EMPTINESS


My mask runs down my face like blood, turning my Prize Winning Looks into a streaked and 
muddy mess. I walk blindly, the steady rain mixing with tears and makeup and dripping down
my cheeks. I dont know how long Ive been walking like this, but I know its not long 
enough. I have to get farther away. 

My heels click too loudly on the wet pavement. I kick them from my feet. They fly off into
the night, disappearing as I want to disappear; quickly; quietly; without feeling. I keep 
walking. 

The asphalt is cold and hurts. It feels harsh. Real. Liberating. Nothing shields me from it. 
The pavement is there, and I must accept it and deal with it. Someone has always tried to 
shield me from the reality of life. Not any more. 

Its late, and all of the stores are closed. I pass by a large glass window and see myself 
reflected in it. The yellow glow from the dim streetlamps turns my skin a sickly color, and
my face is that of a mannequin; mascara-streaked and lifeless. 

"Look at you," my mothers voice speaks in my mind. It is then that I know I have gone insane.
"Youve let yourself get dirty, you stupid girl." Her voice is thin and reedy with 
disappointment, just as it always has been. "Your pretty white dress is ruined." She continues,
indifferent to the fact that shes been dead for two years. "Honestly, Erika. How do you expect
to get anywhere in the world if you dont look your best? Where would you get in life looking
like that, like dirty white trash..." 

"Shut up, mom," I whisper. My voice is weak, empty, like the hollow nothing that screams inside
my chest. I can see her face. Her thin lips twisted into a perpetual frown. I can only remember
her smiling once, after I had won my first beauty pageant when I was eleven. 

"Well, you never were smart enough to take care of yourself," my mother chides. "What did you 
do without me to take care of you? Ran off from that nice boy Keith, and got yourself knocked
up by some no-account, greasy garage mechanic who gets himself killed by some lunatic. And 
then you dont even have enough sense to come in out of the rain." 

"Shut up!" I take the sleeve of my five-hundred dollar dress and rip it up to the shoulder. It
feels good. I tear the other side, ripping the sleeve down all the way. I feel like laughing,
but all I can do is make choking noises in my throat. Just like my real mother, she said the
one thing that would hurt me the most. 

Mark. Oh God, Mark was dead. 

It was a thought so horrible that my mind couldnt hold on to it. It kept slipping away like
blood in a rainstorm, leaving only a terrible emptiness in the core off my being where he had
once been. 

"What would I have done without you, mom?" I choke into the darkness. "Id have grown up. I
wouldve known what an asshole Keith was. Id have known that he was just going to use me and
throw me away. You always taught me to stand up straight and be pretty. Pose and smile and 
keep the checks coming in, right mom?" My voice turns hoarse but I keep on, saying all the 
things that Ive never said but have always wanted to say. 

"You were happy that I was a producers girlfriend. It meant more breaks for your little girl,
your little breadwinner!" I continue to tear my dress until I can squirm out of it. I twirl 
it to the ground, then stomp on it. I trample it barefoot into the muddy street. Keith bought
it for me, in a small but expensive shop in Beverly Hills. It had been my favorite dress, but
that was back when I thought I knew who I was; a pretty girl with a storybook life and a 
promising career. Now Im an insane empty shell standing half-naked somewhere in downtown LA,
probably moments away from being raped or shot or forgotten. And the really funny thing is, I
dont care. 

I fall to my knees on the curb. Keith flashes by, all dark eyes, tan, and polish. "God, Erika,"
he says. "What happened to you? You look like a whore." Fresh anger bursts out of me from a 
place I never knew existed. 

"Thats all you wanted, isnt it?" I say to the air in front of me. "A whore to fuck and lie 
to and look good in public with?" My voice was steady now, level. "Is that why you kicked me 
out of your life when I stopped modeling? Id even started to love you. I was stupid and I 
loved you. And you couldnt even treat me like a human being. Go away!" I scream. "I hate 
you! You and mother both!" 

It suddenly falls silent. I can hear the patter of the rain on the sidewalk, and I realize 
that my butt is wet and freezing from sitting on the curb. I had been shivering all over, 
but now I had stopped. I can feel each individual raindrop strike me and trickle down in my 
hair or on my skin. It is as if a dirty window has shattered inside me, letting me look out 
clearly for the first time. 

