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Message-ID: <41901asstr$1050606604@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Crimson Dragon <dcrimsonp@nym.alias.net>
Subject: {ASSM} (R) Precious (F, city, introspection, angel) {Crimson Dragon} 
Date: Thu, 17 Apr 2003 15:10:04 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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-----BEGIN PGP SIGNED MESSAGE-----

As Alexis points out, April is Sexual Abuse Awareness Month. In
that spirit, I repost "Precious". 'Tis a story of courage, methinks.

See the Author's Notes after the story, for disclaimers, warnings,
copyright, or if you are merely curious about the original posting.

This story is copyrighted by Crimson Dragon. Written permission is
required for any redistribution.

 - Crimson (dcrimson@yahoo.com)

http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Crimson_Dragon/www
http://members.tripod.com/files/Authors/Dr/wwwagon_Of_Crimson


======================================================================

Precious [ F, city, introspection, angel ]

======================================================================

(c) July 1998 - By Crimson Dragon (dcrimson@yahoo.com)

All rights reserved.

======================================================================

The cool brick felt rough beneath her feet, her bare toes 
unconsciously gripping the solidity of the stone. She glanced down at 
the lights so far below which looked like streaks of red and white, 
like a time-lapse of a city. Another tear traced down her cheek, 
blurring her vision.

                        <---===***===--->

It had begun like any normal day.

The alarm shrilled out its ear-splitting buzz at 6:30 AM. Sleepily, 
her fingers touched the snooze bar.

Five minutes later, James shoved her, and she woke up again, murmuring 
to be left alone. James shoved her again, and she sleepily swung her 
legs out of the bed, her bare feet recoiling from the cold floor.

She hissed urgently, "Can't we get any damn heat in here?"

She tried to settle her soles back to the parquet. Her toes 
reflexively jumped until she adjusted to the sharp contrast between 
the floor and her comfortably warm sheets.

James spoke uncharacteristically gently, "I'll talk to the super. You 
have to get up, now." He wouldn't talk to the superintendent, but most 
of the time he wouldn't even bother to lie to her.

She held her head in her hands. She had to get up every damn day. And 
she didn't want to. James rolled over, away from her. The snooze timed 
out and the alarm buzzed again, shattering the silence of the room. 
She instinctively reached out and switched off the alarm. James cursed 
softly towards the window. She couldn't quite make out his words, but 
it was something about her inability to turn off simple machines. She 
blinked and struggled to her feet, stumbling to the bathroom across 
the hallway.

The shower helped wake her, but she was still tired as she brushed out 
her long blonde hair. Her hair dripped slowly onto her bare shoulders 
and down her back as she made her way down the short hallway into the 
small kitchen.

She quietly ate cold cereal with a glass of juice, and read the cereal 
box. She was certain, without looking, that the neighbours had stolen 
her newspaper again. No point to even looking. She could hear the 
dripping of a tap somewhere, but she was reasonably sure it wasn't in 
her apartment. She at least tried to keep the place maintained. A 
scream echoed down the hallway outside the main doorway, but she knew 
better than to investigate it. She lifted the spoon to her lips 
slowly, her eyes scanning the happy honeybee on the box and the list 
of vitamins that she was ingesting. She idly wished that the vitamins 
could make her as happy as the bee.

She finished her meagre breakfast, and dumped the bowl and spoon in 
the sink. James might wash it for her, but she wouldn't hold her 
breath. She padded back down to the bedroom. James was asleep again 
under the covers.

She dropped the towels from around her and moved efficiently around 
the room and tiny closet, searching for and finding some clean 
underwear and one of two dresses that she owned. She chose the bright 
blue dress for today, pulling it effortlessly over her head to settle 
around her form.

She licked her lips. There was a time when James would have watched 
her dress. And she would have enjoyed it. Now, she was simply glad 
that he was asleep. She didn't feel like fighting with him to find a 
job, didn't feel like doing anything, actually. Even if he were awake 
and watching her, he wouldn't be interested in going any further than 
quietly watching her. Six months ago, he would have, but not now.

She straightened her blue dress in front of the mirror. She wasn't 
*that* unattractive, she surmised. Yet they hadn't made love in two 
... no ... three months. She had tried at first, and then given up 
trying. They slept together, but they didn't. She wasn't even sure who 
James was anymore.

She walked out of the room without a second glance, her stockings 
whispering across the floorboards. She picked up her purse, and 
clutching it protectively against her hip, she carefully locked up her 
apartment. She avoided any contact on her way to the elevators. She 
hadn't heard another scream, but that might not be a good thing.

