If you haven't read the first two chapters, this chapter will not be all that satisfying. For some, even reading all three chapters may not be so. As I have learned, not everyone appreciates what I write. But that's okay. There are those who enjoy it and who are kind enough to contact me to let me know that they do. I do appreciate the feedback that I get; good or bad, it guides me. Please let me know what you think.
I finished picking up the items that had spilled from my bag. I dug into its depths once again, finally finding my keys. I stood, turned, and opened the door to my truck. I climbed in. I threw my bag on the passenger seat. I started the engine. I didn't think. I just...did. I went through the motions without letting my mind start down the path of self-deprecation, self-loathing, wanting, arousal, need, desire.
"Stop it!"
My own voice startled me. I hadn't meant to say the words aloud, but there they were. I didn't have time to consider what had just happened. And I didn't have time to consider what would happen next. I put the truck in reverse and started back to my office.
The rest of the day was a blur. I sat at my desk, fingers flying over the keyboard as I filled out expense reports and time sheets. I updated my checkbook. I cleaned my office; straightening out things that didn't need to be straightened out. I knew I was just keeping myself busy, but I couldn't stop. If I stopped, I would start to think. If I thought too much, I would surely go insane. I just had to get through the day without thinking. I could think later. Or I could put it all behind me and pretend that it never happened. I didn't have to tell my husband. I didn't have to wonder why I let it happen. I didn't have to consider the consequences. I didn't have to think about wanting it to happen again.
My husband wasn't home when I pulled into the driveway. I had mixed emotions about that. I didn't want to have to face him at the moment, but I didn't want to be alone with my thoughts either. I unloaded my things from the truck and went inside. My lab greeted me at the door, bounding across the dining room and ramming his head into my legs. I smiled and welcomed his intrusion. It was something else to deal with that would keep me from my thoughts. I let him out onto the screen porch and grabbed his leash. We walked out into the yard and I opened the gate, releasing him to go do what dogs do. I sat on the steps, closed my eyes, tilted my head back to feel the sun on my face, and then the floodgates opened.
What kind of a woman allows a man to sexually assault her in public, in broad daylight? What kind of a woman gets off on a man treating her like some kind of slut? What the hell was I thinking? Why didn't I stop him? Why didn't I just walk away as soon he showed up at the river? What was so fucking wrong with me that the thought of him using me like that made me wet? I asked myself these questions over and over again. There weren't any answers. I'd been here before and asked the same questions. And the answers never came.
I thought back to that time long ago when I'd let a stranger touch me for the first time. No, I corrected, I didn't let him. I was a little girl. He molested me. I didn't, "let" him do it. But I didn't stop him. I sat, frozen, scared, silent, as his hand slid up my thigh and then into the hole in my blue jeans. I watched the lake and watched that little red and white bobber on the water as I felt his crooked, wrinkled fingers slide over that place where no one should touch me. I prayed for a fish to take the bait on my hook and flee. It would be a distraction. It would stop what was happening. It would stop him from touching me, from whispering in my ear; that raspy whisper that sounded like dead leaves sliding over asphalt. It would stop what I couldn't.
The tears started then. And I knew that I wouldn't be able to stop them. I had to let this run its course. I had to allow all of those feelings to flow through me until I could put the pieces into place and start to breathe again. What kind of a girl allowed a strange man to touch her that way? I wept, sobbed, let the feelings go, and I let the sun try to burn through my flesh and warm the parts of me that always felt cold.
When I was finally able to breathe again, I stood and went to collect the dog. I brought him into the house and went through the rest of my routine without thinking; a biscuit and a pat on the head, food in his bowl, a treat for the cats, water. I had to take care of things before I could start the process of sorting my thoughts. I'd been here before, and I would probably be here again. But I had to do it, or I would feel those thoughts eating into my brain and damaging everything I had come to grips with over the past few years.
I went to my office and pulled out my tattered journal. And I wrote; every thought, every word that had passed between us, every emotion, every desire, every fear. The words flowed onto the page quickly. I had to put the thoughts down or I might lose myself in them. If I wrote, I would be fine. I could let all of those thoughts flow out of me, pouring out though the ink of my pen, an extension of my hand, my outlet. I didn't know any other way to calm the demons that swarmed my brain. I didn't know any other way to analyze them and try to make sense of the path between then and now. It was crazy, but it worked. When my hand started to cramp and my neck hurt from being bent over my desk, I pushed on. At some point, the door to my office had opened and I had heard him say hello. He'd have taken one look at me, hunched over my desk, writing furiously, and left me in peace. He knew what it meant.
As the last word came to life on the page, I felt myself becoming lighter. I sat up, put down my pen, and sipped my now cold coffee. I rolled my head, feeling the muscles start to loosen in my neck. I took a few deep breaths and felt my mind clearing. I knew it wouldn't last, but for now at least, I could think about what had happened without crying, without losing control of my emotions. I could sit down and have a conversation with my husband and try to work through what I had done in a rational, logical manner. I closed my journal and replaced the large rubber band around its cracked spine, essentially locking away the thoughts that I had put down. I would come back to them after a while, but for now, I needed to focus on something else.
I found him in the kitchen, emptying the dishwasher. I stopped him mid-stride and took the plates from his hand. I leaned in and kissed him before turning to put the dishes away. He turned back to the task, knowing that I would talk when I was ready. As I watched him, I was reminded again why I loved him. He wouldn't pry. He would let me have my space and figure things out on my own. He respected my need for that, until it affected our relationship. And then he wouldn't let me forget that he was a part of my life that I couldn't stash away in a journal. He was flesh and blood, and wouldn't just go away. And that's what I needed. I needed him to not go away.
I leaned up against him as he stood at the sink. My arms wrapped around him and I pressed into him from behind. I leaned in closer and slid my tongue over the back of his neck. He shivered, and it made me smile. I loved how he responded to me. He grabbed the towel from the rack and dried his hands before turning around. His lips met mine and he slid his hands down my back. As his tongue slipped between my lips, I felt the heat rise within me. God, I loved this man. I loved the way his love and his need leached into me through his kisses. I loved the way that he touched me. I loved the way that he could make me wet in an instant.
