Chapter 18
Allegra
“Yes, I’ll be home in time for dinner,” I promise Derek as I shuffle through a file on my desk.
“Let’s do takeout. Chinese, Italian, or Greek?” he offers.
“Greek,” I decide. “Can you get spanakopita?”
“Obviously.”
I laugh before I sigh. The piles of folders on the desk are reaching new heights.
Even though I’ve been spending as much time at the NGO as possible, my study sessions leading up to finals, coupled with graduation festivities, meant less hours.
Subsequently, there is now more work. The new hire from New York has been delayed and in the interim, things are piling up.
“I gotta go if I’m going to make it home in time.
There’s a mountain of folders I want to get through today. ”
“Okay,” Derek says. “I can come pick you up in thirty?”
“Don’t worry about it. I have my car today. Enjoy hanging at the studio,” I reply, shaking my head at Derek’s constant worrying.
“We may have a new single,” he says proudly.
“Happy recording!”
“All right, beauty. See you later.”
“Love you,” I murmur, loving that I can say it whenever I want now. Without hesitation. Without second-guessing myself.
“I love you, Stellina,” Derek replies.
In the background, I hear Maverick make a gushy aw sound followed by kissing noises. Derek swears at him.
I laugh. “‘Bye.”
“Later, love.” Derek disconnects the call.
I toss the phone down on the desk and get to work. The office is unusually quiet today. Two of the staff are working a fundraising initiative downtown. I turn on a Spotify playlist and dig into the first folder. As I focus on the paperwork requiring my attention, I tune everything else out.
When I stand up to stretch and use the bathroom, I’m shocked that nearly three hours has passed. I glance at my phone and wince when I note the time. If I don’t leave now, I’m going to blow Derek and dinner off.
I hurry to the bathroom, reapply my makeup, and fluff up my hair. Then, I snap the folder on my desk closed, organize my notes for tomorrow, and grab my purse.
I’m exiting the building, rooting around in my purse for my keys, when a man’s voice calls out.
“Hey!”
I turn, my lips parting to ask him if I can help him.
Before I can get any words out, he’s barreling into me. The stench of his breath, cigarettes and alcohol, washes over me seconds before the back of my head slams into the concrete and his heavy body lands on mine.
“Get off me!” I shriek, flailing beneath him.
His hair is long, swinging forward into his wild eyes. He cinches both my wrists easily and slams them over my head, shredding the skin on my knuckles. I buck up against him and he growls. Releasing one of my wrists, I move to slap him, but he beats me to it.
His hand cracks against the side of my face and I see stars. A whole night sky of tiny, twinkling lights.
“Get off!” I shout again. Panic blares in my mind as adrenaline spikes in my bloodstream. I fight him, desperate to be free of his hold.
He reaches for my purse, a few feet away on the ground. My keys and phone have spilled out. My day planner is open, a sticky note catching the wind and blowing away. Pens, lip gloss, hair clips. It’s all in my peripheral vision as his weight pins me to the ground.
He scampers over to my possessions, his eyes scanning them greedily as I suck in an inhale. My heartbeat is erratic, and my limbs feel weak. Shaky.
I scurry to my feet and a wave of nausea slams into me. Dizzily, I reach out, my fingertips grazing the brick of the building.
The guy must sense my escape because he pivots on his foot. His expression is blank, his eyes simultaneously unhinged and empty. A shiver works over my skin as I hunch forward.
This time, I see his fist coming, but my response time is delayed. I’m too slow.
He catches me in the ribs, and I grunt, the air leaving my lungs in a whoosh. Panicking, I try to breathe in, but the oxygen won’t come. My lungs drag in wisps of fear.
Is he going to knock me out? Hurt me? Or worse? A shiver rolls through my limbs.
My palm slips over the brick and I crumple, my knees hitting the pavement. His hand connects with my face again, this time splitting my lip. I fall forward and lie there.
I don’t move, for fear of what that will mean.
Instead, I focus on breathing. I pull in a shallow breath, followed by a longer one.
In my peripheral vision, I see him scoop up my keys and phone and wallet.
Watch as he shoves them into my purse. Note that he doesn’t bother glancing around to see if anyone saw him rob me.
It doesn’t matter. He’s past caring.
He doesn’t look back to see if I’m moving. Or hurt. Or breathing.
Maybe he doesn’t remember me at all.
