40. 40
Harlow
We went our separate ways.
Finally.
One month after Killian disappears, I’m still not healing. It kills me every day not seeing him.
Him.
The coked-out maniac who scribbled madness in a notebook, raped me, and strangled his mother.
So I sit here. In this office. Soft gray walls. A leafy plant. Two chairs angled toward each other instead of separated by a desk. Even the tissues are positioned within easy reach. Somehow, knowing every detail was chosen to make me confess only makes the room feel less safe.
Dr. Jannis adjusts her oversized glasses. “Have police charged him yet?”
“Killian? No. Evan won’t identify him. His parents called what happened at the mansion a family matter, and I never reported what he did to me. Nobody knows where he is.”
“That must be terrifying for you.”
I fidget, telling myself that yes, I should be scared of him.
I’m not.
“It must be terrifying for your friend as well,” she adds.
“My friend? Oh... yes. Evan.”
I keep burying that detail. Killian did visit Evan. He broke into his house and choked and beat him senseless. I had no idea until the police showed up at my trailer a few days later to ask me questions.
“Is your friend Evan recuperating all right?”
“I think so. I visited Evan only once in the hospital. He is afraid Killian will attack him again if we talk. He asked me to stay away.”
“That seems reasonable. It was a gruesome attack. Evan was mounted above his bed like Jesus on the cross. Knives were stabbed into his hands like nails to support his weight. The doctors said your friend will never have full use of them.”
My lungs expand, and I hold my breath. I didn’t attack Evan, yet guilt hangs over my head. I chose to be in Killian’s path. Evan didn’t.
“I missed the signs,” I explain, my voice rushed. “His parents missed the signs, too. His dad said Killian never spiraled that fast and thought he had plenty of time before Killian got dangerous. We all missed the signs!”
Dr. Jannis glares at me for a moment, as if she is challenging me to continue.
I slump in my seat. “I feel awful for Evan. I really do. I get it. What Killian did was... there’s no excuse.”
“What do you want to accomplish during your time in therapy?”
“Men make me nervous now. Male patients standing too close. Classmates brushing past me. But not Killian.” I pick at my nail. “He’s the one man I should fear, and he’s the only one I don’t.”
“Okay.”
“Also sleep. I don’t sleep well. When I do, I dream about him.
I miss our late nights talking at the beach, watching television, and waking up close to each other on the couch.
I don’t know why I ignored the fact that he didn’t go to his comfortable bed.
I told myself that he liked the couch. I think he really liked me. ”
“Your abuser.”
“Yeah. Killian.”
“Your rapist.”
I wince. “Yeah.”
My hopeless heart doesn’t want to hear anything bad about Killian.
I keep going back to him kissing my temple like I’m sacred.
Or him gifting me a car because he wanted me to be safe.
Or how he spent months trying to be a man I would want, and I didn’t see it.
I saw temptation wrapped in a temporary paycheck.
I was too scared to risk everything for him, like he claimed. I hate that I was right.
“Harlow, it is easy to romanticize the man who attacked you. It makes the trauma less terrifying.”
“Right,” I whisper. “He was on drugs, though.”
“I see.” She smiles warmly and writes on her notepad. “There are never easy answers when it comes to addicts and the awful things they do. However, their drug use shouldn’t give them an excuse to hurt you.”
“Right,” I say once more. “Maybe he wouldn’t have done that stuff if he was sober, though.”
Ever so subtly, she sighs, but I catch it.
Yep. I’m hopeless.
“Has he contacted you?” she asks.
“I wish,” I say with angst. “He doesn’t have his phone. I don’t know where he is or if he’s okay. Is it bad that I miss him?”
She shakes her head and her black curls sway.
“It isn’t unusual for the victim to miss their abuser. Rapists often groom and build trust with the victim before attacking. You are not alone.”
“I’m not?”
“No, not at all. These feelings can be confusing.”
