Don't Make Me Beautiful (9 page)

Brian laughs nervously at himself.
 
Don’t be stupid.
 
You’re a grown man and so is he.
 
This is his home.
 
If you trespass he can shoot your stupid ass.

Brian steps back away from the door, prepared to leave and never come back.
 
But then the sound of his son’s voice and the vision of him standing on their own front porch the night before comes back to him.
 
“She’s not sick, Dad.
 
She’s just really ugly.”

Brian doesn’t want to see a really ugly woman.
 
That’s not what’s motivating him to stand here on this porch and risk pissing off this neighbor.
 
It’s just that … he’s a math guy.
 
Brian has always been strong with numbers, from the time he was Liam’s age.
 
He uses math every day with his work at restoring furniture, both in the actual hands-on stuff and the figuring he has to do later when he does his billing.
 
Everything always has to add up in his world, and this situation with the monster lady?
 
It isn’t adding up.

Brian glances over at the cardboard covering the hole.
 
Maybe I’ll just take a look at the damage and make a call to a glass company myself.
 
Then I can go get some cash out of the bank and be ready to pay the guy when he gives me the bill.

Brian takes a few tentative steps down the porch towards the front window.
 
A car comes down the street and he freezes, waiting until it’s a few doors away before continuing.
 
Once in front of the window, he looks around the neighborhood.
 
No one is outside, and he sees no faces in any other windows.
 
These people need an Agnes
.

Turning to look at the cardboard, he notices it’s stuck to the still intact frame with duct tape.
 
“That’s going to be a problem when the sun melts that adhesive onto the PVC,” he says out loud.
 
He runs his finger along the edge, hoping he can find a loose spot so he can pry up the cardboard a little to see the actual damage.
 
It’s stuck on too tight, though.

His eyes roam up.
 
A set of white, gauzy curtains are right in front of him, obscuring his view of the house’s interior.
 
This home has the same basic layout as his, so he knows there’s a large living room of sorts on the other side of the glass.
 
He wonders what the woman was doing when the ball came through her window.
 
Was she sitting in the living room reading a book?
 
Was she in the kitchen making cookies?

He blinks his eyes a few times as they adjust to looking through the white curtain.
 
There’s a couch in the center of the wall facing him with side chairs on its left and right, its dark, blurry contours getting clearer the longer he stares.
 
A small coffee table rests in the middle of the conversation area.
 
His eyes roam the walls, wondering what the pictures in the frames look like.
 
It’s too difficult to see.
 
He steps back and stands straighter, embarrassed when he realizes he’s being worse than Agnes, staring into people’s houses like this.

It’s then that something inside the house catches his eye.
 
Brian stops moving for a moment as he focuses his attention on the dark shape on the floor.
 
He steps closer to the window, going so far as to press his face up against the glass and cup his hands around his eyes, trying to see better.
 
What is that?
 
A rug on the floor?
 
No.
 
It’s not a rug.
 
It’s too bulky.
 
It looks like…

He bends down, a sense of urgency overtaking his good sense.
 
He scratches desperately at the edge of the duct tape, finally getting a corner of it to peel away from the window frame.
 
He draws it down, careful not to let it tear.
 
Once it’s free on one side, he grabs the cardboard and pushes it sideways, like opening the cover of the book.

What the hell am I doing?
 
This is nuts…
 
He ignores his own concerns, needing more than anything else right now to just confirm that what he thinks he’s seeing on that floor is not what he’s seeing.

The hole in the window is finally revealed, and it’s big enough for his hand to fit through.
 
Thank you, Liam.
 
Never in his wildest dreams did he ever think he’d thank his son for breaking someone’s window.

Brian reaches through and grabs the curtains on the other side, using both hands to pull the bottom of them out through the hole.
 
As soon as he has the entire bottom seam through the broken window, he lifts it up and looks into the small space that’s remaining.
 
Now there are no curtains in the way and he can see into the living room as clear as if he were standing inside the house.

“Holy Mary mother of Jesus,” he whispers.
 
He raises his voice.
 
“Ma’am … Miss … are you okay?”

There’s what he assumes to be a woman lying on the floor in the middle of the room.
 
All he can see is the back of her head and blood on her one exposed hand.
 
“Ma’am!
 
Are you okay?!”

No response.

“Fuck!” he yells, hurriedly shoving the curtain back through the hole and pushing the cardboard into place.
 
He cuts the back of his hand on the glass, but he ignores the blood, the pain, and everything else as he struggles to get his cell phone out of his front pocket.

“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”

“Hello, this is Brian Jensen and I’m standing on the front porch of …,” he leans out and looks at the number on the front of the house near the door, “…thirty-two Fresno Street, and there’s a woman inside her house who’s passed out and there’s blood.
 
She needs an ambulance.”

“Are you the homeowner, sir?”

“No, I’m a neighbor.
 
Can you please send someone quick?
 
I’m afraid she might be … dead.
 
I’m not sure.
 
She’s not moving.”

“Can you check for a pulse?”

“No, I’m outside.
 
But just wait a minute.
 
I’m going in.”

“Sir, is there anyone else at the home?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Hold the line while I call the house,” the operator says.

Brian’s at the front door when the woman comes back on the line.
 
“They don’t appear to have a home phone on record.
 
Have you tried the doorbell?”

