This is work of fiction. No harm is intended, and anyone who cannot separate fiction from reality should try consulting a doctor. The majority of crime novelist don’t kill people, and so the majority of erotic-fiction authors don’t violate people. And, to make it clear...I don’t do any harm myself.
*****
The Second Rape
It had been a year ago. A year had passed since her life as she had known it, had ended. Three hundred and sixty five days...well, maybe one or two or three days more than that.
One year in a lifetime that, under normal circumstances would not make any change at all. One...one day that had crushed her life, had crushed her soul, her very existence. That day when she had arrived from abroad, when she had decided to stroll the mall, to do some power shopping.
That one day, when she had been locked away in the office-section of that mall. One hour, one minute...when he had taken her. That moment, that hour when he had beaten her, when he had pushed her to the ground, her head hanging over the edge of the floor, only covered by the outward curved windows from the cold night winds of New York City. And then he had raped her.
Stephanie closed her eyes for one moment, tried to stay calm while she had stopped the car at a red light.
Remember the therapy...remember that it is in the past. It will never happen again. Never...
She fought the tears, fought the fear in her body. The fear that one day, in the middle of the night he would come to her. He would stand over her bed, he would push away the sheets, would fuck her...fuck her...fuck her...fuck her....
Hot tears started running down her face and Stephanie started weeping.
It took her one moment to realize that some people behind her were pumping there horns, wanted her to step on it.
It’s over...
Stephanie pushed the pedal and her old, light green Oldsmobile started moving again. It had been a really hard time for the young woman, but now she had a job to do. A job, a focus in her life. And this one goal, this focus had become the only reason for her not to commit suicide. Her job was to find that creature.
Though, afraid as she was, though as much as she wanted to be home, on another continent... she knew that she had to face her darkest fears. She had to find him; she had to make sure he would never do that to any other woman in his lifetime again.
Her breathing became faster when she took the route towards that part of town where he was supposed to be. That dark part, that poor part...where nobody would care if she died on the streets, or if the man would rape her again.
“Oh God...please stop this. I can’t do this with that kind of thinking.”
No, she couldn’t. No.
Involuntarily Stephanie glanced over to the other seat where the gun lay, covered by an old peace of cloth.
Yes, that one was her life insurance.
She crossed the bridge and took the second exit into the darkest part of town. When she turned right onto one broad street, she could instantly make out burning trashcans and a lot of younger people standing around those cans. Stephanie’s guts were turned into one big knot and her heart kept on racing. She knew she had to go on. She had come this far and wouldn’t be stopped by her own fears.
He will rape you...
“No!”
The young woman, dressed in an expensive blouse and sand colored pants, hit the wheel with her right hand, her face distorted into one grim mask.
“No, he will not. Stop thinking that!”
Alright, baby, concentrate on your goal. Find that damned street, find the house.
A glance onto the map, also laying on the other seat, told her that she was almost there. Only minutes later she turned the car into one side street and turned right again at the next light. Now the only thing left for her to do was to find number 1123...piece of cake.
“Yes!”
There it was...number 1123, one really run down place, with only a hint of color on old stonewalls, now covered by graffiti. Stephanie pulled the car over and stopped right in front of number 1123. There she turned the key and the engine died.
It was quiet for one endless moment; one moment in which the young woman closed her eyes and felt her chest moving hard. She knew she was close now, so close, so close to him.
Oh God, give me strength...
She opened up the drivers door and stepped onto the otherwise deserted street, then locked the door and took one long look at the old building.
“Hotel NY,” it said....
Hotel Hell
It took her all her courage to move any closer to the entrance. Her fears, that inner voice that constantly told her that she was about to get raped again, drained her strength, but she kept her pace, kept her will to end this. And the pressure of the gun, underneath that old piece of cloth in her right hand was the reassuring voice of hope. And when she walked up the steps to the Hotel door, Stephanie felt a little better.
“Excuse me, sir.”
A young woman, fragile looking, in an expensive silk blouse and sand colored pants stood at the counter and tried to pick up the clerk’s attention.
“Yes?”
He was an old man with a very white beard, and his uniform seemed to be as old as the Hotel.
“I am looking for one Michael Morgan. Somebody told me, Mister Morgan has a room in your Hotel.”
The man glanced over to a group of equally old man, sitting around one table and playing cards. The men waved at him and they began laughing.
“Well, young lady, Mister Morgan is not in his room right now. If I were you, I would get back where I came from. Mister Morgan is not a very friendly person.”
Stephanie gulped some saliva and felt the knot in her guts tightening.
“I know, but I have to find him. It is very important.”
And there, the old man seemed to recognize the gun underneath that old piece of cloth. But the man did not say anything.
