Chapter 19: Justice

The van blocked the end of the driveway. Frigid asphalt felt like fire against the naked soles of her feet as they walked like lovers, hand-in-hand, slowly up the empty driveway. The sensation against her feet differed significantly from walking either on the dirt trails or snow at Blessed Shelter; neither better nor worse. Sarah shivered slightly, finding only a mild warmth in Brady’s fingers holding hers.

Asphalt transitioned to pressure-treated wood as she climbed the stairs to the porch in the darkness. She clenched her jaw to quiet the sudden chattering of her teeth; the chattering was not only due to the cold air. Her nipples hardened like diamonds. As Brady prepared to kick the door, Sarah stilled him with a gentle touch to his shoulder. Empty flower pots dozed in a line stretching from the entrance door to the far railing. Crouching, she moved the third flower pot to the right of the door. A dusty key reposed there, naked against the planks. She gathered the key into her fingers and inserted it into the lock. It turned easily, as she knew it would. She returned it to its resting place under the pot and rose to stand again beside Brady, her hand upon the doorknob.

The house breathed warm air upon her skin. The scent of the house pulled aged memories from her subconscious as she stepped silently across the threshold. Memories of Patrick’s clammy hands, memories of hungry nights, belied the welcome warmth. Freezing wooden planks transitioned to solid warmer tile in the small, neat foyer beneath her feet. Brady followed and closed the door silently behind them.

Unerringly, she walked through the kitchen and into the living room, tile yielding to matted carpet. Down the hallway, her old room beckoned. There were no decent memories there either, however, a sliver of bright light shone from beneath the closed bedroom door illuminating the dingy carpet. She didn’t think that the carpet had been cleaned since she last had stepped here. The doorway to her mother’s room was also closed, but no light appeared there.

“I want to go alone,” Sarah whispered.

In the darkness, Brady pressed something into the palm of her right hand. Instinctively, she grasped it, warm against her cool palm. As she held the object up, she recognized the large blade of the kitchen knife, formerly resident in a fancy wooden block with an embedded sharpener.

“I don’t need this,” she whispered.

“Take it,” Brady said. “Safety first.” If safety was the primary concern, neither of them would be in this house.

Sarah relented and held the knife loosely in her hand, brushing her naked thigh with the flat of the wide blade. For the first time in a long time, she felt a strong impulse to drag the edge of the knife across the skin of her thigh, to taste leaking blood from the thin wound.

She bit her lip hard to quell the desire. She wouldn’t do that again. Ever. But like an alcoholic, the unrelenting desire remained. Strangely the thought of cutting herself drove tendrils of desire into her naked body. She forced away the toxic thoughts, replacing them with thoughts of the pines of Blessed Shelter, of making love with Brady and Susan and Patricia and Uma and Hua, replacing them with the comfort of Rebecca’s embrace.

Brady moved into the living room, settling into a new reclining chair that Sarah had never seen before. The chair seemed like an indulgence that Patrick might purchase for himself. Sarah nearly chastised Brady for not removing his shoes, but the futility of that thought reminded her that this was no longer her home. It perhaps never had been and Brady’s lack of respect for it meant nothing to her.

She stood for a full five minutes in the dark trembling, naked, knife clutched in her hand brushing her skin sensually. She could hear Brady’s patient breathing in the chair. She expected to hear sirens approaching to halt this clandestine entry, but the night remained silent and brooding.

After she willed her left foot forward, the steps became automatic and she drifted towards the closed bedroom door with the light shining below. Her door. Her former door.

Her heart hammered in her chest; she could feel her heartbeat in her brand. Steeling her nerves, she reached forward and, with a practiced ease, teased the bedroom door open with not a sound to betray her.

He sat at her former desk, in her former chair, his back to the entrance and Sarah. Her former desk lamp spilled white incandescence across the desk and the hardwood floor. From the back, it appeared that he’d gained a significant amount of weight in the last five years in contrast to more thinning of his disheveled hair near the crown of his head. Her former single bed remained unmade, as messy as she recalled leaving it. Her former computer monitor glowed a bluish tinge. His fingers worked at her former keyboard in a slow rhythm, hunting and pecking. Occasional grunts issued forth from him, directed at the keyboard.