                        <---===***===--->

The subway ride downtown was terrible, with disgustingly scruffy, and 
downright dangerous people. She stood, hand raised, swaying with the 
subway car, trying not to breathe. An obvious transvestite smiled at 
her, and he ... she ... it was probably the most pleasant person on 
the car this morning. The smell of liquor and a faint trace of urine 
invaded her senses. She cringed as the bustle went on around her. A 
petite girl, perhaps twenty-five, entered the train and looked around. 
She appeared frightened, unsure of herself, beaten. The small girl 
reminded her of what she probably looked like. The girl stopped a few 
metres away, joined the crowd, and stared at nothing as the train 
moved off.

                        <---===***===--->

The nametag on her cube matched everyone else's, except for the name 
on it: 'Janice MacDonald'. She wasn't even sure who she was anymore. 
All she knew was that the name on her cube told her that she, indeed, 
was a girl named Janice. She barely remembered Janice.

Janice was a schoolgirl, in a bright yellow dress, playing with her 
parents in a park. Janice was a college student, discovering life, 
dreaming of marrying the perfect man, having fun. It had only taken 
three years, and one dingy cube to break those dreams. Janice was no 
longer the woman entering Janice's cube.

She sat down and stared at the screen in front of her. Meaningless, 
green letters stared back at her. She sighed, and began to type.

                        <---===***===--->

The announcement had come at 4:35 PM, twenty-five minutes before she 
could go home to a listless dinner, television, avoiding James, and 
then blissful sleep. She looked forward to the sleep.

She had never been paged before, and was barely aware that the office 
even had a paging facility. She listened, distanced, for her name 
again.

"Janice MacDonald to Mr. Simpson's office, please." It crackled 
through the office like a beacon.

She slowly rose to her feet and walked toward the vice-president's 
office. She didn't even know what the man did, might not even 
recognise him in the hallways of this labyrinth. She didn't even know 
the man's given name. But Mr. Simpson was a vice-president, that she 
knew. In this office, VP's carried some weight.

As she was preparing to knock at the oak door, emblazoned with the tag 
'Frederick Simpson - Vice President Operations', a female voice 
floated up from a desk beside the office.

"Can I help you?" the woman asked. She had a blank expression on her 
face, and it almost seemed like she was asking by habit, rather than 
any desire to be of assistance.

Janice nodded and spoke quietly. "I'm Janice MacDonald," she wasn't 
sure of that. "I was paged for Mr. Simpson."

"Ah. Yes." The woman's face became more sympathetic. Almost as though 
she knew what the page was about. "You may go right in."

Janice turned the knob and let herself into a cool, dark, deserted 
office that smelled vaguely of cigars. She swallowed heavily and 
turned to retreat, sure she had the wrong office.

A silhouette moved by the shadow that was the desk.

"Miss MacDonald?" a husky male voice beckoned her.

She turned frightened, as a rabbit might when in the presence of a 
wolf.

"Mr. Simpson? Why is it dark in here? I ... I thought ..."

She thought she saw him move a hand and the lights came on blinding 
her. She blinked furiously and stood by the doorway. The heavy door 
closed on its own with a quiet snick.

"I like to think in the dark," he spoke quietly. His voice carried an 
air of authority. He was a rugged, large man. Janice could tell even 
though he was sitting behind the massive desk. She felt awkward 
standing, feeling small and unimportant.

"You paged me?" she asked, uncertain.

"I did."

She shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, waiting for him to elaborate. 
He seemed content to watch her squirm.

Finally, she ventured hesitantly, "May ... may I sit down?"

He licked his lips and spoke again.

"I don't think that will be necessary. This will only take a moment." He 
paused. "Miss MacDonald, it has come to my attention that you have 
been constantly late, and your performance has been poor."

She shuddered. She had never been late, and she certainly hadn't been 
performing any less data entry than over the last three years of her 
employment. If anything, her typing skills had improved, 
involuntarily, and she was typing faster than before.

"I ... I don't understand," she stammered.

He leaned back in the chair and clasped his hands behind his head.

"You work proficiency has dropped 25% over the last month," he smiled.

She shivered at his smile.

"That ... that can't be."

"I have figures," he waved non-committally at his desk where there was 
a jumble of papers. She couldn't make out what the papers on his desk 
were. They could have been stock quotes for all she knew. She 
swallowed heavily, uncertain where to go from here.

He smiled again at her. "Janice, may I call you Janice?" She nodded 
apprehensively. "This is a delicate matter, Janice. By rights, I 
should fire you."

"Oh God," she mumbled, her heart beginning to hammer in her chest. She 
could not believe that her work had dropped this much. She was certain 
that it hadn't. Even with the problems with James, and her depression. 
Her work had not suffered. She was certain. She couldn't afford to 
lose her job.

"But there are some options ..." his voice trailed off.

She swallowed heavily. Suddenly the room was far too small and cold. 
She could feel her nipples tightening involuntarily. She didn't even 
want to know what the options were. She could tell by his easy smile.

He took a deep breath. For the first time, he looked a little nervous.

"You could do something for me, and I might not have to act on your 
work problems, if you can guarantee that I don't see this again."