I close my eyes as he runs across the street. I lie there, on the cracked asphalt, and block out the pain blooming in my cheek, pulsing in my head, throbbing along the side of my body.
Then, I drag myself to my hands and knees. Blood drips from my lip—or maybe my nose—onto the pavement. I watch it fall and seeing it, thick and crimson, gives me the surge of energy to get to my feet.
A group is huddled in the corner of the park, but they ignore me. Wary and on edge, I limp to the end of the road. I stumble on the corner. The headlights of the oncoming traffic are distorted, causing my head to spin.
“Hey! You all right?” a woman hollers.
I look up and squint. A woman comes into focus. She’s driving a bus. She’s leaning closer to the open double doors and staring at me wide-eyed.
“You need to go to the hospital,” she commands.
I try to nod.
“Fuck, girl. He fucked your face.” A man moves off the bus toward me and I flinch. “It’s all right. I’m not gonna hurt you.” He holds up both hands, palms open.
Another woman appears. Her expression is tight, her eyes sympathetic. “Come on, honey. Let’s get you on the bus. We’ll take you to the hospital.”
I nearly sigh in relief at the sight of her. This woman, this stranger. But her eyes are kind. Her touch on my elbow is gentle. At her presence, my exhaustion surges and I nearly collapse.
The guy catches my weight. “Got you, girl.” He hoists me up and directs me onto the bus.
It starts with a lurch. Stop and go. I don’t know how long it takes to arrive at the hospital.
I just know I vomit into a plastic bag twice on the way there.
When we arrive, the kind woman and the strong man assist me to emergency.
They point to the bus and explain the situation before leaving me in the capable hands of a nurse.
Understanding washes over her face when she takes in my injuries.
She whisks me into triage, skipping the ER waiting room entirely. I’m now one of the more pressing emergencies. Her hands are cool and clinical as they move along my face, the back of my skull, check my ribs. I wince but don’t cry.
It’s as if I’m watching her check me over. It’s an out-of-body experience and even though I feel her touch, it doesn’t register. Everything hurts and yet, I can’t respond to the pain. Emptiness claws at my throat even though I desperately want to scream.
“Is there someone we can call for you?” Her voice is measured.
I force my eyes to hers. They’re green. “You have pretty eyes.”
She smiles lightly. “We can call anyone you’d like.”
I sigh. Squint as if it will help me recall his number. For a moment, my home phone number, from my parents’ house, floats through my mind.
If I called Mom, would she come? Would Dad let her?
“If you prefer to be alone, that’s—”
“I know a number,” I mumble. I ask her to look up the number to Hendrix’s recording studio.
She looks at me like I’m not making sense but agrees to give the studio a call. When she leaves, a different nurse, followed by a doctor enter.
They ask about my injuries. They inquire if I need a rape kit. They’re calm and direct. Well versed in the spiel they’re laying out. I open my mouth and everything I remember pours out in a monotonous, robotic voice that doesn’t sound like mine.
“It was a simple robbery,” I say. “I work for a homelessness NGO downtown. Well, intern.”
The doctor nods sympathetically while the nurse jots down notes.
“You can press charges,” the doctor says.
“Against whom?” The man who attacked me was most likely on drugs. Or suffering from mental-health issues. He may not even remember coming at me. “I don’t remember what he looks like.”
The doctor frowns. “Are you sure?”
I recall his stringy brown hair and empty blue eyes. “I’m sure.”
She sighs. “Okay. I’m going to stitch up your lip.
Your face is swollen and will bruise on the right side, and you have a concussion.
We’re going to X-ray your ribs, but I’m certain there are fractures.
Once we know the severity, we can talk about treatment.
For now, I’d like you to sit up.” She props more pillows behind my back.
“And tell me if you have shortness of breath or any severe pain.”
I exhale. Pain cuts through my side. “Okay,” I agree.
She sits next to the bed and tilts my chin to get a better look at my face. “The cut isn’t horribly deep. I’m going to use stitches that will dissolve.”
“Thank you,” I murmur.
“You’re handling the pain quite well.”
“I mostly feel numb.”
She frowns. “You sure this was a random attack? If it was someone you know or—”
“It wasn’t,” I cut her off. I’m not the victim of a domestic abuse situation. This was a wrong place, wrong time, scenario.
She doesn’t reply but begins to stitch my lip.
I don’t move. Or cry. Or even blink.