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Message-ID: <40768asstr$1044742203@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: anais ninja <anais_ninja@hotmail.com>
User-Agent: Xnews/5.04.25
Subject: {ASSM} Exile - Chapter Nine - Let it Bleed (Ff Mf teen drugs)
Date: Sat,  8 Feb 2003 17:10:03 -0500
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Exile
 
(c) 2003  Anais Ninja  anais_ninja@hotmail.com 
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/anais_ninja/index.html 

 
Note:  This is my story.  The names and details have been changed to
protect the privacy of those involved.  Some of this account has
been reconstructed from memory, but most of it has been based on a
journal I kept during these years. 
 
This is a sequel to _Wanderings_, which can be found on my asstr-mirror.org
site: 
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/anais_ninja/wander/index.html 


 

Chapter Nine - Let it Bleed (Ff Mf teen drugs)



Megan woke me up the next morning.  She had to go to the bathroom
and she couldn't pull the dresser away from the door by herself.  As
I crawled out of bed, the pain between my legs returned.  I let
Megan out of the room and laid down again.  My tits hurt, my cheek
hurt, everything hurt, and my head was throbbing.  Megan came back
into the room.

"You'll miss breakfast, Annie," she said, tugging at my arm. 
"C'mon." 

"Screw breakfast.  I'm going back to sleep," I muttered.  Screw
classes, too.  I had every intention of staying in bed all day.

"Annie, I don't want to go down there without you," she pleaded.

"Baby, I can't move.  It hurts too much," I replied.  "Go on without
me, sit with Manny and Billy or stay close to Sister Bernice." 
Megan bit her lip and nodded, giving me a kiss on the cheek before
leaving the room.  I lay in bed, watching the snow fall outside,
wishing I had another Dilaudid for the pain.

I remembered the first time I saw snow, back in Maine, just a few
months before.  Del and Paco were ecstatic, and so was I.  We'd seen
it in movies, on television, but nothing could prepare us for the
real thing.  Ramon cursed it, because it meant that he'd have to
drive down to the docks and sweep the snow from the deck of his
boat, but we were fascinated with it, making snow angels and
building a snowman and throwing snowballs at each other, laughing
and screaming with joy.  

Later that day we walked over to Julia's house with a couple of snow
shovels that we found in the garage, clearing off her driveway and
the walkway to her front door.  She rewarded us with hot chocolate
and sat us down in front of her fireplace to warm ourselves, telling
us the story of a huge blizzard she experienced when she was just a
little girl.

It seemed to snow almost every day in Maine, and when it began to
pile up and turn to grey slush it didn't seem so very magical
anymore.  But the wonder of  that first day would stay with me
forever. 

Staring at the snow relaxed me, calmed me.  I could feel the warmth
of Megan's body lingering on the sheets.  I rolled over and pulled
the blanket up to my neck, falling asleep again.

Megan was lying on Father Ken's desk, naked except for the frilly 
ruffled panties that held her ankles together.  Father Ken stood by
her head, Mr. O'Hare at her feet, both of them holding her down,
restraining her squirming body.  I was sitting in one of the chairs,
an unwilling observer.

As is often the case with dreams, I wanted to scream but I couldn't,
I wanted to run away, but I couldn't, I wanted to close my eyes, but
my eyelids were made of glass and I couldn't look away.  I sat
there, paralyzed, as Mr. O'Hare took his thick club of a cock and
pressed it against Megan's puffy lips, pushing, pushing, pushing his
way inside.  As Megan began to bleed, dark red fluid gushing from
her slit, she looked at me, her eyes pleading for me to do
something, anything.  She opened her mouth to say something but
Father Ken stuffed it full of cock.  Her cheek bulged and she
twisted her head back and forth, trying to dislodge the invading
member.  Then Mr. O'Hare pulled his bloody cock out of her ruined
cunny and he and Father Ken flipped her over on her tummy.  O'Hare
pressed his cock against her tush, trying to shove his enormous
member into her tight little bottom. 

That's when Megan screamed.

That's when I woke up.

That's when I heard the screaming.

It was real, not a dream, not a hallucination.  It was real and it
was coming from the hallway, along with the sound of hard shoes, and
something being dragged along the floor.  I sat up, swung my legs
out of the bed, and tried to stand, nearly falling in the process. 
I heard a door slam, heavy footsteps heading back down the hall, and
then the screaming stopped.

I was nauseous with pain, staggering down the hall to Megan's room, 
opening the door without knocking.  She was lying on the bed, curled
into a tight little ball, her arms wrapped around her knees, her
face wet with tears.  Each step I took sent stabbing pains through
my lower belly, but I made it to her bed, nearly falling on her,
wrapping my arms around her curled-up form.

"What happened?" I asked her.  "Megan, baby, tell me what happened?"
 She was crying so hard she couldn't speak, and all I could do was
hold her, rock her, stroke her hair.  Gradually, she began to calm
down, her shaking becoming a mere tremble, her tense body relaxing
little by little.

"Megan, honey.  Tell me."

"He hurt me," she croaked, her voice a toneless rasp.

"Who?  Where?"

"Father Ken.  Down there," she sobbed.

"Let me see, baby.  Let me see where he hurt you."  I gently tugged
at her legs, trying to uncurl the knot she'd made with her limbs. 
Her dress had bunched up around her waist.

There was blood on her panties.

"Bastard," I said under my breath.  "I'll kill him."  I took Megan
in my arms and held her as the sobbing started again, her tears
nearly soaking through the shoulder of my robe.  I cradled her in my
arms, rocking her, gently kissing her, wishing that whatever blind
idiot god looked over us would have mercy on her.  Give me her pain.
 Take it away from her and give it to me.  I don't care if it kills
me, just make her pain go away. 

"I did like you said, Annie," she whispered.  "I screamed when he 
touched me.  I screamed and he hit me."

"Baby, oh baby, I'm so sorry," I said, my own tears starting now. 
"I'm sorry.  I'm so sorry."

"He hurt me, Annie," she said again.  "He put his thing...down
there." 

"It'll never happen again, angel.  I promise.  I promise."  My mind
was racing, trying to figure out what to do next.  I felt a warm
wetness on my leg, under Megan's bottom.  For a second I thought
she'd wet herself, but it turned out to be more blood.  Her panties
were soaked through, and even more was oozing out from between her
legs.  This wasn't from her hymen, she was really bleeding badly. 
Something was very wrong. 

"Megan, can you walk?" I asked her.  I felt her nod.  "Let's go to
my room first, then I'm taking you to the hospital.  Come."  I
grabbed her coat, a nice warm parka with a hood, and took her by the
hand, hustling her across the hall to my room.  Her dress was also
stained with blood, but I didn't want her to change, not even her
soggy panties.  Better that the doctors and nurses should see this,
see what a monster Father Ken was.

I got dressed quickly, stuffing my journal into the pocket of my
coat.  Trish's number was in there, scribbled on the back of her
business card.  I poked my head out into the hall, making sure the
coast was clear, and we ran down the stairs as fast as our pain
would let us.  It was lunchtime already, and I could hear voices in
the dining room.  It was a clear shot through the front hall and out
the door.  There was no one to see us go, let alone stop us.

Boston City Hospital was only a few blocks away.  We ran, the snow 
crunching beneath our feet, cars passing us as we stumbled down the 
sidewalk, their tires shushing through the slush, turning it grey in
their wake.  Megan fell down a couple of times, and the third time
she didn't get up.

