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~Charles Bukowski
PAST
SCARLETT
Harris didn't take me to the station.
He took me back to my grandma's trailer, which he knew would be vacant.
He dragged me kicking and screaming inside.
It was like a switch in my brain that I couldn't turn off. I'd fight him until he decided I was more trouble than I was worth.
I'd fight him until he killed me.
I scratched him until he bled. On the arms, on his face. I went for his eyes and almost got one.
I bit him on the neck and wouldn't let go. I tasted blood and wondered if I was close to his jugular. I ripped chunks of his flesh out with my teeth, but it still didn't slow him.
Finally he clocked me on the back of the head, and the world went black.
I came to tied spread eagle on my bed. I was naked.
The first thing I saw was my bedside clock.
11:23.
It's only 11:23, I thought. Not even an entire period has passed since he took me from school. It seemed impossible that it was still so early.
I kept my eyes glued to that clock for four solid hours. The ropes were so tight that I couldn't shift even an inch to fight him.
I've never been good at escaping into my own mind, at finding any sort of distance from the things that torment me. But I tried. I tried to reach for some kind of solace somewhere in my being.
And found none.
For the first bit, I held onto a tiny grain of hope—maybe it wouldn't go that far.
Maybe he wouldn't take it that next step. Or the next. Or the next.
And, most wretched and unfair of all—perhaps Dante will come bursting through the door at any moment—somehow he'll sense what's happening to me—that his angel is being damaged beyond all repair.
Somehow he'll rescue me.
By the first half hour, my eyes still glued to that clock, I gave up all hope of that.
I'm not sure why the words came to my brain then, but they did. Gram had once told me that God answers all prayers.
I worshipped Gram, but I had not agreed. In fact, I was skeptical of God in general.
But just then, I was desperate enough to try. I prayed. With an anguished heart, I prayed.
Maybe God does answer all prayers, I really can't say, but if he does, sometimes the answer is no, I won't help you out of this.
And so it was. No one helped me. No one stopped it. No force of nature lessened the horror or the pain of it. No act of God cut it short. It went on until Harris was finished, and I'd lost what little faith I had that there could be some benevolent force watching over me.
And all throughout, I wouldn't look at him, though he wanted me to. Ordered me to.
He started slapping me when I refused, then pinching me, twisting my flesh, biting me hard.