“But I loved Killian. I still do. I assume people don’t usually get raped by someone they love.”
“Oh, they do. Their husbands. Boyfriends. Family members. Close friends. It makes it that more difficult to accurately identify them for who they are — rapists.”
A chill shoots down my spine. I don’t believe he wanted to attack me. None of this makes sense.
“I don’t know. The hardest part is I took care of Killian. For a while, I kept him sober. Now he’s just gone. I feel responsible. If I had given up my job, I think he would’ve stayed clean.”
“I understand how you feel.” She nods and pens another note.
“Could you stop making those notes? I don’t think you’re really hearing me.” I sit straighter and talk louder. “Killian needed me to believe he could stay sober. I think then he would’ve believed it himself. This is my fault.”
She doesn’t skip a beat.
“What happened to you, the attack, was not your fault. I want you to say it.”
I swallow hard, not liking her redirection.
“Go on. Tell yourself that truth,” she pushes.
In a meek voice, I echo her words. “It was not my fault.”
“Good. It was not your fault you were raped. Go on.”
Tears prick at the corner of my eyes, sudden and unwelcome. I fight to choke them back. “It was not my fault I was raped.”
“Very good. When that feeling of guilt surfaces, I want you to repeat that. It will help retrain your brain. We mustn’t blame ourselves for the misdeeds of others.”
I nod, but honestly, I don’t believe her entirely. I grab a tissue from the side table and blow my nose. “When will I feel better?”
“It’s different for everyone.”
Lower, I murmur, “When will I stop loving him?”
“If this person was very close to you, those feelings may never go away. They should get quieter, though.”
“I hope so,” I reply.
“That’s our time for today. I’ll see you next Friday.”
“Yes,” I say, surprised by how fast our hour flew by.
I leave her office feeling in a daze, a state I tend to slip into whenever I can’t escape my thoughts. I drop into my car and buckle in. Gripping the steering wheel, I take a deep breath and glance over.
Like a ghost, I see Killian with his crooked smile.
“I miss you,” I whisper.
He smiles bigger and says something I can’t hear, then fades away.
“I have to get a new car.” I hug the steering wheel like an idiot. It makes me feel closer to him. Like this car is proof that I was loved. That he’s still here. If only I accepted the dance lessons, he would’ve seen how much I cared and not relapsed.
My stomach knots.
“It’s not my fault I was raped. It’s not my fault I was raped.”
I shudder and start the car. The engine hums to life.
“It’s not my fault I fell in love with an addict. Again.”
Evan sits at a small table in the back of a busy coffee shop. I stand over him, my heart pounding. His brow lifts upon seeing me, the gleam in his eyes a mix of surprise and anxiousness.
His hands are still bandaged. One has pins sticking out of it. It guts me.
“Don’t cry,” he says.
I nod and wipe away a few tears. “I’m so sorry for everything Killian did to you.”
“It’s okay, but we still shouldn’t talk with him out there. Free.”
“Sorry, I just saw you sitting in the corner and thought I’d swing over and just... I feel terrible.”
He smiles nervously and scans the tables.
“It sucks. His dad’s lawyer offered to cover my medical bills and pay a settlement if I waive the civil suit. There’s an NDA, too. I’ll probably take it.”
“Yeah, money helps.”
“It does.” He shrugs, though, then adds, “This will sound pathetic, but right now, I just wish your psycho-client-boyfriend-or-whatever was locked up so I can sleep at night.”
“Me, too,” I whisper, if only for his peace of mind.
“I think you should go. I don’t want anyone seeing us together. When the psycho attacked me, he said never talk to you again, or he’d come back and finish the job.”
A spark of excitement cuts through me. I scan the coffee shop before I can stop myself.
“He said that? Do you think he’s watching us now?”
The hope in my voice disappoints me.
“I hope not!” Evan replies, horrified. He quickly lowers his voice. “Harlow, you have no idea how sorry I am for the hell I put you through. You leaving me got me sober and saved my life. But could you please, please go somewhere else?”