She found her voice, which had hidden somewhere deep in her throat. 
"What do I have to do?" she asked dully.

He seemed to consider, though she was quite sure he long ago knew what 
he would ask of her.

He slowly stood. Her eyes became large and round as she took in his 
hard and erect penis jutting out from his open zipper. It looked 
obscene to her. She closed her eyes and moaned.

Suddenly, his breath was hot in her ear.

"You might show your gratitude for my looking the other way."

His fingers touched her shoulder, toying with the strap of her dress. 
She shuddered at the touch and looked up at him, pleading with her 
eyes. He was taller than she, and his physical size was threatening 
and overpowering. She cringed back.

"You want to take it off?" he asked quietly.

She shook her head negatively, trembling.

"If you'd prefer, we can fire you ... your decision."

He began to tuck himself back into his zipper.

She shook her head again, couldn't believe this was happening. Not to 
her. Not to Janice of the bright yellow dress in the park. Not to 
Janice the college dreamer. It wouldn't happen to any of them. But it 
was happening to her.

He smiled and let himself fall free of his pants again.

"That's a good girl," he spoke huskily as he moved towards her again. 
He slipped his finger inside the strap and pulled it towards her 
shoulder. She let it fall with a shudder. Her left side, then her 
right. With a sense of the surreal, she noticed that he was being 
gentle with her as he eased the blue cloth down her body. Her mind was 
whirling, almost watching as though she was outside of herself. She 
felt her hand being guided to the hardness, she could feel his hands 
touching her. He was touching her as only a few men, by her choice, 
had touched. Her breasts. Her bottom. Tracing her thighs. She 
shivered. His hypnotic voice maintained a slow cadence, focusing her 
on her job, her performance. She had to pay the rent, she had to 
support James, she couldn't lose this job.

A dull ache in her nipple brought her back to reality. His fingers had 
coaxed her unwilling left nipple to rigidity, and he had bitten her 
through her thin bra. She yelped and backed away.

"You want Daddy to spank you?" he asked, fingering his belt.

Her mind exploded. He couldn't do this to her. She could see the 
material of her dress, a flash of blue against his green carpet. Her 
mind was filled with a picture of her bent over his massive desk, 
naked and exposed, waiting for him. For his belt, or his penis, she 
couldn't tell. She felt her exposure like a living thing, could feel a 
tear fall gently down her cheek. Her crying only appeared to inflame 
the big man, and he reached for her again.

She took a huge breath, and slapped away his hand. He recoiled as if 
he'd been bitten by a cobra. She was seething. She took advantage of 
his indecision, and not caring what the outside world thought of her, 
she grabbed her cotton blue dress from the floor, pushed at him as she 
passed, and walked out to the incredulous look of the bored 
receptionist. She gathered the material as best she could around 
herself and made it to the ladies room before gushing. She felt 
nauseated, and repulsed. She hated herself for letting it go on as 
long as it had. She could feel his hands on her breasts, between her 
legs. Entering a stall, she sat down, letting herself shake and 
sob, not bothering to close the flimsy door.

At last, she gathered up her dress from the tile at her feet, and 
slipped it over her head. Wiping at the tears, she slowly let herself 
out of the stall. She washed her face, trying desperately to scrub the 
crawling sensations from her skin.

                        <---===***===--->

He was waiting across from the ladies room, with his secretary, or 
whoever she was. Janice shivered and prepared to scream. She turned 
away from him, trying to remain calm and walk back to her cube. The 
other woman's presence helped a little.

"Miss MacDonald?" She apparently was no longer 'Janice'.

She turned, fright written over her face. It was after hours by now, 
and she didn't really know the other woman. She blushed as her eyes 
glued to his hands. Those hands that had touched her so intimately.

He held out a small envelope. She crept forward and took it from his 
unresisting fingers like a mouse trying to get the cheese without 
springing the trap. The paper inside was pink. Her heart was hammering 
in her chest, even though she had known that it would be the price of 
her running out of his office.

She swallowed heavily, fighting back her tears. "I ... I'll clean out 
my office."

"Miss MacDonald, given the circumstances, we will send the personal 
items from your office. Ms. Robertson will escort you from the 
building."

Without a second look at her, he turned on his heel. At the mention of 
her name, the other woman stepped forward guiding Janice to the 
elevator silently. It took forever for the lift to arrive. Janice 
willed the tears back while fingering the pink slip of paper.

She was ushered into the elevator, and Ms. Robertson entered with her. 
The doors rattled shut with a sense of finality.

"I wasn't supposed to come in here with you," Ms. Robertson spoke 
quietly. "Are you all right?"

Janice burst into tears again at the kind words. She felt the other 
woman brushing at her hair, straightening it.

"I know what he does, if you need a witness," the other woman 
whispered. "It'll be my job too, but you are the first one to walk out 
of there. I ... I envy you. I wish I had."

