The streets did not change nor did the buildings that lined them. The sidewalks had all the same the cracks and the bus shelters on them had the same graffiti every time Angel passed them. She had walked this long stretch of road time and time again since she had been drugged and raped in an apartment on this street; none of the geography changed but two weeks ago there had been apartments just behind a sheltered bus stop and now there were only warehouses and no sheltered stops at all.
She knew it had happened all of it. The hallucinogenic tea may have altered her perceptions but she had clearly remembered washing semen off of her thighs, ass, and chest. She remembered the task alarm her assailant had set on her phone before leaving her on a train platform. She remembered inputting the number string, that was the text of the task message, into her web browser and finding the story he had written while raping her which of course detailed said violation. She remembered the three days of sore muscles. All her memories did not change the facts though and it scared Angel beyond her imagination to believe she was going mad. Not only did the apartments and bus shelter not exist but neither did the task alarm or website. She had taken her phone to specialist who said that no task had been set for that date on her phone. The domain for the website was unregistered and according to all her research never had been registered. Her browser history didn't even indicate she had visited the site.
Angel could handle being given a mind altering drug and viciously raped but the idea that her mind would fabricate such an incident with so many supporting memories was beyond her capacity. She had gone back there to find Tom, not in the hopes of getting him arrested or avenging herself but to ask him to please take down the website before anyone she knew happened across it. Two weeks she had searched only to continue to find what she had discovered on her first return. If the apartments, bus shelter, and website were not real then the events they related to also could not be real; and if events she had clear and detailed memories of were not real then how could she trust any of her other memories. Angel had spent her nights pondering this question and shamefully pleasuring herself to the the very memories she questioned. She had not slept more then an hour a night. Her course work at school was slipping and her manager at the restaurant had sent her home early two nights ago and told her to get some rest.
She sat on the bus heading back to her home when she was received the text.
Answers @ Front and Sampson Ave. The originating number was 866-2583. She tried to call it and wasn't surprised to get an automated error response. On a hunch she entered it into a text window in predictive mode; 'tom blue' it read. Fear and anxiety gripped her mind and all of her body felt hollow. Tom, the writer, the man in the blue suit, the predator, the rapist; she thought of him in so many ways but always with this dreadful sense that she was falling through infinity itself. She pulled the cord and got off the bus. The text had come only 5 blocks from the stop nearest the intersection. Angel was alert with terror as every shadow on the street seemed to suggest a large man in a suit was casting it from right behind her. As she walked on ward she realized that her destination was going to take her under the shadow of the interstate. The dark crumbling industrial neighborhood felt dangerous enough so near the river and shot through with railroad tracks both derelict and active but beneath the interstate was shadowy recess of concrete columns and unseen niches. Places to hide; places to be pulled into; places where no one would see what happen to you. Her mind screamed for her to run back to the bus stop and go home before she walked into this monster's trap again. Her feet moved onward as though there was some primal instinct telling them that there was nothing back there now; no bus stop; no escape; nothing but what lay ahead.
Angel no more then crossed into the shadows when she felt the hands grab her and push her hard into the nearest concrete column. She braced her hands against the pillar and screamed out "Don't hurt me!"
"Angel, you know damn well I'm going to do what I want. Pants? Really?" Tom's voice drifted over her shoulder as he held his body against her struggling form using his own size to keep her pinned while his hands reached down and began undoing the buttons of her jeans.
"Tom, please... I jus-"
"You just wanted to know if I was real or not." He forced her the jeans down to her knees as he leaned down to whisper against her ear. His lips brushed her skin as he spoke and his hot breath washed over her face. "I think you'll find," his hand tore her panties apart, "I'm unquestionably," Angel felt one arm press across her shoulders holding her pinned and as she heard a zip the fight left her, "real." He used his knee to pry her legs as far apart as half dropped jeans would allow as he positioned the head of his cock against her lips without preparation or prelude. The hard upward thrusts made her scrape her hands against the rough column and she was so intent on not letting her face suffer similar abuse that she found herself thrusting back against him. She cursed him and herself in as many languages as she knew under her breath and he laughed between his moans. She had come to his call and she was his to use and even as she swore at him she had to spite herself for her body was as consumed with pleasure as her mind was with fear and hatred. It was rough and savage and painful and at the same time animal and decadent and her body seemed to delight in this intersection and every brutal thrust was met with her own push back and it was not long before she was crying her pleasure into that forsaken echo chamber.
"Oh fuck, oh, oh Ah!" Her own voice rung back at her from every corner bombarding her with her own desire laden voice from every direction only to be drowned out by his laughter and moans.
"Am I real?"
"Yes!"
"Is this real?"