“No.” Brian realizes how ridiculous it is that he hasn’t bothered to do that first.
 
Surely the guy who lives here needs to know his wife is passed out on the floor.
 
She’s obviously sick.
 
Maybe she hit her head or something when she fell.

Brian rings the doorbell several times and bangs on the door with his fist.
 
“Is anyone home?!” he yells.

No one answers.

“I don’t think anyone’s home but her,” Brian says to the operator, breathing heavily in his panic.
 
He tries the handle, but the door is locked.
 
“I’m going to see if they have another open door somewhere.”

“Sir, I don’t recommend you break into the home.”

“I hear ya, but I’m doing it anyway.”

Brian runs around to the back and tries the door he finds there.
 
It’s locked up tight as well.
 
“The back door’s locked too.
 
I’m going back to the front.”

“The ambulance is on its way along with a police officer.
 
Can you stay on scene until they arrive?”

“Of course.”

“Do you want me to stay on the line with you?”

“No.
 
Thanks for your help.”
 
Brian hangs up without waiting for a response.

Going back to the front, he scrambles to pull the cardboard off and the curtain through the hole again.
 
He leaves blood on the curtains in his attempts to see inside.

“Ma’am, an ambulance is on its way, okay?
 
Ma’am, can you hear me?”

He’s about to look away when he sees her index finger move.
 
It’s just the slightest twitch, but he’s sure he saw it.
 
“I see you moving!
 
I know you’re alive!
 
They’re coming, okay!
 
They’re coming!”

A low moan comes from inside the house, from the woman.

Brian’s breath catches in his throat as her hand moves again, this time to slide out across the carpet.
 
It leaves a smear of blood behind.

She moans again, this time an agonizing sound that makes Brian’s skin crawl.

“You’re going to be okay.
 
I called nine-one-one.”

Her moaning turns into a strange keening, like a growl and a sob blended together into something almost animalistic.
 
The sounds of a siren in the distance reach Brian’s ears.
 
He’s frozen in place, holding up the curtains and peering inside, as her head slowly turns.

The ambulance pulls into the driveway as her face comes into view.
 
Brian needs only one second to take in the sight of the horror before him before the blood in his veins goes cold and the words fall out of his mouth unbidden.

“Oh my god … what
happened
to your face?”

Chapter Fourteen

ROCKING, ROCKING, ROCKING.
 
HER BODY is rocking and it hurts.
 
It hurts!
 
She wants to scream it, to say it to someone who will make it stop, but she can’t.
 
There’s something covering her face.
 
John is finally doing it.
 
He’s suffocating her!

She fights to get him off, screaming with the searing pain that slices through her body.
 
Her hands come into contact with tubing floating above her.

“Ma’am …
ma’am!
 
I need you to calm down!”
 
A stranger is yelling by her head.

“Give her some Midazolam.
 
Just watch her respiration after.
 
I’ve got her.”
 
Strong hands take her wrists and force them down to her sides.

She sobs.
 
It hurts so much.

“Is she allergic to anything?”

A male voice that seems familiar answers.
 
“I don’t know.”

“I thought you were related.”
 
The other voice is annoyed.
 
A cold sensation moves up her arm from a spot on her hand.
 
Moments later the need to struggle seems … less.
 
Her muscles go slack.

“We are related … she’s my sister.
 
I don’t know her medical history much, though.”

“Did you know she was being abused?
 
How long has it been since you’ve seen her?”

“Of course not.
 
How do you know she was abused?”

“Classic signs.
 
Worst case I’ve ever seen, though.”

“Her face,” the voice says.
 
It’s the tone laced with worry and concern that makes Nicole able to remember.
 
A memory of his face flashes across her mind, clear as day.
 
It’s the boy’s father.
 
The one with the baseball
.
 
She doesn’t know whether to be happy or sad about the fact that he’s here with her.
 
The pain and fear are too great.
 
John will know.
 
He’ll come for her.
 
He’ll make her pay.
 
She has to get back before he realizes she’s gone…

“She’s still struggling.
 
Should I give her more?”

“No.
 
She’s maxed out and we don’t know her history.
 
I’ll strap her down.”

Strong arms and then restraints trap her arms to her sides.
 
She gives up fighting; it hurts too much anyway.
 
She cries instead.

“What’s wrong with her face?
 
And her ears?” asks the boy’s father.

“You must not have seen her for a while,” says the other voice, the one who’s giving her the drugs, she thinks.

“No,” the man says softly.
 
The boy’s father.
 
He’s so nice.
 
She can tell.
 
He’s sad about her face, just like she is.
 
She wishes she could tell him it’s too late to be sad about it.
 
What’s done is done.

“Ma’am, can you hear me?” says the medical person.
 
He’s close to the side of her head.
 
She can’t see him because her eyes are swollen shut, but there’s nothing wrong with her hearing in that ear.

She doesn’t respond.

“She’s out of it.”
 
The man sighs.
 
“She might also be deaf from the beatings.
 
So, yeah, the face thing.
 
Pretty bad.
 
And the ears?
 
That’s what you see when someone’s been punched in the head way too many times.
 
Her whole face … I’ll bet her whole body … is covered in signs of previously broken bones.
 
Whoever did this to her should be shot. I’ll bet it’s been happening for years.
 
The cops are there at her house, though.
 
Maybe they’ll take care of that problem while we’re at the hospital.”