The doors rattled open. Janice felt a firm hand guiding her from the 
building and pressing a small piece of cardboard into her trembling 
fingers. She stood silently outside as the late afternoon sun hit her 
face.  The business card in her palm felt like it was on fire.

"Good luck," the woman said to her as she locked the door with a 
decisive click.

                        <---===***===--->

It was dark before Janice realised that she was walking aimlessly in 
the park across from the insurance company where she had once worked. 
The small pink piece of paper remained clutched in her hand. She 
looked up at the building, the fluorescent lights in the windows a 
beacon to her. She settled into a park bench, and tried to think.

People passing by on evening strolls gave her strange looks, like she 
was a homeless person. She supposed that she nearly was.

At last, she rose to her feet. Her feet ached, and she wanted to take 
her shoes off, but she didn't dare to downtown. She was hungry, and 
tired, and wanted to go home. Maybe James had actually done something 
today. Maybe he made her dinner for once. Or maybe, he'd found a job. 
She sighed. As long as she was dreaming, maybe she'd win the lottery. 
The tears renewed as she walked slowly towards the subway.

                        <---===***===--->

The subways were still busy, even at 9:30 at night. She shuddered as 
she found a niche between a drunken bum, and a woman blessing the 
windows. Janice grasped the handrail above her head as though her life 
depended upon it.

Halfway across the city, a pregnant woman stepped onto the car. She 
was carrying five shopping bags, all filled with old baby toys. She 
was glowing, an aura in the dinginess of the subway. She stood across 
the aisle from Janice, one hand on her distended tummy, her other 
gripping the ceiling rail. She swayed awkwardly, but smiled anyway. 
Janice guessed her to be perhaps eight months along.

If I had a seat, if I'd ever had a seat, Janice thought to herself, 
I'd offer it to the woman. But the busy city ignored the two of them, 
bouncing them along the tracks, the squealing of the brakes hurting 
their ears. Neither the slack-jawed teen, nor the overweight woman 
wearing what looked like a muumuu, did anything but sit in front of 
the pregnant woman, and stare at her like she was from another planet. 
Perhaps they'd never seen a happy person before. Janice felt like 
telling both of them off. She didn't, knowing it was a lost cause.

The woman smiled at her, and Janice felt her heart lift a tiniest bit. 
Janice tried to smile back, but failed. Instead, she looked away, 
feeling guilty as she did.

It was at a subway stop, called out as Bloor, that Janice was thrown 
to the floor. A burly man, determined to beat the rush to the doors, 
barrelled through her as though she were made of pixie dust. Janice 
hit the subway floor with a cry of pain, her ankle folding beneath 
her. She began to cry as sharp bursts of agony flowed up her shin and 
into her knee. She fought for control, nobody cried on the subway, not 
like a little girl fallen off her bicycle.

A soft touch to her face opened her eyes from a pain filled scrunch. A 
gentle glowing face hovered above her.

"Are you all right?" the pregnant woman asked.

Janice moved her foot. Pain, but not broken. She numbly nodded. The 
tractor that had bowled her over was long gone, not caring who he ran 
over as long as he stepped out at the right station.

"You've been down there a while, and nobody else was helping," the 
pregnant woman spoke, quickly. "It took me a moment to get over here. 
Are you okay? I can press the emergency bar, if you want."

Janice gritted her teeth. Given a few minutes, she'd be fine.

"Thank-you. I'll be up and dancing in a few minutes."

The woman knelt down beside Janice on the floor of the train. Her 
fingers lightly brushed Janice's hair.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"Ankle," Janice gritted her teeth again.

"There's more wrong than that," the woman spoke slowly. "Can you 
walk?"

"Soon, just let me lie here for a moment."

"Floor's dirty," the woman smiled ruefully.

"Don't I know it. I don't even want to think about what I'm lying in."

"What's wrong?" the woman repeated her question after a moment.

"My life is a mess, my boss molested me and then fired me this 
afternoon, and my boyfriend is a jerk, and now my ankle hurts," Janice 
snapped. She didn't even know why she was telling this stranger about 
her life.

The pregnant woman spoke sympathetically, ignoring the tone of 
Janice's voice, "Sounds like a rough day."

"I'm sorry," Janice turned to better face the woman. "I didn't mean to 
snap at you. You're only being kind to me."

"It's all right. Nobody else around to help, I guess," she looked 
around at the legs like tree trunks throughout the crowded car.

Janice laughed a little. "I'm actually grateful."

She heard her stop called, and pressed against the floor. She was 
still a little winded, but was able to get to her hands and knees.

A hand reached down and touched her shoulder. Gratefully, Janice 
grasped it and with a grunt, pulled herself to her feet. Her ankle 
throbbed. She looked into the hazel eyes of the pregnant woman who had 
helped her. Suddenly ashamed, Janice mumbled a quick thank-you, and 
limped towards the doorway. The hulk hadn't had this much trouble 
getting to his stop, she thought bitterly.