"My ankle," she sobbed.  "Annie, my ankle."  It was then that I
noticed the trail of blood, one for each pace she'd taken, leading
all the way back to the shelter.

"Hold on to my neck, baby," I said, my heart pounding, my hands 
trembling.  "I'll carry you there."  She wrapped her arms around me
and I picked her up, holding her blood-soaked bottom as I staggered
towards the hospital.  Just one more block and we're there.  Just
one more block and we're safe.

"It hurts, Annie," Megan sobbed.

"We're almost there, angel.  Hang on.  Try to hang on."  She was
small for her age, but her body felt heavier with each step.  I
heard her breathing become labored, shallow.  The color was draining
from her cheeks.  My hands were slippery with her blood.

Don't let her die.  Oh, please don't let her die.

I somehow found the energy to make the last block, despite the pain,
despite the exhaustion, staggering up the driveway past a row of
parked ambulances.  The emergency room's double doors automatically
opened, that hospital smell hitting me like a slap in the face.

"Help me, she's bleeding!  Somebody, please help me!"  I called out
for someone, anyone.  A nurse rushed out from behind a long counter
and called for a doctor, taking Megan from my arms.  As they laid
her on a gurney I sank to my knees in the middle of the reception
area, out of breath, my whole body throbbing with each beat of my
heart. 

I could taste blood in my mouth; I must have bitten my lip while I
was carrying Megan.  A second nurse knelt next to me, her hands on
my back, my belly, my breasts.  I squirmed away.

"Relax, honey.  I just need to check you for stab wounds or
gunshots." 

"I wasn't shot.  I wasn't stabbed," I said.  "Where are you taking
her?" 

"She's in good hands," the nurse said.  "Don't worry.  Let's just
have a look at you."  She helped me up from the floor and guided me
back, past the reception desk, past a door that said "TRAUMA", and
into a curtained area with an examination table.

"Let's clean off your hands, first," she said, filling a basin with
warm water.  I looked at them under the cold fluorescent light of
the cubicle.  My hands were covered with Megan's blood.  The nurse
took a green cloth, the same color as her tunic and pants, and began
to clean the blood from my hands and wrists.

"What happened to you?" she asked, dipping the cloth in the bowl. 
The water began to turn pink.

"He raped her.  That bastard raped her."

"Is she your sister?"

"No."

"Is the person who did this also the one who beat you?"

"Yes."

"Did he rape you, too?"

I hesitated for a second.  I knew that if I said "Yes" a doctor
would examine me, and he'd find the diaphragm inside me.  I couldn't
take it out the night before; it hurt too much to try.  But the mere
fact that I was wearing it might cast doubt on whether I was really
raped.  I wasn't even sure of it myself.  I would have willingly
slept with Father Ken that night, but he forced himself on me
anyway, beating me up with his cock instead of his fists.

"No, he didn't."

The nurse finished cleaning off my hands in silence.  I looked at
her ID tag.  Serena Hadley.  A pretty name, Serena.  She was short,
buxom, a round face and coffee-colored skin, her hair set in a
myriad tight braids, each one with a little multicolored bead at the
tip.  They made a soft clicking sound when she moved.

"What's his name, honey?  The man who did this."  Her voice was
soft, but there was an anger lurking beneath.

"Kenton Foley."

"Father Ken Foley?" she asked, flabbergasted.

"Yes, ma'am."  I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a
chrome-plated paper towel dispenser on the wall.  There was blood on
the corner of my mouth, but the swelling had subsided.  What made me
catch my breath was the black ring under my eye, the swelling of my
cheek robbing my face of its usual symmetry.

"Lie back honey, let me look at your face," she said.  She gently 
examined me, turning my head this way and that, carefully prodding
my injured cheek.  Then she dumped the pinkish water from the basin
and filled it again, daubing the blood from my lip with a fresh
cloth. 

"What's your name, dear?"

"Annie."

"And hers?"

"Megan."

"Her last name?"

I didn't know her last name.  I gave Serena mine.

"Annie, I've got to look at you.  This isn't going to hurt, I
promise.  I just need to look, okay?"  She snapped on a pair of
beige latex gloves.

I nodded and laid my head back, staring at the fluorescent light
fixture in the ceiling.  Nurse Hadley lifted my long skirt, stiff
with Megan's drying blood, and tugged at my panties, pulling them
down my thighs. 

"You've got some bruising, Annie.  You say he didn't assault you?"

"No, ma'am."  She touched my labia and I flinched, bolting upright.

"Sorry, Annie.  I'll let the doctor finish examining you.  Is there 
someone we can call for you?"

"No, ma'am."  The nurse pulled my panties back up and gently
smoothed my skirt over my thighs.  She peeled off her latex gloves
and tossed them into a trash container, returning to the exam table
and taking my hand in hers.

"Honey, the doctor will be in soon to look at you some more, and we 
might have to take some x-rays of your face, just to rule out a 
fracture.  It's probably just a bruise, but we need to make sure. 
Do you understand?"

"Yes, ma'am.  I understand."  She squeezed my hand and smiled at me.

"Annie, in cases like this, we're required to notify DYS."

"DYS?"

"Department of Youth Services.  And the police."

"Police?!?  No, you can't..."  I sat up, trying to swing my legs off
of the table.

"Shhhh...calm down, dearie.  Lie back.  Shhhh..."  She squeezed my
hand again.  "It's the law, Annie.  We're required by law to notify
them." 

I laid back down on the table and sighed, wondering what would
happen to me, to Megan.  Would I ever feel her arms around me again?
 Nurse Hadley had me roll up my sleeve, and she wrapped a
sphygmomanometer around my arm, inflating it by pumping the little
bulb.  She read the gauge and made note of her readings on a chart
clipped to an aluminum clipboard. 

"Can I see her?"

"I'm afraid you can't, at least not right now.  The doctor's still
with her."

"Is she going to be okay?"  Serena gave my hand another squeeze.

"She looked like she was in shock from loss of blood.  I'm not sure
what her condition is right now, but I think you got her here just
in time." 

"Just in time?"  Just in time for what?

"Stay here, dearie.  I'll see how she's doing.  Be back in a minute.
 In the meantime, change into this."  She gave me an open-back
hospital gown and then she padded out of the room, her white
sneakers squeaking on the tile floor.

I sat up on the table.  My first thought was to leave, to walk out,
but Serena had been so nice, so comforting.  I managed to get my
clothes off, and it didn't hurt too much, though I had trouble tying
the back of the hospital gown.  Megan's blood was all over my
clothes, my sweater, my skirt.  Del's old coat wasn't too bad, just
a couple of streaks of blood on the sleeves.

The nurse returned with a young man in green scrubs, stethoscope
slung over his neck, ID card clipped to his pocket.

"Annie, this is Dr. O'Hare.  He's going to take a look at you."  She
snapped a plastic band around my wrist.  I looked at it; my name was
printed in letters made up of tiny black dots.

"Hi, Annie.  Where does it hurt?", he asked, pressing his
stethoscope to my chest.

"Everywhere."

Nurse Hadley stood by while the doctor examined me, feeling my
ankles and wrists, my arms and legs, palpating the glands under my
chin.  He lifted my gown and looked at the bruises on my thighs and
labia, and then he had me sit up and pull the gown off of my
shoulders, carefully inspecting my back, my breasts, my belly.