"Hey lady, you all right?" I dont need to look to see where the voice comes from. It came 
from a young man whod stopped to help me when my car broke down on the freeway, a simple, 
honest man whod been the only good thing that had ever happened to me. Mark. He is there, 
standing next to me on the curb. I try to touch him, and I break a nail on the lamppost. I
want to cry. I want to die. We were going to be married. I am three weeks along with his 
child. He cant be dead. 

Then, it comes back to me in a rush, feeling like a cold knife being twisted in my gut. I 
shiver and sob as I see Mark smiling pleasantly at me across the table. He wants to get the 
waiters attention because our wineglasses are nearly empty. He lifts his hand to signal, 
and I hear the screech of tires and see the flash of headlights as a car turns and speeds 
by. I dont even associate the popping, chattering sounds with gunfire until I hear the 
screams and see Mark moving, sliding over the table to push me down on the floor. He falls
on top of me, and at first I think the dark liquid dribbling on my face is wine, until some
trickles into my mouth. 

"Mark!" I scream to the rain, hugging myself in agony. I had run away. Id looked up at 
what was left of his face and just pushed him off and ran. I dont even remember if anyone 
tried to stop me. I ran away and left him there in the remnants of our veal parmesan and 
fettucine, and suddenly I want to die. 

I get up, shivering, then turn and pound my fist into the window. It only cracks, cutting 
my knuckles, but the pain is a feeling, a good feeling. I scream and hammer at it with 
both hands until it shatters. I catch a glint of light from the ground and I freeze,
staring down at a long shard of glass. It reflects my face back at me; its edge streaked 
with my blood. It seems to call to me; to promise an end to my pain. 

I bend and pick it up, then touch it to my left wrist. It feels cold, like a corpses kiss. 
Marks kiss. I snarl at the thought and draw the glass across my wrist. It cuts like a 
razor, the pain slicing through the emptiness and into the small part of me that is still
alive. My mind goes suddenly clear, clear and cold like polished ice. 

I look at my blood pulsing out of my arm. I look at the glass. I know now that it has 
tricked me. It whispered to me of release, but its sharp lies only lead to a deeper 
blackness, one that would never end. I throw it down and it shatters; its cold promise
broken. I clench my right hand around my wrist. It is slippery and sticky. My life is 
draining out of me, despite the cold, despite the rain. Not just my life, I realize, but my
 childs. Marks child. But that already seems so far away, like some half-remembered dream. 

I walk down the street, feeling colder with every step. I can't be dying this fast, can I?
I shiver violently. My blood trickles down my hand and to the street, dripping into the rain
 and washing away, pouring out and vanishing like everything Ive ever cared for. 

There are headlights coming, headlights that are already slowing as I step into the street
and wave my arms, not caring that I am dressed only in a rain-soaked Natural-Fit bra and a
pair of black silk panties. The car stops, and I stumble around to the drivers side as a 
man starts to open the door. I hug my arms to my chest, shivering. 

"Please help me," I say. "I-- Im in trouble." 

He looks at me for a second, no, looks me over for a second. "All right, get in," he says. I
hesitate, but I really dont have a choice. I quickly walk around and yank open the passenger
door and collapse in the seat, barely able to shut the door as he starts driving. 

"Jesus," he says, noticing me bleeding on his upholstery. He fumbles around under his seat 
and comes up with an oily towel. "Wrap this around it," he tells me, draping it on my arm. 
"What happened to you?" 

I almost laugh. I dont know where to start. "I got a little upset," I finally say. I look
at him, seeing a thirtyish man with brown hair and a stubbly face, plain features, slightly
overweight, with dark eyes that keep looking straight ahead, seeming to ignore me. Suddenly,
belatedly, I begin to feel afraid. 

"Where are you taking me?" I ask, my voice trembling. The car is warm, but I am still 
freezing. 

"Home. My place." He looks over at me curiously, as if to say Where else would I take you? 

"Let me out." I grip the door handle tightly. He frowns and keeps driving. "Let me out!" I
scream, suddenly near panic. 

He slaps me; a light backhand that barely stings. I look at him in shock, my mouth hanging
open. No one has ever slapped me before, not even my mother. 

"Youre in trouble, right?" He says quietly. "Im taking you somewhere safe." 

I sit there and feel nothing. My life has crumbled away before my very eyes, leaving nothing
of me that I recognize. I am not afraid, even as he runs stop signs and red lights, never 
stopping, never slowing too much, never allowing me a chance to jump out. I am still calm 
when he pulls up in the parking lot of an apartment complex and takes me by my bloody arm, 
pulling me bodily out of the car and tugging me along the sidewalk and up the stairs like 
some disobedient child. 