"Janice?"

She turned, wondering how the woman knew her name. It didn't matter. 
Not really.

"Don't do anything stupid. It's too precious," the woman spoke softly, 
brushing her brunette hair out of her face with her fingers.

Janice felt a soft brush of the woman's lips across her cheek, even 
though metres separated them. The train seemed like it had stopped, 
and yet was moving. Sound crashed back into her ears as the doors 
opened and movement resumed. When she glanced through the subway 
window to wave to the woman, she was gone, swallowed by the city. 
Janice limped towards the exit.

                        <---===***===--->

She called out James' name as she entered the dark apartment. He 
didn't answer.

Drunk and passed out again, most likely, she thought bitterly as she 
kicked off her shoes. She sighed as her feet touched the warm parquet. 
She was hungry and tired. It would have been nice if just once, he'd 
made dinner for her. She was tempted to send out for Chinese, but she 
no longer was gainfully employed. If they wanted to even stay in this 
dingy apartment much longer, he'd have to get a job, or more likely, 
she would.

She poked her head into the bedroom, expecting to see him asleep under 
the covers, not even concerned about her late appearance. Except he 
wasn't there. She wandered through the empty apartment, searching for 
him. He never left the apartment. No sign of him in the kitchen or the 
living room. Even the ever-present television was silent.

Goddamn. He was out. Probably spending her money, which at first she 
hadn't minded sharing with him.

She sighed, and reached under her dress. She pulled off the pantyhose, 
noticing a run up high on the thigh. She carelessly tossed the ugly 
things behind the sofa. Next job, if there were one, would not involve 
her wearing pantyhose. She walked barefoot to the liquor cabinet, and 
opened it with a sharp pull.

She had trouble recognising what was missing. Everything but a full 
bottle of Jack Daniel's was gone. She hadn't been in the cabinet for 
months, but it seemed unlikely that even James could have drank that 
much. She grabbed the remaining bottle and walked quickly to the 
kitchen, shaking her head. Her bare feet pattered over the parquet, 
making a pretty sound. Her ankle still throbbed a little from her 
fall, but at least it wasn't swelling, yet.

She grimaced as she picked up a grimy shot glass from the cabinet. She 
wiped the rim on a dishtowel, satisfied that she wasn't going to be 
poisoned.

She glanced furtively up at the top shelf. A cookie jar with mushrooms 
emblazoned on it sat high up there. She knew the jar intimately; it 
had belonged to her grandmother. Suddenly a fear gripped her stomach. 
She didn't want to, but she reached up, pulling the jar down, 
sinkingly certain of its contents from the weight. She lifted the top, 
knowing. It was empty.

Tears slipped slowly down her face. A perfect day. Molested, fired, 
her ankle nearly broken, her liquor gone, and now her savings. She 
felt a knot form in her stomach, and she sobbed. The money she'd 
ferreted away, ironically for his birthday, and it was gone. She'd 
given up so much to save it. Instinctively, she knew he was gone. 
Taken her money and disappeared. She wouldn't miss him, but she'd miss 
the regularity, the security of having someone. What else could there 
be?

Still crying, she opened the bottle of Jack, leaving the cookie jar 
askew on the counter. It didn't matter any more. She poured herself a 
shot, downing it in one quick gulp.

She coughed, almost losing the vile liquid. She forced herself to 
swallow. It was almost as bad as the one time she'd swallowed for 
James. Jack and James, the two worst tastes in her mouth, ever. At 
least this time it was for her.

She gagged and stumbled out to the living room. She fell back into the 
sofa, sinking into its depths. She put another shot to her lips, 
crying out as it burned down her throat. The second one was easier 
than the first one.

She settled back, feeling Simpson's hands on her. She shuddered, and 
quickly downed another. The alcohol began to fuzz her brain, and she 
felt good for the first time today. She heard a small whisper deep 
inside her head, telling her that this was how alcoholics began. She 
ignored the voice and it shut up.

She reached forward and grabbed the remote control from the small 
coffee table. She switched on the television, which blared to life. 
James had been listening to it at high volume. As usual. He wasn't 
deaf, but suddenly she wished he were. She rapidly thumbed the volume 
down, wincing at the old episode of M*A*S*H that was playing. Hawkeye 
was making some crack about the Korean War.

Hawkeye was missing an eye. She leaned forward, squinting. Her vision 
was already blurry. She never drank. And never hard stuff like Jack.

She slipped off the couch and crawled across the floor, feeling the 
unyielding presence of the parquet beneath her knees. A post-it note 
was stuck to the middle of the television, blinding Hawkeye. James' 
handwriting. In the flickering light of the television, she tried to 
focus.

"Not working out. Bored. Sorry. James."