I flutter my eyelashes, letting his fear sink into me. He’s terrified. I should be too. His hands are ruined. I was raped. We both have scars.
I back away from his table. “Of course, sorry. Thanks.”
He gives a short nod and looks away as if he doesn’t know me.
I memorize the visual. I need to be scared.
Why am I not scared?
I go to school. Go to work. Therapy on Fridays. Weekends studying. Repeat.
Two months pass, and the Florida heat cools as October arrives. Snowbirds move back into their winter homes. Life goes on as usual.
Just not for me. My heart lives with Killian.
“My heart lives with my rapist,” I correct, but no solace comforts my bleeding heart.
Before bed, I place my palms together and whisper, “Killian, I hope you’re okay. Please, just let me know where you are.”
My vision is hazy. The curtains glow a dull orange, keeping the sunlight at bay.
I’m groggier than usual. I’m not used to sleeping in. I wonder what time it is. I need to get to school.
I attempt to rise, but my eyelids are heavy. I drift back asleep.
It seems like only minutes before I’m reawakened. My body twitches, but my legs won’t move. I glance down.
My heart stops.
A man in a burlap mask stands over my bed. He wears a long-sleeved black shirt, pants, and gloves.
I scream.
Nothing.
My lips move, but only my breath passes them.
The sheet slips off, revealing my helpless body in a camisole and underwear. He pulls down my panties and spreads my legs. He moves onto the bed. The mattress creaks. He lowers his face, pushing his mask up just enough to reveal his mouth. It’s too dim to see his face. A tongue parts me.
I whine, the sound barely audible.
I fade out.
I fade in.
I whimper as my body ignites, awake when I’m not. My hips buck, just a little, as the pleasure builds. His fingertips tease my entrance, threatening to dip in, yet doesn’t. He just circles, driving me insane.
A moan, weak and timid, escapes my lips. The man sucks on my clit harder.
My eyelids close.
When they flutter open, the mask is above me. We’re face to face.
The bed moves. My body moves.
Slow. Deep.
He’s fucking me.
I scream without sound. My heart pounds, raging against my eardrums.
Darkness steals my vision.
It’s over.
For a long time.
The sunlight stains the curtains orange. I awaken, sitting straight up, panting and scared. I hold my palm over my heart, the beat wild and fast.
Quickly, I lift the sheet. My underwear is on. I finger myself. No cum. No soreness. I have the worst migraine, though.
I was dreaming. It was a nightmare. I think.
I creep out of bed, slow and tense, then search the house.
Everything is as it was. Nothing out of place. No lurking, masked men.
“It was just a dream,” I whisper and clutch my forehead.
It felt so real. What if it was real... could it have been Killian?
I finger myself once more. Still, no release coats my finger. I showered before bed. I feel just as clean.
I’m losing my mind.
The clock catches my eye. It’s noon.
Shoot! I overslept. I must have needed the sleep. That’s why I had those crazy dreams and feel like I was hit by a truck. Poor Evan. He must get less sleep than I do.
For the first time since the rape, I feel a little of what Evan must. I can’t linger in such dark thoughts, though. I need to get ready fast.
I jerk open my dresser drawer and grab a bra. When I turn to face the bed—
I freeze.
I see myself. I see what I would’ve looked like lying there with some intruder on top of me. That mask. The creepy eyes staring down at me. They seemed so real. I could see paint cracks on the mask.
Goosebumps spread over my body.
My gaze pulls up at the ceiling, to the spot I would’ve been looking if a mask hadn’t blocked my view.
I blink several times. Squint.
What is that?
I step onto the bed.
There, on the light fixture, is an odd plastic thing. I pinch it and pry it from the glass. There’s a charging port. On the other end, it might be a lens.
Oh my God... is this a camera?
I sink onto the bed, making myself small without realizing it. All four walls are watching me. I’m afraid to move.