The townhouse wasn’t always this cluttered; there was once a time where the grass outside was cut properly, and where the windows didn’t let a cold draft in during the winter; where the thoughts in her mind of getting her next high didn’t overcome the fear of not feeding her two girls. Her body lay numbly on the couch, and she glanced at her worn-in piano across the living room and remembered how art once filled her life. Now, all that’s there is cracked family photos, and leaving her daughters alone at 3 AM to shuffle through the streets, in search for a “friend.” Interesting how that works, she thought; how thirty years ago, she would never let her home reek of cigarette smoke, and the painting on the walls chip off, or milk rot in the fridge for weeks on end.
1981, December: who knows the actual day, she didn’t. Looking on the desk under her, she read the laminated file: “Lynne Molando, 18, 5’6, 125 lbs. black hair, brown eyes,” and the picture, her own eyes staring back at her, a sense of emptiness crossing her lips as the camera refused to flash. A husky man approached her from afar, and she felt herself reflexively sink smaller into her plastic chair.
“Lynne, right?” the husky man said. His voice was a lot lighter then she had assumed, and he continued to look at her as his badge glared into her primary vision.
“Y-yes,” she whispered. God, how weak she sounded. She tried to encourage herself to grow up, to sound more secure, confident, brave. All the things she was far from. “Yes,” she said more clearly.
“I’m Officer Davison. Would you like to call anyone?” His accent wasn’t as thick as most of the southerners around. Maybe he wasn’t from around here. Lynne finally let her eyes leave his badge and meet his eyes, a radiant blue, and she was immediately crippled with fear, her recently repressed memories flooding back in. For a second, she contemplated reaching out to her parents, or maybe her brother even. But what would the point of that be? She knew they wouldn’t believe her regardless. She wanted to run. To rip these cold, metal handcuffs off, to find her beloved hypothetical Harley, and to toss a leather jacket on and never look back. Maybe she’d go to California, or back up north. It was stupid of her to have stayed home.
It was her first time here. The walls had seemingly been closing in on her for hours. She thought of how her brother was probably curled up at home with his latest medical novel. She chuckled to herself at the irony of their differences. Damn nerd. They were adopted, after all. She let her thoughts start to spiral, thinking about the course of events that led her to sit in the county police station, surrounded by pathetic druggies and people too incompetent to even understand the difference between Hanukkah and Kwanzaa. She was sore all over, from the running, from the falling, the jumping, the—she didn’t want to think about that, to follow what just occurred only a couple hours prior.
It was dusk, the sun finally setting earlier in the night. The Arkansas air was chilled, but she didn’t mind. The stars were too glorious to ignore, and as she walked back from her painting class, she felt security in the idea that as soon as she stepped foot in her oversized, empty home, she would disappear into her room and lock the door and let herself draw even more. Or maybe this time, she’d finally start strumming on the guitar her best friend Kyle let her borrow. Her parents would be asleep, so she wouldn’t have to worry about her father coming in and lecturing her about the importance of a solid education. She continued to walk and follow the sidewalk, the surface scraping the soles of her worn-in shoes, her hand gripping her folder containing her latest painting, legs sore from standing all day at a drug store unknown to most of the town.
She was a few blocks away. The roads were flat, and she didn’t complain too bad about walking. The longer it took her to get home, the better. In this case though, perhaps she should’ve sped up. Voices lingered in the distance behind her, male it sounded like. She recognized them snicker to one another, whispering vulgarities; nothing she hadn’t heard before. Her brother usually told those type of guys off. He wasn’t much of a fighter, but he was a person to defend her, at least. Her brother wasn’t here now. Nor was anyone else, by the looks of it. The streetlights here dimmed, and she was approaching the gap in the two adjoining neighborhoods that was accompanied by woods to the left.
“Hey, sweetheart, wait up!” one of the guys called from behind her. The other laughed obnoxiously, allowing him to snort. Lynne did everything in her power to walk as fast as possible, without letting herself show that she was clearly concerned. But as she sped up, so did they. The hour was late, and she was already past curfew. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing if she gave into a slight jog… their footsteps echoed hers, almost in unison. “Where you goin’ hot stuff?” She was really starting to despise southern accents. She ran, like she had seen so many other girls do in movie scenes, so very similar to this. Those scenes usually didn’t end too well.
