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Published by Evernight Teen ® at Smashwords

www.evernightteen.com

Copyright© 2015 Medeia Sharif

ISBN: 978-1-77233-186-8

Cover Artist: Sour Cherry Designs

Editor: JC Chute

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

DEDICATION

To those who inspired this story…it does get better.

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Medeia Sharif

Copyright © 2015

Chapter One

No! I scream.

He ignores me. I want to believe this isn’t happening to me. Like I’m watching a movie, and a girl is telling me about an ugly incident in her past. Or maybe I’m in one of those violent video games with realistic graphics. Yes, that must be it. It’s very real, with the sights and sounds pulling me into this horrific simulation. There’s also his odor, which is strong and familiar. It reminds me of the disgusting body sprays the boys at school wear. They’re trying to smell like men, but it’s a boyish smell instead. The smell pervades me, wrapping around my body as he takes control of me.

His hands pinch me and my legs feel like they’re being split apart. He says things, but I don’t hear him well. I’m hyperventilating, crying, and screaming.

His voice is gruff, throaty. Bitch, stay still…you’ll like this.

I recognize the voice, but don’t recognize it. It could be from the movies, or the older boys at school…from teachers who smoke three packs a day, or from any sick male with a croaky throat. The man’s voice sounds like everyone and no one.

How long is sex supposed to last? I’ve only had it a couple of times. It didn’t seem too long when I had it, although my friends brag they could make love for hours. But this isn’t making love. He hates me. I see it in his eyes as the streetlights shine through the streaky windows and onto his face. I only see his eyes because of the mask. His eyes glimmer, but they look dark and colorless. His eyes could be brown or blue, and I just wouldn’t know, but they look black as the depths of Hell.

I want it to end, but he presses into me, in and out…taking forever. I scream some more, because my salvation is someone finding me and stopping this. Any person, young or old, can come by and do something.

Stop! I scream. Get off me. Get off me!

Shut up, he grunts.

Stop!

Every word out of my mouth is a plea, a yell, or a scream punctuated with hysteria and tears. I sound unlike myself since I’ve never spoken this way before—the both of us are unrecognizable, him with his mask and me in this position. He bangs my head into the floor and everything becomes foggy. I don’t know what day it is, only faintly remember my name, and I can’t remember why I’m here. Why would I come to an abandoned home in the middle of the night?

Why echoes in my head. Why am I in this situation? Why is this man here? Why is he hurting me? Above the man’s head, the ceiling is peeling and wall hangings are crooked. There are people past the lights and palm trees. I wish they could hear and see me, wish the walls would turn to glass so they could view my pain. Someone could rescue me, although I could’ve rescued myself before the fact. I should never have walked into this trap.

"No," I cry. That word reverberates in the room, because I keep repeating it. My vision blurs and my head moves side to side, cushioned by my bleached hair. He has already ripped bits of my clothes, but more fabric tears in a zipping sound and I can’t believe it. My clothes pull away from my body seamlessly, betraying me when they’re supposed to protect me. I never asked to be naked.

This is what I've heard happens to other girls, but not to me. It is happening to me, though. The day has come. I thought I could go my entire life and not have this occur...but it's not my choice, it's his.

My mind still attempts to protect me as a paralyzing shock grips my body. Some type of pressure is inside of me, but the pain has been dulled. Still, he invades me. His odor pummels into my nostrils. His scent is sharp, of sweat and cologne, and something else … bottled evil. Something wet falls on my face. The rain pounds outside, through a crack in the window above me. The broken windows should have told me something, to stay out, but I went inside.

I close my eyes and focus on the drips. It helps to block out the pain. Is this ordeal three minutes long, or three hours? I can’t tell. The man groans, his form still on top of mine. He pauses, the thrusts coming to a stop, and lifts up his arm—I’m too empty to cry out and scream for help anymore. He’s already warned me not to make a sound, as if anyone could hear me above the rain. Flashes of light erupt before my eyes. It’s as if the sky's lightning is inside the room before it’s swallowed by darkness.

I thought he was going to hit me, but no…he’s back to raping me, and then sighs, finished with me. He has no use for me anymore and his hands are around my neck, squeezing. In my hazy mind, I wonder what’s worse, his brutal hands around my neck or what he just did to me. My mouth is open, my back arched as I try to throw him off, but no air is coming in or out. The room has become airless.

He doesn't strangle me for long. There’s motion behind him, a shadow falling on us, and heavy footsteps. His fingers loosen. I want this to be over, but I’m not sure it is. Maybe he asked one of his buddies to join him. I’ve heard of that happening…gang rape, for hours, even days. No one even knows I’m here.

Hey, who’s that? a voice interrupts.

Huh, the masked man says. Moisture drops onto my bare stomach.

Get outta here. This is my house.

The weight lifts off me. All I see and hear is the brief view of his back and the slamming of the back door. The burden of his body no longer stifles mine. The hot, humid air feels soothing against my skin without his presence. I have other things to worry about. It pours on me, blood I’m sure, but it’s too thin to be blood. My sore arms, which had tried to break away from him after I entered the house, move to my neck and face. I don’t feel any blood.