"Serena, I need a tox screen, chem seven, blood gas.  And get a rape
kit."  She nodded and left the cubicle.

"Father Ken did this to you?" he asked, once she was out of earshot.
 I nodded.

"I don't believe you.  He's been a friend of my family's for years,"
he said.  "Years.  He'd never do something like this."

I was speechless.  I wanted to tell him it was all true.  I wanted
to give him my journal.  It was all right there.

Then I read his ID tag again.  "Dr. Fred O'Hare, Jr.".  His father
had fucked me on Father Ken's desk.

"If you don't tell us who really did this to you and Megan, you're
going to juvi hall, to jail," he said, turning and leaving the
cubicle. 

I was about to get up from the exam table and leave when the nurse 
returned, needle, vials, rubber band, and a plastic container in
hand.  She set the last item the counter and wrapped the rubber
strip on my forearm, making the veins near my elbow appear.  Then
she rubbed a spot on my arm with an alcohol wipe and jabbed me with
the needle, filling a glass vial with my blood.

"How is Megan?" I asked her.

"She's up in surgery right now," she said.  "It was close, but she 
should be okay."

I sighed, feeling relieved for the first time that day.

"I heard what he said to you," she continued.  "I believe you."

"You do?"

"Boy came in here last year, right before Christmas, a kid from the 
shelter.  All torn up like Megan," she said.  "Kept saying it was
Father Ken, Father Ken."

"What happened to him?"

She shook her head, drawing another vial of blood and loosening the 
rubber band, putting a gauze patch over the puncture and fastening
it with surgical tape.

"Megan," I said.  "I couldn't keep her safe..."

"Annie," Serena said, taking my hand in hers.  "You saved her life. 
If it had been five more minutes..."

My lower lip quivered as I thought about Megan, how close to death
she'd been.  Despite what Nurse Hadley said, I still felt
responsible.  I was the one who told her to scream.  Had that served
to inflame Father Ken, to stoke his ire?  Had he taken out his rage
against me on this helpless little girl?  My tears began to flow,
and Serena held me against her green smock, rubbing my back as I
cried, holding my hand, caressing my cheek.  Then she tied the back
of my gown for me and made me lie down on the table.

"I'm going to run these down to the lab.  I'll be back in a few 
minutes," she said, patting my hand.  "Don't worry.  O'Hare can't
start the rape exam without a female staff member present.  Policy."
 She squeezed my hand and left with the vials of blood.

I wasn't about to have Dr. O'Hare examine me again, even with a
nurse present.  My clothes were draped over a chair.  The skirt was
a mess.  There was no way I could wear it.  The sweater was stained
with blood, too, but I could put it on backwards and wear my coat
over it.  A little bit of surgical tape on the back of the hospital
gown made it look like a skirt.  A funny skirt, but a skirt
nonetheless.  I put on the coat and rolled up the sleeves, hiding
the blood stains. 

It was just as easy to leave the emergency room as it was to leave
the shelter.  On my way out the automatic doors that led to the
ambulance bay, I passed a pair of policemen on their way in.  A
minute later I was on the corner of Mass. Ave. and Albany Street,
dialing Trish's number from a pay phone.

There was no answer from Trish's home phone, so I tried the number
that was printed on the other side, her work number.  She picked it
up on the third ring.

"Trish, I need your help," I blurted out.  "I'm in trouble."

"Where are you, Annie?"  I gave her the address of the nearest
apartment building, a brownstone on Mass. Ave.

"Stay there, honey.  I'll be there in five minutes."

I hung up the phone and went over to the apartment building.  There
was a basement entrance under the stairs, a few feet below street
level.  I huddled behind a row of battered aluminum garbage cans,
the cold wind blowing up and under the taped-up hospital gown.  I'd
started to shiver from the frigid weather when a taxi pulled up to
the curb.  The back door opened and Trish stepped out, looking
around.  I jumped out from my hiding place, tripping on the stairs
and skinning my knee.  Trish ran over and helped me up, sliding into
the back seat of the cab after me. 

"Annie!  What the fuck happened?"

"I can't...I can't...," I stammered.  The driver turned to look back
through the scratched plexiglas partition.

"We need to get you to a hospital," she said.

"No, please, no," I said, as tears began to run down my cheeks.  I
held up my wrist with the plastic identification band Nurse Hadley
had given me, slipping my finger under it and stretching it until it
snapped off, landing in Trish's lap.  Trish realized that I had just
come from City Hospital.  She gave the driver her address and the
cab pulled away from the curb.

Trish helped me up the stairs to her apartment, holding me under my
arm as I negotiated each step, step by painful step.  Once inside
her place, she guided me into her bedroom and made me lie down,
still in my coat, sweater, and the thin hospital gown.

"Warm up, Annie.  I'll make you some tea," she said, pulling the
thick quilt over me.  I huddled underneath the blanket, still
shivering, still crying.  She returned a few minutes later with a
steaming mug of peppermint tea.  I sat up in her bed, shrugging off
Del's old jacket, and held the mug in my hand, bringing it up to my
nose and inhaling the aromatic steam.

"Annie, tell me.  What happened?"

"Father Ken," I said.  She shook her head.  I sipped the hot tea, 
feeling its warmth spread through my body.  The shivers stopped, the
tears stopped, and I began to tell Trish everything that had
happened.  By the time I finished, the mug was empty.  Trish put her
arms out and held me, kissing my bruised cheek.

"I need to know about Megan," I said.  "I need to know that she's
okay." 

"Let me try something," Trish said.  She picked up the phone and
dialed Information, asking for the direct number to the hospital's
pediatric intensive care unit, writing it down on a narrow spiral
bound notepad.  Then she called the PICU, clearing her throat while
the phone rang on the other end.

"Hi, this is Francine DeLeo from DYS.  To whom am I speaking? 
Marcie?  Marcie, my boss needs to know the status of a little girl
who was brought in earlier...about an hour ago...her name is Megan."
 Trish turned and winked at me.

"What's her last name?" she whispered, covering the phone's
mouthpiece. 

"I gave mine.  Mercer," I said, sotto voce.

"Megan Mercer," she said into the phone, using that weird Boston
accent, the first "r" in "Mercer" sounding like a "w", the last "r"
mutating into "ah".   Mewsah.  "Yes, that's right...yes, I'll hold."

"She's checking," Trish whispered.

"Oh please, oh please, oh please let her be okay," I whispered. 
Trish reached out and put her hand on my arm, gently squeezing it.

"She is?  They did?  Great, that's good to hear.  Thanks a bunch, 
Marcie."  Trish hung up the phone and put her arm around me.

"The nurse said she's in stable condition, but she might need
surgery again.  They're going to wait overnight and monitor her
condition first."

I let out a deep sigh and closed my eyes, settling back into the bed
and relaxing for the first time that day.

"Sleep, honey.  Get some sleep and we'll talk later, okay?"  She
kissed me on the cheek again and began to get out of bed.

"Wait, Trish," I said.  "Here.  It's all in here."  I pulled my
journal out of the coat pocket and handed it to her.  She opened it
and riffled through the pages, stopping on one and reading it to
herself, her jaw dropping as she scanned the page.

"Annie, do you mind if I photocopy this?"

