pool.   
Sputtering and coughing your way to consciousness.  The 
inevitable, "where am I" question is the brain's way of buying 
time.  She knew where she was, and she knew what had happened.  
She also knew that she wasn't going to be able to talk about it.

The room was dark.  There were shadows of light coming through 
the pulled curtain, but it was obviously night.  Someone was 
sitting in a chair by the window, watching her.  Her throat 
burned, and for a moment she couldn't breath properly.  Her hands 
flew to her lips, scrambling at the obstruction.

"Stop, Charlotte."  The figure, Robert, had moved to her side.  
He placed his hands over hers, calming them.  "They've got a tube 
in your throat to help you breath.  Don't try to talk until I can 
get them to take it out.  I'll get a nurse."

Within a few minutes the nurse had summoned a doctor and the tube 
was out, but it hurt too much for Charlotte to do much more than 
question with her eyes, and ask for a pen.

Robert shook his head.  "We can try, hun, but you're pretty 
banged up.  I'm not sure you'll be able to write.

It took some maneuvering, but with the right pillows at the right 
angles, Charlotte was able to support her arm enough to scribble 
out a few words.

"How?"

"How did I get here?" 

Charlotte nodded.

"I flew in this morning.  The hospital called me.  Well, the 
hospital called the house.  I answered."

More scribbling "When?" 

"It's Thursday night.  You were brought in late last night."

Scribble.  "Home?"  She winced as the movement of her hand 
jostled her shoulder.

"Not yet, hun.  I'm sorry.  They want to keep you here just to be 
safe."

She shook her head and croaked, "Home, Robert.  I need to go 
home."  

He put his hand out to stroke her matted hair.  "I'm sorry, 
Charlotte.  You need to stay.  But I'll be here with you.  I'm 
not going anywhere."

"Mirror.  Purse."

He took her purse from the hospital bag they had used to store 
her belongings and held the compact open for her to see.  Tears 
formed at the corners of her eyes as she looked, turning her head 
to see the bruises on her jaw.  She lifted her hand to feel the 
back of her neck.

Robert grabbed her wrist gently before she touched.  "Don't 
Charlotte.  You've got some stitches back there."

She gestured for the pen again.  "What all?"

"Stitches?"  Nod.

"Just three places, Charlotte.  The back of your head where you 
hit the cement parking stop, and behind your ear.  They had to 
reattach part of your ear."

She held up three fingers in question.

"Yeah, three places.  They had to sew up between you legs, 
Charlotte.  The doctor said it wasn't too bad though.  Like a bad 
tear during childbirth.  They've got you on antibiotics to keep 
any infection away."

Croak, "hurts."

"I know it does, Charlotte.  I know.  He really worked you over.  
The police want to talk to you when you're able."

She shook her head frantically.  

"Not now, hun.  We'll wait until tomorrow.  They did most of 
their exam when you were unconscious, and they arrested Mark this 
morning.  The rental car kid got his license plate number before 
Mark cocked him."

Scribble, "No police."  Fast, angry triple underline under 'no.'

"Just rest now, honey.  We'll worry about that tomorrow."

She jerked away from his hand, groaning softly at the movement.  
Scribble, "You go home."

"No Charlotte, I'd never leave you here alone."

She set the pen down and closed her eyes, turning her face away 
from his, shutting him out.  In a few minutes she was asleep.

~~~~

He was still there when she woke up; he was snoring softly in the 
hospital armchair with his legs propped up on the windowsill 
heater.  They had spent the day talking to doctors, police, and 
counselors.  She had answered questions and suffered the 
indignities of rape victims everywhere.  

Through it all, Robert was there.  Watching, offering support, 
treating her with kid gloves.  Holding when he could, stroking 
when he couldn't hold her.  Filling her water, changing her 
blankets.  She watched his eyes, she saw her pain reflected in 
them.  She watched him bite back questions, and she knew from the 
set of his shoulders that he was angry.  Not with her, but with 
himself for not being there.  And, by extension, she knew he was 
angry with her for not letting him be there with her.  

As she dozed that night, he dozed, and she thought.  He knew all 
that happened to her.   He knew how Mark had abused her, he knew 
how Mark had beat her, and now he knew how Mark had taken his 
revenge.  He knew.  There was no time to quietly rebuild up her 
strength and face what had happened.  And that was too much for 
her to bear.

She tested her movements quietly, trying not to wake him.  There 
was a pitcher of water on her bedside table, and her purse was 
still where Robert had left it, on the chair by her bed.

She moaned quietly as movement sent waves of pain through her 
body.  It was impossible to tell where it was coming from.  
Everything hurt.  Everything screamed.  But it would only be for 
a few minutes.  She pumped the button on her "on demand" pain 
killer pump attached to the back of her hand.  The small, quick 
dose of morphine was enough to help her over the side of the bed 
to her open handbag.  She could see what she wanted, lying in the 
zippered inside pocket.

Careful not to wake Robert, Charlotte unzipped the pocket and 
slipped the bottle into her hand before sinking painfully back 
onto the pillows.  She lay for a minute catching her breath.  
When the waves of pain-induced nausea passed, she hit the pump 
again with her thumb, hoping that enough time had passed for 
another dose to be available.  She closed her eyes and opened the 
bottle, silently thanking her pharmacist for not requiring a 
child-proof cap.

Slowly, two at a time, she swallowed the pills, letting her 
stomach settle after each dose.  There was no point in rushing.  
She knew if she didn't take it slow, her stomach would knot up 
and repel the Valium, defeating the point entirely.

It took a long, slow hour, and most of the pitcher of water.  She 
hit the morphine button every fifteen minutes for an added kick, 
and by the end of the bottle her mind had begun to fuzz, the 
edges had softened, and she knew she only had a few more minutes 
to be awake.  She slipped the bottle under her pillow and pulled 
the rolling bed-table over her legs.  She wrote quickly, her hand 
shaking, making the note difficult to read.  She silently laughed 
at herself for not writing the note before she took the pills.  
That's your problem, Charlotte, you don't plan for the future.

Dear Robert,

	I love you.  But this has hurt you.  
I can't work through your pain and mine.  
I do love you.  I always have.

				Charlotte.


She closed her eyes and lay back on the pillow.  The darkness 
pulled over her thoughts, finally burying her pain.  




<1st attachment end>


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