That bastard. She sat looking at the note for a long time, her legs 
curled under herself. So he was gone. Forever. Shit. It wasn't working 
out for him? What about her? She'd put up with *him* for the last six 
months. She'd had to satisfy herself for the last three, quietly in 
the shower or in the bathroom, afraid of disturbing him, and even 
before that, he wasn't any Valentino. Half the time she'd had to 
finish herself anyway. Shit.

She didn't know whether to be angry or sad. He was gone, and she 
wasn't. She'd miss him, despite his faults. She balled the paper up in 
her small fist and tossed it over the sofa to join her pantyhose.

She flicked the television off manually, and crawled back to the 
coffee table. Six shots, one after the other, each easier than the 
last. She was still gagging on them, but they definitely tasted better 
than James. Rat versus poison. Hell of a choice.

Dizzy, she rose to her feet. The room spun around her, and she nearly 
fell. She couldn't think, and yet she could think too well. The 
touches of Simpson flowed through her mind like a bad dream. Simpson 
morphed with James, and back into Simpson. Alcohol couldn't compete. 
She could still feel his disgusting fingers crawling across her skin.

She closed her eyes and swayed, discovering that the room spun even 
worse with closed eyes. She stumbled over to the stereo. She hit three 
buttons before the amplifier came to life, flooding her with sound. 
Collective Soul surrounded her and she moved without thought to the 
bass beat thrumming from the speakers. The neighbours might start 
banging on the wall, but for the first time, she didn't care.

She swallowed heavily and glanced at the half full bottle of Jack 
still sitting on the table. Alcohol poisoning might be a good way to 
go. Not brave, but there was nobody who cared about her. She could at 
least go by her own choice, and reasonably unaware.

It didn't seem quite right to her. As Collective Soul flooded her 
senses, she felt a deep need to remove the stink of Simpson from her. 
She practically ripped the blue dress from her, throwing it behind the 
sofa with a fluttering of cloth. But he'd barely touched the dress. 
She ripped the bra and panties from her body. They joined the rest of 
her clothing, cowering behind the small sofa. For a moment, his 
touches were gone, tossed aside with her clothes. She sighed, and 
began to move again to the music, hugging herself and feeling the 
driving beat.

As she danced, she noticed the curtains left open. She vaguely thought 
that it was unusual. She was a private person. Never would she dance 
naked, and certainly not in front of an uncovered window. In this 
neighbourhood, telescopes weren't for astronomy. She always ensured 
the blinds were down before getting ready for her shower or for bed. 
But she kept dancing, the music arousing her senses, letting her 
forget.

She slowly moved around the room, her bare feet moving her, expressing 
her, being her. At last, the compact disc ended, the silence 
descending upon her, the last haunting notes of "The World I Know" 
echoing through her numbed mind. She looked up at the dark ceiling, 
and felt the tears begin again. She hated crying. With the silence, 
she stretched out her arms and let the tears fall down her face. 
Slowly, she sank to her knees and pressed her forehead into the hard 
unyielding floor. She sobbed uncontrollably for a time; her cries 
falling from a kneeling nude woman with nothing to live for. She could 
see herself and her own grief, as though she stood outside herself.

Slowly she rose, not quite understanding what she was doing. She 
padded to the door. Turning, she examined herself in the hall mirror. 
The face staring back at her looked beaten and broken. Her make up was 
long gone with her tears, but her body was still that of a 
twenty-five-year-old. Breasts still high and firm, her figure was 
nothing to be ashamed of. And she wasn't ashamed of her body. It was 
her face that was older. She couldn't remember when her face had 
fallen into old age. She swallowed and turned the doorknob.

A kindly looking coloured lady ushered her two small children back 
into an apartment. They'd been playing quietly in the hallway, 
probably more room there. At the appearance of the naked white girl, 
the children's eyes had gone as wide as saucers and had watched her as 
they were hurried inside. The apartment door closed with a finality, 
as though on a tomb.

Janice looked back at her apartment one last time, half considering 
that she needed another shot of Jack. Taking a deep breath, and 
gathering her internal courage, she walked towards the elevators. She 
wasn't even aware of her nudity.

She watched the small upward pointing triangle light up, as it was 
pressed gently by her left index finger. She could hear the elevator 
awaken somewhere below her. It was an odd feeling. She could sense the 
very vibration of the elevator through the floor and the soles of her 
bare feet. Her head swam, and she stumbled back until she leaned 
against the dirty mirrors surrounding the elevator enclave. She could 
see herself, nude, reflected infinitely in the opposing mirrors. She 
was studying the effect when the doors of the elevator rattled open 
with a dull thud.

Without hesitation, she stepped into the small room, but felt for the 
first time claustrophobic. The door rattled shut behind her. She 
studied her face in the mirror of the elevator, trying to ignore the 
closed in feeling. Her face was drawn, and tired. She couldn't 
remember the last time she had felt rested. And where had those lines 
come from? At least there wasn't millions of her any longer, reflected 
by light bounced into infinity.