"No, go ahead," I said, rolling over on to my side.  Trish shook her
head slightly and left the bedroom.  I heard her leave a few minutes
later, heading for a copy shop a few blocks away.  I looked out the 
window at the dull grey sky.  The snow had stopped.  I fell asleep.


                                  * * *


"Wake up, Annie.  Honey, wake up."  Trish gently shook my shoulder, 
rousing me from my sleep.  The dull grey sky had turned television
blue as the sun began to set.  "How to you feel?"

"Okay, I guess."  My limbs felt stiff, but the pain between my legs
had begun to recede.  I sat up in bed and I heard my stomach growl. 
"Hungry."  I hadn't had anything to eat since dinner the day before.

"I've got nothing in the house right now except cereal," she said. 
"I can have something delivered.  What would you like?  Pizza? 
Chinese?" 

"Pizza," I said, my voice raspy from thirst.

"Pizza it is," Trish said.  I leaned forward to stretch and Trish 
noticed the bloodstain on the backwards sweater.  "Let me get you 
something to wear, okay?"

"Thanks," I said, pulling off the sweater, my favorite, warmest wool
sweater, now stained with Megan's blood.  Trish rummaged through her
dresser and came up with a grey sweatshirt with the word
"Georgetown" printed across the front.  I pushed the quilt aside and
shrugged off the hospital gown.

"Annie, wait.  Let me see you," Trish said, seeing the bruises on my
thighs.  "Can I?" she asked, gently tugging at the waistband of my 
panties.  Her eyes began to tear up as she saw my bruised labia. 
There was a spot of blood on the crotch of my panties, even though
my period wasn't due for another two weeks.  She gave me a pair of
her panties to wear, plain cotton bikini panties that were a little
too loose.  I put on the sweatshirt and got out of bed, following
her into the dining area.  While she called for a pizza, I had a
bowl of Cheerios, nearly finishing it before she hung up the phone.

"Thirty minutes," she said.  I was starting my second bowl of cereal
when she sat down across from me.  "Annie, there's sort of a problem
with your journal."

"Problem?"

"There's stuff in there that's going to get you into big trouble. 
The drugs, Billy, Chris..."

"What about Billy and Chris?"

"Well, it's possible that if we show this to the police, you might
be charged with contributing to the delinquency of a minor."

"But I'm a minor."

"I know, but it doesn't matter.  They were younger than you.  Manny?
 Not a problem.  He was your age, right?"

"Right."

"It's not like it's a federal case, but you might end up in juvenile
hall until you're eighteen," Trish said, her face taking on a grave 
mien.

"What if we don't show them that part?"

"Won't matter.  Defense will want to see the whole thing.  Something
called 'exculpatory evidence'."

"What about my bruises?" I asked.

"It would have been better if you stayed at the hospital, let them
check you out."

"I couldn't," I said, explaining the link between the doctor and his
father, Mr. O'Hare.

"Fred O'Hare?  Big guy?  Grey hair?  Fiftysomething?" she asked.  I 
nodded.  "Shit.  He's the district attorney."

"That's bad?"

"That's bad," she said.

"What do we do now?"

"Let's eat first.  I'll think of something."  Trish went over to the
kitchen counter and reached into a cabinet, pulling out a bottle of
red wine.  She opened it and rinsed out two glasses, pouring one for
me.  It was a weird combination, cereal, milk, and wine.

We sat quietly at the table until the intercom sounded.  Trish
buzzed the delivery person up and got some money from her purse. 
The pizza smelled wonderful, garlicky and cheesy.  Despite having
had two bowls of cereal, I wolfed down four big slices, washing them
down with a second glass of wine.  Afterwards, Trish wrapped up the
two remaining slices and put them in the freezer.

"Could I take a bath, please?" I asked.

"Sure, honey.  Stay here and I'll start the tub and get you some 
towels," Trish said.  She poured me a third glass of wine and 
disappeared into the bathroom.  I heard the sound of running water,
and between that and the wine, I needed to pee.  Picking up my glass
of wine, I walked into the bathroom.  While Trish went to get fresh
towels, I pulled down my panties and sat down on the toilet.  Then I
remembered that I was still wearing my diaphragm.  Before I emptied
my bladder, I reached inside my sore little pussy to remove it.  The
stabbing pain returned as I fished it out.  There were streaks of
blood on the latex, and I nearly passed out.  I was sitting on the
toilet, my head between my legs, the bloody latex disk sitting in
the sink, when Trish returned with fresh linen.

"Annie?  Annie?"  She dropped the towels on the floor and stroked my
hair.

"It hurts," I murmured.  "It hurts."

"Baby, let me get you something," she said, straightening up and
opening her medicine cabinet.  As she looked through an assortment
of orange plastic vials, I let go of my bladder, voiding into the
toilet.  I felt a burning down there.

"Here, I've got some Percodan left over from when I broke my wrist 
skiing," she said, tapping a pill out into her palm.  "No more wine
for you, though."

Trish fetched a glass of ice water and returned as I was taking off
the sweatshirt she gave me.  After I swallowed the pill, she
unhooked my bra, clucking her tongue at the bruises on my breasts. 
She helped me into the bathtub and knelt next to it, gently washing
me with a soapy cloth, trying to avoid the bruises on my body.

"What a piece of work that guy is.  What a piece of work," she said,
rinsing me off with her hands.

"He was nice to me.  Sweet.  Until last night," I said.

"He pimped you out to other priests.  That's sick," she muttered.

There was nothing I could say to that.  I leaned back in the tub, 
submerging my body in the warm, soapy water up to my neck.  Trish
sat next to the tub, lost in thought.

"Annie, we're going to pretend that your journal doesn't exist,
okay?  I'm going to take my copy to the office tomorrow and shred
it.  No one will ever know, okay?"

"Okay.  What about the original?"  I didn't want to just destroy it.
 It had been my faithful companion for the last few weeks, my
patient listener, hearing my confession.  My heart was in there.

"We'll figure something out, like stashing it somewhere.  A bus
station locker or something, or maybe you can get a post office box
and mail it to yourself."  I didn't like the idea of going to the
bus station again, but the post office box sounded like a good idea.

"Okay, but what are we going to do about Father Ken?  Or the
police?" 

"I've got an idea," she said.  "Finish up your bath and we'll talk
about it later."  She left me in the bath, the warm water soothing
my aches and pains.  After a little while, I got out and dried
myself off.  The Percodan had done its magic, and I felt better than
I had all day.  Even my skinned knee had stopped throbbing.  I
washed off my diaphragm in the sink.  Not knowing what to do with it
-- the case was still on my dresser back in the shelter -- I left it
to dry on the bathroom sink. 

Trish was sitting on her living room couch.  On the coffee table in 
front of her was a glass of wine for herself, a steaming mug of tea
for me, my journal, her notepad, and a small black tape recorder,
the kind that takes those tiny cassettes.  I sat down next to her
and took a sip of tea.

"Annie, I want you to tell me your story.  Start at the beginning, 
before Father Ken took you in.  Don't tell me anything about drugs, 
except for what Foley gave you.  Don't tell me about any boys
younger than you.  You can talk about comforting Chris, but not
about that night on your floor, okay?"

"Okay, I guess."  I regretted letting Chris fuck me that one time, 
partially because of his vulnerable emotional state, partially
because I was out of control when we did it, wasted on coke and
pills.  Now I regretted it even more.