She stood transfixed in the doorway, barely breathing, toes gripping the hardwood. The knife kissed her thigh. In her memory, her heart hammered with fear of this man: fear of his hands, fear of his penis, fear of his contempt. While she watched the back of him, the sixteen year-old in her quailed.

Images of Jake, images of Kate, images of Tim, images of Grant, images of nondescript boys holding her down, images of Patrick stealing into her room, into her bed, all flooded her mind. Briefly, her vision narrowed. Fleetingly, her knees threatened to buckle. She suddenly regretted taking off all of her clothing in the van.

Brady’s voice echoed in her mind: Justice.

Geeky Phil’s voice echoed in her mind: You can always choose the right path.

Rebecca’s voice echoed in her mind: You are stronger, now.

She swallowed and steeled herself again, willing her legs to support her and banishing the thoughts of Jake, Kate, Tim, Grant, and rapes. It was only her and Patrick, and she was stronger now.

She gripped her knife angrily and cleared her throat.

“Well, well, well. The prodigal bitch returns. Missed me enough to show up naked, huh?”

Sarah simply stared at him, refusing to drop her eyes from his. Slowly, he climbed out of the chair, his bulk creaking as he rose to his feet. Perhaps two metres separated them. Clutter littered the floor.

She raised the knife, pointing it at him. Her arm shook.

“Stop,” she said. Her voice was only a whisper, but he obeyed, eyes on the point of the knife.

His eyes glittered. He wore pyjamas and slippers upon his feet. His erection pointed at her, tenting the fabric of the nightwear obscenely. He reached down and stroked himself through the cloth.

“I missed you, little bitch. You couldn’t stay away, huh? Had to have more of Uncle Patrick.”

Sarah shook her head, holding her ground.

“No,” she said simply.

“When I take that knife from you, I’m going to fuck you with it before I fuck you with this,” he snarled, hand still stroking his cock. “Have me a bloody fuck.”

“No,” Sarah repeated. “I’d rather die.”

“You might, little slut. If I’m kind enough to let you die. It was a mistake coming here, bitch.”

Sarah couldn’t agree more. Her hand shook so badly that she nearly dropped the weapon. His feral eyes watched her closely, crawling over her bare skin, eye-fucking her bare breasts. He licked his lips and stepped towards her. She nearly reversed into the hallway, but she held her ground, weakly waving the knife.

“Stop moving,” she said. Instead of the commanding presence she intended, her voice rose only slightly above a whisper.

He stopped, but only amusement played on his lips.

“If you didn’t come to fuck me again, why are you here? Your mother doesn’t want you.”

The truth of it nearly caused a tear to leak from her eyes, but she willed the sensation away surprisingly calmly.

“You’re only good for one fucking thing: sucking my fucking cock,” he continued.

“No,” she repeated.

“You think no means anything to me?”

Without warning he lunged at her. He moved surprisingly fast for an overweight, out-of-shape narcissist. Instinctively, she raised the knife. Clumsily, he batted at it. The edge caught him on the forearm, slicing deep. Blood flowed immediately, dripping down his arm and splashing onto her hand. His other hand captured her right, and forced the handle from her grip. Frightened by the violence, she cried out, and turned to run, but his hand was suddenly in her hair. He dragged her by her hair deeper into the room and slammed her into the wall beside the doorframe. An old family portrait, one that didn’t include dear Uncle Patrick, dislodged from the hanger and the frame shattered as it kissed the floor, glass fragments spilling across the boards. As the back of her head met the wall, blackness threatened, but she managed to avoid unconsciousness. Suddenly the blade of the knife was against her throat, and she was forced to her toes against the wall.

“You fucking cut me. I’ll fucking kill you, bitch.”

“And you fucking raped me for years. You deserve far worse.” Her voice strengthened in anger and pain, even as the edge of the knife nicked the skin of her throat. Her scalp screamed at her, her hair threatening to separate from the nape of her neck.