He holds me firmly as he unlocks the door of the apartment, then leads me inside. I am too 
weak, too numb to resist. He pushes me into the bathroom and sits me down on the toilet, 
then fetches a shirt from the other room and tears it into strips. He takes off the oily 
rag and bandages my wrist and knuckles tightly. I'm not bleeding as much now, though I 
still shake like a leaf. He cleans my hands and arms with a warm washcloth, then dabs at 
my face. 

Hes trying to pretty me up, I think blankly. He looks at me for a moment before leaving 
and coming back with a soft terrycloth bathrobe which he drapes around my shoulders. Then 
he gently pulls me to my feet and takes me into the living room. He sits on the couch and
pulls me down on his lap. I try weakly to squirm away, but he locks his arms around my waist
and holds me there tightly. 

Thats all he does. He just holds me there, letting the warmth of his body soak into me. I
let my head fall against his chest. Despite his strangeness, I feel much like I did when I 
was a girl and my father would hold me on his lap to comfort me. As I begin to warm up, some
of the ice that had formed inside me begins to melt, and I cry softly against this strangers
chest. Later he might rape me; he might kill me. But right now he was my father, whose 
shoulder I had cried on a hundred times, and now I would do it once more before the darkness
swallows me. 

As my tears begin to slow, I look around blearily. The living room is cluttered but not 
dirty, and lacks any traces of a feminine touch. He is alone, like I am now. I almost feel 
sorry for him, but I am still too numb inside to feel much of anything. 

"Whats your name?" He suddenly asks. His voice is calm. Soothing. 

"Erika," I answer autmatically into his chest. "Whore you?" 

"Carl. Are you hungry?" 

I am surprised to realize that I am, but then I remember that Mark will never eat again. Or
laugh again. Or make love to me again. I feel sick. I shut it off, I shut Mark off. I have to.
It hurts too much. 

I nod. He slowly slides out from under me and walks to the kitchen. I wonder why he is doing
this. He is helping me, probably even saving my life, but I still cant trust him. People 
just dont get involved with other peoples problems, not unless they want something. 
Especially bleeding strangers that appear in the rain. 

As he moves around the kitchen, I take a closer look around.I am sitting on a long, soft, 
light beige colored sofa, which lists slightly to the front and left, probably from a broken 
foot. In front of the sofa is a wide and solid-looking oak coffee table and five feet past 
that is a medium-sized television sitting on an imitation mahogany book shelf, along with a 
compact stereo system. The TV remote sits on the coffee table, along with a stack of various 
magazines and one brown plastic coaster. A tall fluorescent lamp stands next to the shelf, 
illuminating the room with a soft yellow-white glow. 

My senses somehow seem clearer; sharpener than theyve ever been. I can smell the faint odor
of spilled coffee on the cushion I sit on. I can hear the soft murmur of a television set in
the apartment below. It is Jay Leno, making yet another tired joke about President Clinton. 
I let my eyes rove. The books on the shelf are mostly fiction, with a large variety of sci-fi,
fantasy, and horror. Stephen King seems to be a favorite, along with Edgar Allen Poe, Arthur 
C. Clarke, and Isaac Asimov. My host seemed to be well-read, at least. 

He returns in a few minutes with a cup of hot soup. He gives it to me, and I thank him and 
hold it between my hands, the warmth helping to steady them. I am no longer shivering, though
I feel like a character in a Poe story, perceptions twisting and being driven to madness. Carl
sits next to me--not too close--and turns on the television. He flips channels, stopping on 
MTV. Gwen Stephani dances around on the screen like Madonna, but Carls attention is on me.  I
look at him, the lyrics seeming very loud in my ears. 

Excuse me, mister, youve got me all wrong. 

Feeling nervous with his eyes on me, I take a sip from the cup. It is plain chicken broth, 
still rather hot, but it tastes wonderful. I drink it down quickly, burning my mouth a little.
The heat spreads down my throat and stomach out into my body. 

"Feeling better?" He asks after a minute. 

"Yes, thank you." I did feel much better. Almost alive. 

"Why did you do that to yourself?" He asks, indicating my wrist with his eyes. 

I dont answer for a moment.  "I ... I lost someone today. My fiancee.  He was... killed." I 
feel the tears starting again. 

"Im very sorry," he says, looking at me with genuine sympathy. I look back down at my empty
cup. "Would you like more?" 