"I need to tell you about ground rules.  You're a confidential
source.  I can't and won't reveal your name to anyone, not my
editor, not his boss, not the police, not even to a judge.  I'll
even disobey a court order and go to jail for contempt before I give
up your name," Trish said, her notebook in her lap, pen poised and
ready.  "Do you understand?"

"I do."  I didn't really, but it sounded like Trish was going out on
a limb for me, and I didn't want to disappoint her.

"Now, there's something called 'off-the-record'.  When you want to
tell me something that might get you in trouble but is necessary for
me to follow your story, say 'off-the-record', okay?"

"Okay."

"The tape will be paused, and I won't write it down or use it."

"Use it for what?"  Trish took a big sip of her wine.

"I need to write this.  I need to tell your story.  This is big,
this is huge," she said.

"I don't know about this," I said.  "I don't know."

"Annie, I know you don't want to go to the police.  You have your 
reasons and I respect that.  But we need to do something.  They
won't shut down the shelter on the basis of an anonymous phone call.
 We need something bigger."

"I don't know," I said again.  Trish put down her notepad and pen.

"Look, it's your call, Annie.  If you don't want to, we don't have
to." 

I thought about that for a minute.  I thought about Billy and Manny,
wondering if Father Ken would take out his anger on them in my
absence.  I thought about Chris, seeing the tears that ran down his
face when that priest shoved his prick in the boy's bottom.

"Start the tape," I said, feeling an icy ball form in my stomach.  I
didn't know where this would lead, but I had to do something. 
Anything. 

It took almost three hours to get it all out, with about a dozen
pauses as I choked up and cried, unable to speak.  At the end, when
I was recounting the events of that morning, I became nauseous and
barely made it to the bathroom before I lost my dinner.  Trish knelt
next to me, holding my hair while I puked, stroking my back,
pressing a cold, wet washcloth to my forehead.  She helped me into
her bed and brought me a cup of chamomile tea to settle my stomach.

"Brave girl," she cooed, her arms around me.  I lay my head on her 
shoulder while she rocked me, caressed me, comforting me just as I
had comforted Megan.  "Such a brave girl you are, Anne."

We slept together in her bed.  I had wanted this since the day we
met, only now I wished the circumstances were different.  There was
something in Trish's demeanor that was different from that day we
met at the boutique.  She was more like a mother to me than a lover
now, and I had the feeling that it would have been a breach of her
ethics for us to make love.

And I did want to make love to her.  I wanted to escape into
pleasure, to lose myself between her thighs, to feel a lover's
caress instead of a mother's.  As I closed my eyes, I could tell she
was looking at me, watching me, worried about my condition.  The
bruising looked even worse now, but the swelling in my cheek and lip
had all but disappeared. 


                                  * * *


She was gone when I woke up, a handwritten note on the pillow
instead of her head.  It said that she had gone into her office, to
shred the copy of my journal, to have the tape and her notes
transcribed, and to meet with her editor.  She left a couple of
numbers where she could be reached, and promised to be home before
dinner.  There was a $20 bill if I wanted to order pizza, along with
the number of the place that had delivered the pie the night before.

I stretched and got out of bed.  After a bowl of cereal, I turned on
the television for company, but there wasn't anything on that was
worth watching.  I took a shower and brushed my teeth, using my
finger because she didn't have a spare toothbrush handy.  My
diaphragm was still on the sink; I wrapped it in tissue paper and
slipped it in the pocket of my coat.

I sat around her living room that morning, bored and restless. 
Manny and Billy were on my mind, what they were doing right now,
whether they were safe.  It was Saturday, chore day.  I wondered who
was doing the laundry; that had been my task the last two weekends.

I ended up passing the time by writing in my journal, basically 
repeating some of what I had told Trish the night before.  By the
time I finished I was hungry again.  The night before I'd thrown up
recalling the same series of events.  Now I was famished.  I must be
healing. 

I didn't feel like pizza again, but I remembered seeing a sandwich
shop around the corner, and I had a craving for a hamburger or a
sub.  I rummaged through Trish's dresser, looking for a skirt or
pants that would fit me, ending up with a pair of drawstring pants
that matched the Georgetown sweatshirt.  I threw on my coat and
grabbed the money she'd left me.

Trish hadn't left keys for me, expecting that I would stay in her 
apartment all day, but there was a spare set hanging from a hook on
the side of her refrigerator.  I tested them in the front door,
making sure they were the right keys, and then I locked up her place
and headed downstairs.  There was a locked door leading out of the
lobby, but I had a key for that one, too.

The burger was greasy but good, as were the fries.  I got a can of
soda to go, and began to head back to Trish's place.  The weather
had turned and it was nice outside, unusually warm for a winter day
in Boston.  The sun was shining, the snow was melting, forming
slushy puddles at every corner.  I decided to take a walk instead of
heading straight back to the apartment.  The pain between my legs
had diminished, just a dull ache now, and because I had spent most
of the previous day sitting or lying down, I felt especially
restless, with energy to burn. 

I didn't mean to go back to the shelter.  I just sort of ended up
there, like I was led back to the place by an unseen hand.  Sitting
on the stoop of a brownstone across the street, I finished my soda
and watched the shelter, hoping to catch a glimpse of Manny or Billy
or someone. 

Something was different, though.  Something was wrong.  I sat there
for a half hour and no one entered or left.  It was after lunch, and
I expected to see one of the boys sweeping the steps or polishing
the glass of the front doors, typical Saturday chores.

"Something's wrong," I said to myself.  I tossed the empty can of
soda into a trash can and crossed the street.  My fear began to rise
in my throat, but I choked it back and mounted the shelter's steps,
opening the door, stopping in the middle of the front hall.  It was
dead silent.  Nothing.  No one.

I walked through the dining room, into the kitchen.  There were
dirty dishes in the sink, syrup and bits of waffles, breakfast.  The
stove was cold; lunch hadn't been served and there was no one
starting dinner.  I went upstairs.  All of the rooms were open,
clothes and personal effects strewn everywhere, as if someone had
been looking for something.  Billy's room was open, his comic books
were scattered around the floor, an empty knapsack sat on the bed. 
Manny's room was open, too.  His baseball and mitt were on the floor
along with all of his clothes, his mattress had been ripped open
with something sharp, and the stuffing was everywhere.

My room had been given special treatment.  The bed had been
overturned and the dresser was toppled on its side.  I felt around
the inside corner of the boxspring, my hiding place.  The bag of pot
was gone, as was my money, but my vibrator remained, sitting on the
windowsill, like a middle finger raised at the world outside.

I went back to Billy's room and grabbed the empty backpack.  Before
I left, I picked up one of his t-shirts and held it to my nose,
inhaling his familiar scent.  Stuffing it into the bag, I stopped
off at Manny's room, too, and while I was deciding whether to take
his ball or his glove, items I hoped to return to him someday, I
noticed something sticking out from behind the radiator, something
dark, made of wood, with the glimmer of brass.  I reached behind the
radiator and pulled it out, Manny's folding knife.  I slipped it
into the bag instead of the ball or the baseball glove, stuffing one
of his sweaters in as well. 

Back in my room, I packed my clothes, everything except the frilly 
things Mr. O'Hare had bought for me, stuffing it all in Billy's
pack.  I found my diaphragm case, along with the spermicidal jelly,
and I even found my bag of pot, pressed flat against the floor by
the mattress.  Still no money, though.  Right before I left, I
grabbed the little vibrator and put it in my pocket, not so much
that I needed it, but I didn't feel right leaving something so
personal behind. 