She turned and jabbed at the highest button on the panel. The lift 
responded mindlessly and carried the nude girl up. She was watching as 
the numbers increased, skipping thirteen. Didn't the people on 
fourteen realise that they were truly on the thirteenth floor? She 
smiled humourlessly. Even elevators lie.

The doors rattled open for her, and she stepped out unsteadily. The 
hallway was darker, but better carpeted than her own. She could feel 
the softer fibres beneath her feet. The elevator doors closed, and she 
turned, half expecting her hand to press the down button of its own 
volition. Her hand remained resolutely at her side.

With a sense of purpose, she strode down the hallway, wondering if 
anyone was peering out at her from behind the closed doors. The doors 
on this level had peepholes, unlike the lower floors. Her bare feet 
felt strange against the carpet. She felt a tingling through them, 
almost a sense of nervousness, a sense of events beyond her control.

She pulled open the firedoor at the end of the hallway and stepped out 
onto the cool concrete of the fire stairs. Her raspy breathing echoed 
through the stairwell, as though she'd invaded a museum. The stairway 
morphed briefly into the subway; it smelled damp, and dark, and 
vaguely of mildew.

The short flight of steps extended up in front of her. They reminded 
her of the wooden path to the gallows in all the western movies that 
she used to watch on Sunday afternoons in college. Willing herself 
forward, she walked slowly up towards the closed green door.

"No Admittance." The door spoke to her.

She swallowed heavily and reached for the knob, ignoring the harsh 
voice of the door. Like everything else in this damn building, the 
lock was long since broken. Probably some overactive teenagers, 
drinking on the roof, had broken it long ago. The door looked like it 
was never used any longer, even by the teenagers.

She pulled open the door.

A warm blast of summer air buffeted her bare skin as she stepped 
through the opening. The door slammed shut behind her. Anyone on the 
staircase would have been deafened by the echoes. But she had been 
alone on the stairs. Nobody used the stairs. Not in this building. It 
wasn't a smart thing to do.

She knelt down on the gravel of the roof, feeling the uneven stones 
pressing painfully into her knees. Her head was still swimming. She 
spoke to her God, praying silently for a few minutes, desperately 
wanting forgiveness. Getting no answer, she rose staring at the lights 
of the city around her.

She walked carefully to the low brick wall that surrounded the top of 
the building. Her ankle still throbbed gently, and she winced as the 
gravel thundered into the bottom of her feet.

                        <---===***===--->

So I walked up on high 
And I step to the edge 
To see my world below. 
And I laugh at myself 
As the tears roll down. 
'Cause it's the world I know. 
It's the world I know.

                        <---===***===--->

She easily leaned for some time against the top of the wall, her tears 
falling freely. She smelled the air, it was somehow cleaner up here 
beyond the smog and bustle of the streets below. The wind and her soft 
crying were the only sounds reaching up this high. She cherished the 
rough warmth of the bricks against her palms and her tummy, as she 
leaned over the edge looking down. The people scurried back and forth 
like insects. The cars, looking like toys, flowed like rivers across 
the streets, the headlights blurred in her vision. The world below.

She thought back, still feeling Simpson's hands and teeth on her 
breasts. She touched her nipples, one after the other. These nipples. 
Her nipples. She shivered, feeling alone and lost. The alcohol was 
beginning to work its way through her system. She felt light-headed, 
but she was thinking clearly, at least she thought she was. She knew 
she couldn't reach the world below. Not and survive.

With a sigh, she straightened. She looked up to the heavens, again 
praying quietly for forgiveness. She felt a sense of calm as she 
extended her arms towards the sky as if in supplication. She stepped 
up.

The cool brick felt rough beneath her feet, her bare toes 
unconsciously gripping the solidity of the stone. She glanced down at 
the lights so far below, which looked like streaks of red and white, 
like a time-lapse of a city. Another tear traced down her cheek, 
blurring her vision.

                        <---===***===--->

She couldn't hear the sirens, but the flashing of lights so far below 
was visible. The flashing lights added to the streaking of her 
time-lapse. She was vaguely aware of a human presence behind her, for 
some reason afraid to come closer. She could hear a deep, comforting 
male voice, somewhere close, but she couldn't understand. She didn't 
want to. She wanted to be alone.

Her fingers reached for the stars as she stood there. The wind felt 
cool and comforting against her bare skin as she swayed gently. Her 
lips were slightly parted; she could taste the saltiness of her own 
tears.

She didn't even know the woman's name from the subway, but her face 
came clearly and unbidden - unnatural clarity even through the 
blurriness of Janice's tears. The woman's gentle and kind smile 
comforted - giving her a sense unlike any she had received since she 
was the yellow dressed little girl in a park distanced by time. The 
woman's face was a shining lighthouse in a sea of darkness. Janice's 
numb mind reeled. It didn't matter. One life for another. She would be 
replaced; the woman's child perhaps named Janice. The clear and 
glowing expectant mother's face fell, looking abruptly away. It didn't 
need to be this way.