The rain from the window was dripping on me…I’m almost sure of it. I open my eyes wider and there’s no longer the masked man, but an old man, his skin the color of cocoa and hair as white as Santa’s.

Hey, hey, who’s this? he mumbles. Let me get some clothes on you.

The stranger takes his jacket off and throws it on me. The spicy mixture of cigarettes and alcohol mingles with the rapist's pungent cologne. He turns on a lamp, which is weak in the long, cavernous length of the living room, dining room, and sitting room. Then he takes out a cell phone, some throwback from decades ago that has an antenna, and flips it open. He's talking into it, but I can't string his words together. My thoughts are swimming. I wrap the man's large jacket around my half naked body. I'm naked, first in front of one stranger, and then another.

I hear a machine loud in my ears, or it’s the wind beating against the house. It’s spring, so maybe there’s a tornado or flash flood. It had been raining hard when I drove in.

Take deep breaths, the man says. Everything will be all right. I called the po-lice.

It’s not a machine. It’s me, crying and hyperventilating. The realization that I was raped slams me hard. While it was happening, I was just thinking of getting him off me, and also that I wanted to live. Now that it's over, it's like the nightmare is real. I smell like him, his cheap chemical cologne. A piece of my skirt lies tattered next to me. I sit up, clutching the man’s jacket around my cold body.

My breath quickens harder and harder, the tempo ready to break me. I haven’t had a panic attack in years. I’m Valerie, yes, that’s me, that’s my name. I’m a high school junior, I have plans in life, to get good grades and go to college. I was just looking for a little fun tonight, and then the masked man found me or followed me. He laid his hands on me and did what he wanted.

Chapter Two

Hey…you have a respiratory illness?

My panic attack grips me and I close my eyes.

Can I get you some water or something?

I shake my head, willing my eyes to open.

It’s going to be a while, the old man says when my breathing slows down. It’s raining like a motherfucker out there. Let me get you a towel or something. That jacket don’t look big enough.

And he’s right. After he brings me a large towel, which is fraying at the edges but is clean, I manage to stand up, even though I’m sore. The towel is my temporary skirt, while the man’s jacket covers my top half. Underneath this makeshift outfit, my skirt and shirt are hanging off me, but they’re too torn to pull together.

I limp to the large picture window in the living room and the streets are flooding. It’s a flash flood, heavy rain that comes down all at once, and the water is so high it hits the tops of tires and people’s porches. When I had entered Broward there was a slight drizzle, then heavier rain by the time I got to the house, and then the weather became ugly real fast.

I look around. There’s very little furniture in the large space. Chairs and sofas are beaten up. Is this Northeast First Avenue? I ask the man.

Yeah, he says, sitting in a rickety chair next to a round dining table. Even with the rain pummeling the house, the chair creaks and it’s so loud, I wince. It hurts my ears every time the man shifts his body.

I don’t know if I’m in the right house, I say.

What house number was you lookin’ for?

100.

Oh, this 140. You came to the wrong place. Who’s at 100?

My friends, I sort of lie, controlling my breathing, because my body wants to get into another fit of hyperventilation. I breathe in, breathe out. For months my classmates have been scoping out abandoned houses, decent ones, for parties. We want empty houses with no squatters or lurking crackheads. In these houses we bring our party atmosphere: alcohol, weed, gossip, and other normal stuff. We bring candles and flashlights so the neighbors don’t see any bright lights. Some homes are furnished while others are not, so we also bring pillows and towels. I usually go to these parties on weekends, but today is a weekday. It’s spring break, a week of no school, and I thought I would enjoy it.

This house is slightly out of the way. I live in the northernmost portion of Miami, but I'm in Broward tonight, at the county line. Some kids at school had seen house 100 in a real estate magazine as something that a bank had seized, and then someone who knew the area said it was completely abandoned and it was easy to jimmy open a back door. I went to the wrong house, and this is what happened to me. This broken-down, old McMansion is occupied, obviously by some homeless man, but he had stepped out at the wrong time. I’d been all alone when I was attacked. The old man is very kind though, worry wrinkling his face.

I would’ve pounded that man who hurt you, but he ran through the back, the man says. He wouldn’t have survived if I was a little faster and if this rain wasn’t out there. A man shouldn’t treat a woman like that. I’m Robbie, by the way.

Valerie, I say.

I’m crying again, hyperventilating. Why couldn’t Robbie have come sooner? Why did it have to rain so hard, to the point that I couldn’t see the house numbers? Why did I have to decide to go through the back, jimmying a back door as if I were one of the bold, fearless boys at school? I could’ve left after seeing the place was empty, but I assumed my friends were late, stuck in the traffic the rain had caused. I should’ve accepted offers of rides, but I had just bought my car and wanted to drive myself, alone, listening to music and singing off-key.

My piece of junk car is outside, parked in the driveway. Since the rain was getting worse when I turned onto the street, I didn't want to park at the end of the block, which is where I usually park at these parties so neighbors won’t figure out an empty house is occupied for the night. Because of the rain and the