She cut through the woods. Big shocker, she thought to herself. Didn’t see that one coming. The woods had a wired gate stating “NO TRESPASSING” in bolded letters. She ignored them, as she had done in the past. She knew this area fairly well since she came here to draw, and she was certain she’d lose the horny assholes following behind her. Her jet-black hair blew violently, tangling behind her, sweat starting to pour down her olive-toned skin. Strands of fabric from her red sweater were starting to escape the tight knitting, but she kept pounding her feet against the dirt until she approached the abandoned, wood house that was once owned by what was rumored to be a participant in the Underground Railroad. She never believed that bullshit, but maybe just this once she would. She was comforted by the idea that this house could give her protection, too.
“This bitch can run!” hollered one of her pursuers. They weren’t that far behind after all. Panicked, Lynne fled inside of the house, confident that the walls would perhaps deter them off. They didn’t. One stormed into the entrance, and her first thought was to dodge towards the back door. Yet, they were already ahead of her. Her other pursuer stormed in from the back, and in the light of the moon, she only got a faint look at them. Tall, slightly built, young. She put on her big girl pants. You got this. “Look, you’re gonna want to leave me be. My father is a highly important man and I would advise you —” her taunts were cut off by, again, that obnoxious laughter. “Woah man, look what we got here, a northerner? That’s even hotter.”
Lynne tensed up, realizing that her grand escape wouldn’t be so simple. She could smell the stench of weed and booze from a mile away. They were gone, unreachable in their already made-up minds. Time for Plan B. She started to step away, then quickly bolted around the first guy, only for him to spin around and grab her and pull her close against his chest. “Not so fast, sweetheart. We ain’t done wit you yet.”
They both laughed again (damn, how hideous their laughs were), as they tossed her onto the hard, wooden floor. There was nothing to do, no way out. She attempted to get up and regain her balance, only to be sat on by one of the two. He held her arms against the ground with one hand, while his other hand tussled with his belt.
“Man, I’m gonna need ya’ help here. We’ll take turns alright?” The two chuckled and agreed as the other male crouched down over her head and held down her arms.
She froze. She thought and thought, there had to be something. She started screaming.
She screamed as loud as she ever did. Louder, in fact, than the one night when her father came home from work, when he told her how disappointed he was in her for not being like her brother. Louder than when he said that she was no longer his daughter. Louder than when she came home to see her mother bottles of wine deep after discovering his affair.
She screamed and kicked, but it was no use. Her legs were like dead tree trunks; trapped under the heavy weight of her attacker. So, she did the only two things she thought of. She tensed her muscles as tight as she could, and she prayed. She hadn’t prayed in some time. The past months had consisted of her being on a spiritual quest of some sort, but she prayed now, on a beat with the penetration of this person forcing himself in and out of her.
Time lost its consistency. They switched up about halfway through. She tried to fight again. She stopped. She let her body break and fall within itself, as tears dripped numbly down her cheek. They stopped. Stood up. She heard an owl’s voice through the trees. She felt water rushing into her ears. Blood leaked onto her thigh. Her sweater was ripped. Laughter, again. Something was tossed on the ground. Weed? “Your payment,” one joked. “Catch ya later, baby.” They hustled their belts back on. They ran, and the wooden door slammed shut.
She had never been motionless before, never speechless. She slowly rose and slid her jeans back up her waist as if she had just taken a simple pee. Nothing else happened. Nothing. She picked up the weed and felt the weight of the drug in her palm. It was her first time touching any kind of substance, and the simple thought of inhaling it brought a pleasant glow into her mind. She needed that glow, even though nothing happened. Nothing.
Lynne left the house and worked her way towards the main road. She was sore, but not just her legs this time. Everywhere. There. But nothing happened. Nothing. She was approaching the wired fence with the sign when a bright set of headlights flashed onto her. She saw a badge, heard the car door slam, watched as a man in uniform made his way towards her, handcuffs clinking against his—belt—
“Now, what do you think you’re doin’, missy?”
“Nothing,” she gasped, realizing how her voice was nearly nonexistent. “Nothing happened.” She didn’t say anything. No one would believe her, anyway. She looked exactly like what her parents thought she was: a delinquent. Lynne sat in the station until her best friend found his way to bail her out. She told him she’d pay him back. He said that she didn’t have to.
She liked that idea; she wanted to start investing her money elsewhere.
The townhouse wasn’t always this cluttered, but she now lets the grass grow too long to walk through, she tapes the windows to avoid the cold air coming through and lets her older daughter go to bed without dinner. Life wasn’t meant to be easy. The girls were still at school, so she collapses once again on the couch as she ties a belt around her frail bicep, injecting a needle straight into her vein. Maybe one of these days, it will finally become enough.