One last stop before I left the empty shelter: Megan's room, which
had also been Chris's.  Unlike the rest of the bedrooms, hers was 
undisturbed, her valise sitting on the floor where she'd left it. 
There were still blood stains, on the bed, on the floor.  I stood
and looked at the bed where I'd held her, rocked her, kissed away
her tears, feeling my own eyes welling up.  I had nothing to dry
them with, so I used one of her little pairs of cotton  panties. 
Unlike Billy's t- shirt, it was fresh from the laundry, it didn't
bear her scent.  I daubed my eyes with it and stuffed it into the
pocket of my coat, wanting something tangible to remember her,
something that wasn't a blood stain on a sweater.

Then I did something I hadn't done since I was six years old.  I
prayed.  I knelt by Megan's bed, right by the big brownish stain of
dried blood and I prayed for her safety, for her health.  Not to
God, but to Julia, my guardian angel.

"Please, Julia.  I know you're with me, I know you can hear me. 
I'll be okay.  I'll be fine.  Watch over Megan instead.  I love you,
Julia, and I know that you loved me, and I know that you can love
her.  Please, Julia.  She's still a little girl.  She needs your
help.  Please, please keep her safe, help her get well, stay with
her.  She'll be scared, so scared, and she needs you more than I do.
 Please, Julia.  Please." 

"Amen."  I turned, startled by the sound of another person's voice. 
It was Sister Katherine, standing in the doorway, a string of rosary
beads in her hand.

"God will hear your prayer, Anne," she said, coming over to me,
kneeling next to me, her arm around me, her soft cheek against mine.
 We held each other for a few minutes and then we got up.

"You've got to go, Anne.  They're coming back to shut the shelter
down for good," she said.

"Who is?  What happened?  Where did everyone go?"

"Come, I'll tell you on the way downstairs," she said, leading me by
the hand, out of Megan's room.

"They came right after breakfast.  Two of them went straight to
Ken's office and led him out to the car," she said in a hushed tone.
 "Ken", not "Father Ken".  Just "Ken".

"Who?  Who came for him?"

"The Cardinal's driver and the others, his bodyguards.  He's had
them ever since that psycho tried to kill Pope Paul, that trip to
Manila, ten or eleven years ago."  She stopped in the middle of the
stairs, fear visible in her eyes.  "They're all ex-cops, ex-FBI. 
The rest of them got the boys together and marched them into a bus
they had waiting.  They were allowed to take one change of clothes,
and that's it.  Nothing else, not even pictures of their families. 
They were so scared, Anne." 

"Where did they go?"

"I don't know.  Maybe out to the Residence in Brighton, maybe even
to Fall River.  The Cardinal spent twenty years there as a priest." 
She continued down the stairs.  I followed her, listening to her
frazzled account.

"One of them told me to stay in the kitchen, and then they tore the 
place apart, looking for what?  I don't know.  They had guns, Anne. 
I saw one of them when he took off his jacket.  They were looking
for something.  I don't know.  I don't know what.  I just don't
know."  Sister Katherine's voice trailed off.  She had nothing more
to say. 

We stood in the front hall together, holding hands, listening to the
silence.

"Come with me," I said.  "I know a safe place."  Trish had a couch,
big enough for Katie to sleep on.  And maybe Sister Katherine could
tell her story, maybe she could confirm mine.  I had no illusion
over what would happen if I had to testify against Father Ken in
court.  It would be my word against his, absent any other
corroborating testimony.  The word of a fourteen-year-old girl of
dubious morals against a man of the cloth.  Not a chance in Hell
they'd believe me. 

"Come," I said again.

"No, Anne.  I can't," she said.  "They're coming back for me, and I
will go with them."

"But they might...you might...," I couldn't even think it, let alone
say it.  They had guns.

"I know, Anne.  I know," she said, suddenly calm.  "And I deserve
it.  I committed the sin of lust, Anne.  I deserve whatever I get."

"Sister..."

"Go, Anne."

"Please..."

Sister Katherine pressed her rosary beads into my palm, covering my 
hands with her own, her eyes misting up, her lower lip trembling.

"Take these, Anne.  I know you don't pray to God, but you have
faith.  You have true faith, Anne.  God will always look over you." 
A single tear rolled down her pale cheek.

"Katie," I whispered.  "I love you."

"I love you, too, Anne.  Now please go.  Before it's too late."

I kissed her on the lips, a gentle kiss, a tender kiss, and then she
turned around and walked down the hall, towards her room, towards
her fate, to pray while she waited for them to return.  I watched
her fade into the darkness, and then I left.  Hefting the
overstuffed backpack over my shoulder, I headed back towards Trish's
place.  I held Sister Katherine's rosary in my hand, fingering the
smooth white beads, ten beads, then one, then ten beads, then one. 
Five hundred and fifty one beads later I was back at Trish's
apartment, letting myself back in with her spare keys.

While her words were still fresh in my mind, I took out my journal
and wrote down everything Sister Katherine had told me.  By the time
I finished, the sun was setting.  I settled down on the couch and
watched figure skating on television, distracted, preoccupied with
thoughts of Billy, Manny, Megan, Sister Katherine, waiting for Trish
to return from the Herald.

I must have dozed off, because it was dark when the telephone woke
me.  The network news was on, so it must have been dinnertime. 
Trish still wasn't back yet.  I got up from the couch, rubbing the
sleep from my eyes, and picked up the phone in the kitchen on the
sixth ring. 

"Thank God you're there," Trish said.  She must have been at a pay 
phone; I could hear tires on wet pavement in the background, the
"dink dink" sound of a car pulling into a gas station.  "Listen
carefully.  I don't have time to explain.  Just do what I tell you."
 There was an anxious edge to her voice, an urgency.

"Trish!  Where are...?"

"Listen!  There's no time!  You have to get out.  You have to go.  
They're coming for you."  Trish sounded as if she was on the verge
of tears, trying hard to keep her composure, to stay cool.

"Who?  Who's coming?"

"They had me locked in a room for hours.  They made me tell them
where you are.  You only have a couple of minutes.  Go.  Get out. 
Now." 

"What about you?  Can I meet you somewhere?"

"They're watching me, Anne.  I can't see you.  You have to go," she 
said, sobbing on the other end of the line.  "There's money in the
top drawer of my dresser.  Take it.  Take it and get out.  I gotta
go..." 

"Trish!  Wait!  Trish!"  She'd already hung up the phone.  It
clicked again and then there was just a dial tone.

I didn't even hang it up.  I let it dangle from the wall unit and
went into her bedroom, where my bag and coat had been parked.  I
didn't even have to pack.  Rummaging through the top drawer of her
dresser, I found the money she'd mentioned.  It was her underwear
drawer, bras and panties and pantyhose, the smell of potpourri
wafting up from a sachet at the bottom.  It smelled like Mrs.
Pomerantz's lingerie shop. 

Only $30.  I had a strange thought: more than enough for a bus
ticket back to Maine.  Mr. Hubbard would make me suck his smelly
cock, even fuck me.  Maybe I could get money out of him to do it. 
If a priest would pay for my pussy, why wouldn't he?