"Don't do anything stupid. It's too precious," the woman spoke softly, 
her voice echoing through memory. She brushed her brunette hair gently 
from her face with her fingers.

Janice could still feel James' absence, and Simpson's hands crawling 
like eels over her skin. She cringed inwardly. She still had the 
business card; she'd tossed it on the coffee table as she'd entered 
her empty apartment. It was there beside the half-empty bottle of 
Jack. She never had loved James. Her head felt like a heavy weight on 
her neck. The world spun for her as she turned slowly on the wall, her 
bare toes carefully searching for safe purchase.

Janice closed her eyes, her tears spilling faster, wracking her bare 
body with sobs. Slowly, she turned one last time, facing the men in 
heavy firefighter's uniforms, watching her. One was trying to talk to 
her, but she couldn't hear through the rushing of her blood in her 
ears. All she had to do was lean back. Just - one - small - bit. She 
didn't even have to look down.

She hiccuped, and began to lower herself carefully to the solidity of 
the brick beneath her.

She whispered, "Thank-you, whoever you are." But she knew who the 
pregnant woman was - her guardian angel - a guiding light in her 
darkness.

The clear image of the pregnant woman smiled her glowing radiance and 
slowly faded. All that was left was a dingy rooftop, smeared with 
splashes of yellow uniforms.

As she sat down, feeling the rough brick beneath her bare bottom, she 
took a deep breath. Her feet didn't quite make it to the harsh gravel, 
though she could feel the heat emanating from the stones as she idly 
swung her legs, hands clasped in her lap. A blanket was thrown over 
her shoulders by an anonymous saviour.

Clutching her meagre covering, she bent her head and cried.

After a while, Janice looked up, trying to clear the tears obscuring 
her vision. The anonymous man in yellow was talking to her gently, his 
voice soothing but still too soft to be heard over the roar of her 
blood.

"I ... have to make a phone call," Janice whispered to her saviour. 
She lowered her head and pulled the blanket around her again tightly.

Across the city, a glowing woman touched her swollen tummy, felt the 
initial light pressures of the first contractions, took a deep breath 
of relief, and smiled.

                        <---===***===--->

========================================================================

More stories by Crimson Dragon can be found at:

http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Crimson_Dragon/www
http://members.tripod.com/files/Authors/Dr/wwwagon_Of_Crimson

I may be contacted at dcrimson@yahoo.com with comments, praise, 
rants, raves, or dissertation about this story, or any others
that may appear on UseNet or my story site.

========================================================================
Author's Notes:

Yet another story that really defies classification. I almost didn't 
post this one, because I don't think it's erotic. It is depressing, 
but I've posted depressing stories before. This one is different. And 
if you read it, you'll see why. It certainly contains adult 
situations, including some sexual situations and references, but if 
you are looking for a stroke story, I'd recommend any number of other 
wonderful authors. This is not, nor it is intended to be, a stroke 
story.

For those of you who are interested, this is really just an expansion 
of one of my snapshots written awhile ago, called "The World Below."

If adult stories of any sort offend you, or you are a minor by 
whatever definition exists in your locality, desist. Please do not 
read this story. You won't like it.

Characters and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to real people 
and places are a strange coincidence. Well, with one notable exception 
and she's not going to sue me.

I must thank Munk for looking over the story and pointing out its 
numerous storyline flaws. Any wrong-doing is entirely my fault, not 
hers. If it is any indication, she only liked the story because she's 
in it.

This story was proofed by Mike Ink, who deserves credit for excellent 
suggestions and polishing but doesn't deserve blame for anything 
written herein. If it's wrong, it was probably pointed out and I 
ignored the advice.

I should apologise in advance to Collective Soul. I doubt if any of 
them are reading this, but I did use some of their lyrics without 
permission. I did so with no intent to harm, and certainly with no 
intent at commercialism. I have never had any intent on making any 
money from these stories, and never will. I sincerely hope that there 
is no offence in including a few of their words for effect in this 
piece. The band simply could say it better than I could.

This story is copyrighted by the author, Crimson Dragon. That might
not mean a lot to you, but it does to me. Please don't redistribute
this writing. The exception to this is that I give express
permission for the Usenet newsgroup alt.sex.stories to propagate 
this story, and for any reasonable storage of the story required for
that propogation. This story is meant for the unhindered personal
enjoyment of the Usenet community. Any other uses require written
permission from the author.

I welcome all comments from all my writings at dcrimson@yahoo.com.
Advertisements for wonder drugs, hot stocks, and naked Asian women
will be summarily dealt with and are far less welcome.

All my writings are currently archived, without access hindrance, at
two sites:

http://members.tripod.com/files/Authors/Dr/wwwagon_Of_Crimson
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Crimson_Dragon/www

Now, on to our story,

- - Crimson


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reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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