I nod, and he takes the cup and refills it. I sip at the warm broth, still feeling weak, but 
stronger than I was. 
  

"What do you do?" He asks tentatively. "Are you a model?" 
  

"I was," I answer tonelessly. "I dont know what I am now." 

"Youre very beautiful." He leans closer, putting his arm around me and squeezing me gently. I
dont protest. I know whats coming, but I can't fight him. I dont have the strength, or the 
anger. 

He takes my hand and kisses it. "I wont hurt you," he says as I look at him. "I just want to 
make love to you." In a strange way, I feel relieved. I believe him. He doesnt want pain or 
violence; he just wants to use me. Ive been used before, though not so honestly. I think I 
can deal with it. 

I say nothing as he stands, then pulls me to my feet and guides me to his bedroom. There is 
no fear in me; no desire; no anger. I am powerless in this, just as I was powerless to stop 
Mark from being murdered. 

He steadies me with an arm around my waist as he slides the robe off my shoulders, then 
lowers his head to kiss my neck. His lips are warm. He reaches around and unclasps my bra. 
He pulls it off and cups my breasts in his large hands. His hands are also warm, and cover 
my breasts completely. He slowly removes his hands, then bends slightly to take a nipple 
into his mouth. It hardens as he sucks at it. It feels pleasant, but thats all. 

He nurses at my breast for a few minutes before switching to the other and slowly sliding 
down my rain-soaked panties. He seems to want to take his time. He slides my underwear 
down around my feet and runs his hands up my legs to caress my ass. His breathing is heavy 
and shuddering. 

Standing, he gently pushes me down on the bed so that Im lying on my stomach. I look back
to see him drop to his knees behind me, then lean forward. I feel his mouth on my butt, 
kissing over the cheeks and down the cleft between them. I feel his tongue on my asshole. It
feels nasty. It feels good. I grit my teeth, trying to deny the conflicting sensations. He 
slides his tongue down lower, coating me with his saliva. At first I think that he just 
wants the added lubrication, but he keeps tonguing me, kissing and sucking at my pussy until
it begins to awaken despite my numbness; despite my lack of desire. 

I feel him searching for my clitoris, and as the heat grows between my legs, it emerges for 
him to find. He sucks and nips at it with his lips, and I lie there helplessly as I feel a 
orgasm being drawn slowly out of me. In a short while I climax silently and emotionlessly on
the bed, the only sound is the rasp of his breathing and the wet sucking noises of his mouth. 

He moves behind me, then I feel the pressure of something warm and blunt at the entrance to
my vagina. It slides in slowly without pain, filling me steadily until I feel it nudging the 
entrance to my womb. He groans as he bottoms out. I can feel his crinkly pubic hair against 
my ass, and his testicles brushing against the skin over my clit. He stays there for a long 
while, and I feel my insides molding themselves around him, my pussy clamping itself snugly
onto his penis. It seems to want him. I dont, though the sensation of his intrusion is like
the pain of the glass window. It takes my mind away from the other feeling, the other pain, 
the one that has stolen my soul. 

Slowly, he begins to pump his hips, driving himself in and out of me with long strokes. I 
lie there like a cheap whore, motionless and silent as he humps me eagerly. I turn my face 
away from him and he stops, pulling out of me gradually until I hear a wet sound as his penis 
pops free. He gently turns me over on my back, so he can see my face again. He grabs me 
around the hips as he slides back in. 

Its not me hes fucking. Its my face. 

After a minute, he begins to pump faster, and he grunts as I feel his penis swell and send a
hot jet of semen into me. He groans and rocks his hips, trembling as he ejaculates heavily in 
my body. At least I don't have to worry about getting pregnant. 

He stays there between my legs, his penis beginning to soften in my vagina as he kisses my 
neck and breasts. After a while he pulls out and cleans me up with a washcloth. For a rapist, 
he seemed very considerate, even loving. I wondered how long it had been since hed had a 
woman, willing or not. 

I crawl tiredly under the sheets, and he joins me, quietly whispering how good I was. A little
while later with the lights still on, he fucks me again, this time for much longer.  I lie 
there with my eyes tightly closed, letting myself feel only his warmth and emptying my mind of
everything else. He finishes and turns out the lights, then snuggles up to me under the sheets, 
holding me like I was his girlfriend. For tonight at least I suppose I was, and somehow that 
brought me a small measure of comfort. 