No.  No way.  I stuffed the cash into my jacket and grabbed the 
knapsack, dashing out the door and not even bothering to lock it.  I
ran down the hall and reached the top of the stairs when I heard a
loud banging coming from the lobby.  Someone was kicking the front
door.  There was a splintering sound, wood giving way to shoe
leather, and heavy footsteps, in the hall, on the stairs.

I dashed up the steps to the third floor just as the footsteps hit
the second.  There was another flight of stairs; these went to the
roof.  I quickly ran up them, coming to a stop at a locked door. 
The ceiling  light bulb had burned out, and I cowered against the
door in total darkness, listening to the sound of Trish's door
opening.  A few minutes later it slammed shut.

There were more footsteps, coming up from the second floor.

"You check the basement, I'll look up here."  Someone in a pair of
heavy shoes descended the stairs, while his partner came closer.

I heard a click, and a dim beam of light began to probe the
darkness.  The beam traveled along the wall of the staircase, coming
closer.  I huddled against the door, into the corner, into the
shadows, holding my breath.  If it hits me, I'm dead.  If it misses,
I live. 

It missed.

The yellow flashlight beam flicked off, and I heard the sound of 
footsteps descending the stairs.  I took a deep breath as soon as
they were out of earshot.  A pair of voices filtered up from the
lobby, followed by the sound of the broken door banging shut.  I
jammed my hand in my pocket and counted the rosary beads.  Six
hundred and fifty three beads later, I emerged from the darkness and
descended the stairs. 

Were they waiting out front?  Did they think I might come back to
the apartment?  I couldn't take the chance.  I went downstairs from
the lobby, down to the basement.  There was a familiar smell, the
odor of heating oil.  I recognized it from the house in Maine, that
dripping tank in the corner of the cellar.  At the end of a dimly
lit passage, between padlocked wooden storage stalls, there was a
steel door.  I opened it slowly, peering through the crack, then
around the edge.  No one.  Just silent green dumpsters.  I slipped
through the door and ran down the slushy alley, down to the next
street over, Blackwood Street. 

I stopped running when I hit the sidewalk.  Whoever it was that was 
looking for me didn't know what I looked like.  Sure, they had a 
description, and maybe they had some idea of what clothes I was
wearing when I left the hospital, but I was wearing Trish's
sweatshirt and sweatpants, and the backpack slung over my shoulder
obscured the Miami Dolphins logo on the back of Del's jacket.  I
straightened up and headed towards Mass. Ave.

There was only one place I could think of, one place that they
wouldn't find me, the abandoned building around the corner from the
shelter.  In the nook under the stairs was a gap in the boards that
I might be able to squeeze through.  Even if I couldn't, the nook
was enclosed, a place to hide, a place where I could figure out what
to do, to take stock of my situation.

The gap was just big enough.  I passed my backpack through the hole
in the boarded-up doorway and just made it through, getting a
splinter in my leg in the process.  It was dark, pitch black, but I
had a pack of matches.  I lit one, hearing something scurry in the
darkness.  I didn't want to know what it was.  There was a rotting
staircase, half the wooden steps gone.  It creaked beneath me as I
gingerly transferred my weight from one foot to the other, keeping a
firm grip on the railing. 

There were lights on the first floor, utility lights, low wattage
bulbs strung around the walls, bare except for a wire cage on each
fixture.  It looked as if someone had started to work on the
building, boxes of nails, sheetrock, and lumber piled up in the
hallway.  The old walls, cracked and peeling paint on plaster, were
broken through in various places.

Like Trish's building, there were two apartments on each floor. 
Only the first floor was lit, so I didn't go upstairs.  One
apartment was filled almost to the ceiling with black plastic
garbage bags.  The floor creaked beneath my feet, and I saw a dark
shape scurry from under the bags.  The other apartment had been
cleared out, half the walls dressed in new wallboard, the others
stripped of plaster and lath, just beams, pipes, and wires.  There
were still dirty dishes in the sink, as if the previous residents
had no time to wash them before they were evicted.  I though about
the shelter, how I'd seen the same thing, breakfast dishes undone,
no one to do them. 

I turned on the faucet.  It coughed to life, brown water followed by
clear, cold water.  No heat, no gas on the stove, no hot water.  In
what might have been a living room, there was a bare mattress, a
brown stain in the middle, a black smear on the floor, the remains
of a candle.  Someone had lived here, squatted here.  Were they
coming back?  The mattress had a coating of plaster dust.  So did
the floor, and only my footprints were visible.  I flipped the
mattress over.  There was an even larger stain on that side.

I was tired.  I didn't care.  I dropped my bag and sat on the
mattress, holding my head in my hands.  I was hungry.  I was cold. 
I was lonely.  I was scared.  Scared for me, scared for Trish,
scared for Sister Katherine.  Scared for Manny and Billy and Megan,
and I knew that they were scared, too.

I wanted a pill or a drink more than anything else, even food.  I
was hungry, too, but I wanted to get high, low, sideways, anything
but what I was feeling.  I had my bag of pot, stuffed into the
bottom of my bag, but nothing to smoke it in.  Then I remembered my
tampons, recalling something Manny had said when he saw them on my
dresser one night.  Rummaging through my pack, I pulled out the pot
and a tampon, carefully peeling the wrapper from the latter.  I
cleaned the seeds from a pinch of weed, sprinkling the pot along the
length of the paper.  I twisted it into a tube and licked it.  Not
too much, just enough to make it adhere to itself.  I shook it until
it dried and then lit it with a match.  It crackled from seeds I
hadn't caught, and it tasted pretty bad, but that didn't matter.  I
lay on my side on the filthy mattress and got stoned, Manny's knife
by my side.  It made it easier to fall asleep. 


                                  * * *


The rats woke me up the next morning.  As the sun came up, they
began to retreat to the darkness from their foraging grounds.  One
must have run across me.  I could still feel its feet running across
my breasts as I sat up, knife in hand, frozen in fear.  I heard
skittering, the sound retreating, leaving me alone with my pounding
heart. 

I was freezing, even though I'd taken most of my clothes out of my 
backpack and used them in lieu of a blanket and pillow.  I huddled
in my coat, shivering, the zipper pulled up over my nose, trying to
warm myself with my breath.  Reaching into the almost-empty pack, I
pulled on two pairs of tights and put my jeans on over them.

I was hungry, too.  I'd skipped dinner in my haste to leave Trish's 
place.  There was a 24-hour store a few blocks away.  I packed my 
knapsack, intending to take my stuff with me rather than leave it 
behind.  It was pretty heavy, even with both straps around my
shoulders, but lugging it was better than losing everything I had in
the world.  I pushed it through the gap in the boards and followed
it, emerging from the building into the pink light of dawn.  There
was a cold bite in the air; today wasn't going to be nearly as warm
as the day before. 

I bought a couple of sandwiches, cold cuts on rolls with soggy
lettuce, a couple of cans of soda, and a pack of rolling papers, so
I wouldn't have to use a tampon wrapper.  The sandwiches were pretty
expensive, a couple of bucks more than freshly made food from a
sandwich shop, but this was the only place open at this early hour
and I was too hungry to care.  The cashier rang up my meal and gave
me back a dollar in change from a $10 bill.  Before I left I tried
calling Trish from the store's pay phone, but there was no answer. 
I thought about trying to call the hospital, using Trish's little
ploy to check on Megan's condition, but I wouldn't have been able to
pull it off.  I sounded too young. 

Back in the derelict brownstone, I sat on the mattress and wolfed
down one sandwich and half of the other, stashing the leftover half
in my bag so the rats wouldn't get to it.  Eating so fast on an
empty stomach made me sort of queasy, so I rolled a joint and smoked
half of it. 

The sun was up now.  I had nowhere to go, nothing to do but hide,
stay out of sight.  The shelter was just around the block, but I
still felt like this was the safest place I could find, short of
taking a bus out of town.  I thought about Portland again, just for
a second before dismissing the thought.  Given a choice of sleeping
with rats and sleeping with Mr. Hubbard, the rodent option still
came out ahead. 

And so I spent the day on the stained mattress, wrapped in Del's old
coat and two sweaters, mine and Manny's.  I was numb, from the cold,
from the events of the last 48 hours.  I read my journal for a
while, leafing back through the past few weeks, and then I wrote a
couple of pages.  Afterwards, I finished off the second sandwich and
the last soda.

Both of the bathrooms on this floor were gutted.  No fixtures, just
a hole in the floor.  I briefly thought about using the sink, but I 
squatted over the hole in the other apartment, the one with all the 
garbage, and emptied my bladder.

Between the cold, the rats, the brown water that ran from the
faucet, and the demolished bathroom, I was motivated to find
somewhere else to stay, even just for a night.  There was a homeless
shelter near Michael's loft, but they wouldn't take in someone my
age; DYS would have been there as soon as they called.  There might
be another abandoned building I break into, but as bad as this place
was, it had lights and running water, and the gap in the boards
downstairs was just big enough for me to squeeze through.  Someone
bigger wouldn't be able to make it. 

I decided to stay as long as I could.  Those men who were looking
for me would eventually give up, or so I hoped.  I spent the rest of
the day on the mattress, hugging my knees and rocking back and forth
to keep warm. 

The sun was setting when I began to get hungry again.  Despite the 
inflated price of their sandwiches, I went back to the convenience 
store, buying just one sandwich and a soda this time.  The sandwich 
looked fresher than the ones I'd bought earlier, and as I walked
back to my hideaway, my stomach growled with anticipation.

I was about to turn the corner near the brownstone when a taxi
pulled up to the curb.  The window whizzed down and the driver
called out. 

"Hey!" he said.  I turned to look, wondering if I knew him.  Maybe
he was the guy who took Trish and I back to her place the day
before.  I walked over and leaned through the window.  He didn't
look familiar. 

"You cold?" he asked.  "C'mon in."  He had a cup of coffee in his
lap, from the store where I bought my sandwich.  I hadn't noticed
him in there.  The heat wafted out of his car, nice and inviting. 
"C'mon," he repeated, pressing a switch on the armrest to his left. 
The door lock thumped open.  I opened the door and got inside,
wanting to feel some delicious heat before I returned to the
derelict apartment.  The driver handed his coffee to me and I just
held it in my hands for a while before taking a sip.  I didn't have
gloves and my fingers felt pretty numb.

"Thanks," I said, handing the coffee back.

"How much?" he asked.

"How much?" I repeated.  Did he want to know how much of his coffee
I drank?

"How much for a BJ," he said.  "Thirty?  Twenty?"

I felt a chill spread through my body, despite the car's heater,
despite the coffee.  The cab driver didn't invite me to sit here out
of the goodness of his heart.  I began to reach for the door handle.

"Thirty-five.  I'll give you thirty-five," he said, taking my
reluctance as a bargaining position.  $35 was more than twice the
money I had in the world at that moment.  $35 just to suck his cock.
 $35.  I took my hand off of the door and looked at him.  White,
middle-aged, thinning hair, mustard stain on his shirt, bit of a
gut. 

"Fine," I said.  "Thirty-five."

He reached into his trousers and pulled out a wad of cash, peeling
off a twenty, a ten, and five $1 bills, stuffing them in my hand as
he moved his seat back as far as it would go.  Then he unzipped his
trousers and fished out his hardening cock.  There were people on
the sidewalk, some coming home from work, some walking dogs.  I
thought about bolting from the car with his money, but instead I
stuffed the cash into my jeans and looked around before leaning over
his spread legs. 

Other than the fact that he was circumcised, his penis was like
Father Steve's: short, thick, fat head.  He smelled like dried
sweat, and there was a faint urine taste when I swirled my tongue
over his glans.  With one hand on his shaft, jerking it up and down,
I wrapped my lips around his stiff  tool, sucking him quickly.  His
ass shifted in his seat, his hips pushing up towards my face,
stabbing my mouth with his hardness. 

"Faster," he muttered, and I picked up the pace, bumping my head
against the steering wheel a couple of times.  "Faster..."  I
wrapped both hands around his cock, and sucked harder, faster,
wondering how many people could see my blonde head bobbing in his
lap from the sidewalk and the buildings on this street.

"That's it...that's it...that's it...yeah...," he groaned, his thick
thighs tensing as he erupted in my mouth, filling it with his bitter
seed.  He must have been hoarding semen for a month; he just kept
coming and coming, spurt after spurt of hot juice flowing from his
fat cockhead.  His cock began to soften, he sighed, and his thighs
relaxed.  I milked the rest of his cum with my lips and released his
flaccid penis from my mouth.

"Good.  That was good," he said.  "You from around here?"

"Sorta," I said, licking a drip of spunk from the corner of my
mouth. 

"Here.  Here's a tip," he said, pulling a $5 bill from his shirt
pocket and pressing it into my palm.  "See you 'round."  He put his
foot on the brake and shifted out of park, my cue to leave.

"Sure.  Thanks," I said, opening the door and pulling my backpack on
to one shoulder.  I closed the door and heard the locks thump again,
the little chrome posts receding into their silver receptacles.  The
cab turned the corner and motored down the street as I headed back
to my hideaway.

My stomach had stopped growling, the cabbie's semen in my tummy
quelling my hunger, for a while at least.  I popped open the soda
and sat on the old mattress, washing the taste of his cum from my
mouth.  Then I ate half of my sandwich, saving the rest for
breakfast, cursing myself for not buying a newspaper that I could
spread over the mattress's stained ticking.

I smoked another joint and read my journal again, changing a few
words here and there, filling in some of the details I'd left out. 
I began to wonder if Trish had actually had a chance to shred her
copy.  Maybe they had it, maybe they were reading about the things I
had done with Michael, with Manny and Billy and Chris, with Sister
Katherine, with Trish, with Father Ken and his colleagues, with Mr.
O'Hare.  That last name made me laugh out loud, the thought of a
district attorney trying to explain away the fact that he'd fucked
me with his big prick on Father Ken's desk.

There were other things in my journal, even more personal things.  I
reminisced about my life with Ramon and the boys, with Julia, and I
even wrote about some of the things I'd done with Luci and Tina. 
Not everything, though, but enough to make my skin crawl at the
thought of strangers reading my journal.

I stayed up late that night, until I could hardly keep my eyes open,
falling asleep to the sound of rats scratching in the
half-demolished walls, in the broken ceiling, under the floorboards.
 I'd moved the mattress to the middle of the room, where the light
from the low-wattage bulbs was brightest.  Manny's knife was open,
laying next to me on the mattress where I could grab it quickly if I
needed it.  The last thing I saw before I closed my eyes was the
glint of dim yellow light shining on the steel blade.


                                  * * * 
 

(c) 2003  Anais Ninja  anais_ninja@hotmail.com 
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/anais_ninja/index.html

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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