Authors: Roxy Harte
She is nude. She will be covered with a sheet once she is
deemed stable enough to go to recovery.
Trembling, I reach to touch her but immediately stop myself,
focusing instead on data provided by the monitors at her side. If I didn’t
believe Phillip, I cannot deny the truth of the machines. The woman on the
gurney is barely alive—but is she Gigi?
I want to believe that this woman is not the girl from my
past but my gut tells me that it is she, even though based on appearance alone I
couldn’t venture a guess. Gigi as a teen was emaciated, dyed her long hair
black and hid behind elaborate eye makeup.
This woman is beautiful, even in her ashen and bruised
state. Her hair is light, blonder than mine, and cut in a short pixie style.
She is long and lean but curved with womanhood, her hips flared, her breasts
full. She is covered with tattoos. The Gigi I knew had none. Aside from the
obvious physical trauma she looks healthy.
To keep emotion at bay I quickly gather information, running
my eyes across her naked body, inventorying her lesser injuries, most
superficial…various bruises similar in size and shape to those made by a riding
crop, a wooden ruler and a belt…all evidence of recent BDSM play. Slowly I take
in the larger injuries—her left arm in a cast from her fingertips to her elbow,
the bulky bandages and brace around her neck and the respirator forcing air in
through the base of her neck.
Taking her right hand, I rotate her wrist and catch my
breath when I see faded cutting scars.
Gigi.
I turn, startled, at the sound of the door behind me
opening. I expect Phillip and am surprised when it isn’t him but a petite woman
with dark hair streaked gray wearing a navy-blue suit, who introduces herself
as staff clergy. She wants to know if I am a friend or family, she wants to
explain to me the extent of Gigi’s injuries, and she asks if I know Gigi’s
religious affiliation before assuring me that she can pray with me regardless
of denomination…all before I find my voice. I finally do. “I’m Dr. George
Kirkpatrick. I don’t need any assistance, thank you.”
“Oh! I apologize. I thought—”
I turn my back on her, shutting her out, shutting her down,
in full-fledged superiority mode, not as a Dominant but as doctor, leaving her
no option but to exit without another word, taking her flustered embarrassment
with her.
I would like to think, in what I consider my
post-enlightenment era, that I am no longer this man, but I am, and the role is
all too familiar, all too comfortable. Lifting Gigi’s chart, I find her initial
trauma assessment written by attending physician David Marx, who listed cardiorespiratory
arrest, severe laryngeal trauma. Additionally there are surgery notes, but I
want more, answers I believe no one at this hospital can provide me with.
“God, Gigi, what happened to you?” My voice echoes around
the cold, stark room.
A door opens behind me and I jerk, looking over my shoulder
to find two surgeons. “Dr. Kirkpatrick? We were told we should give our report
to you.”
I step away from the gurney and near to them. In a loud
whisper I say, “Yes, that will be fine.”
“I’m Dr. Connor and this is Dr. Ferguson. Surgery took seven
hours and twenty minutes. As you can imagine, this was a very difficult repair.
Her actual voice box was split into two halves, and although we’ve tried to put
everything back together so that her throat is in working condition, we won’t
be able to gauge our success until the swelling goes down. Physical therapy
will be key in regaining the muscle control she will need to do the most basic
tasks. Breathing. Swallowing.”
“I see. And her voice?”
“Perhaps with additional surgeries, which will pose risk to
redamaging the areas we just repaired. I’m afraid it will be a game of wait and
see.”
“I understand. She’s lucky to be alive.”
Dr. Ferguson pats my shoulder. “With luck, she’ll heal more
completely than we anticipate.”
Without speaking, I turn back toward the bed and hear an
exchange behind me as the two surgeons exit.
“Doctor.”
“Doctors.”
My ears perk, hearing Phillip’s voice.I let out a
heavy sigh, heavier and shakier than I would have wanted him to hear as he
enters the room. “Why did you call me, Phillip? I assume you still haven’t
notified her mother.”
“No family has been called, no one, just you, and I do
appreciate your coming. I know it couldn’t have been easy.”
“Because of a request you found in her bag?” I ask sharply,
sarcastically. “She’s going to need months of emotional support as she
recovers. I’m not that guy.”
Phillip walks around the gurney, facing me from its opposite
side. I watch him as he lays a hand on her shoulder, tenderly. “When we were at
the malpractice hearing, I watched you, watching her, and I watched her,
watching you—”
“Phillip—” I interrupt, begging. “Please don’t.”
“Let me finish what I’m going to say. Give me that courtesy,
George.”
I nod, heart racing, wanting to be left alone with Gigi,
watching her vitals for any sign of improving, praying that they will not
decline further.
“Something passed between the two of you, an agreement… Do
you remember?”
I swallow hard, trying to not relive the trial and having no
idea what Phillip is talking about, or at least denying to myself that what he
saw was true.
“At first I thought I was seeing things, but then I realized
that she was using sign language to communicate with you. Why did she sign ‘I’m
sorry’ and ‘Thank you’ to you?”
I’m surprised he noticed at all. Few would recognize our
gestures as sign language, but then I remember he has a brother who lost his
hearing as a child. “I don’t know, Phillip.”
“But you saw it, you acknowledged it.”
I clench my jaw, remembering at the time that I didn’t give
a damn if anyone noticed. Between her apology and gratitude I’d signed that I
would always be there for her if she needed—anything. It seems she needs me
more than ever.
“You left your career for this woman, George. You lost
everything. It’s been a decade. Will you please explain this to me?”
“I’ve changed jobs, nothing more.”
“Why do you act as if it doesn’t matter?”
“Because it doesn’t,” I whisper. I’ve stopped looking at
Phillip, even though I don’t remember looking away.
My eyes are only for Gigi. Her face is so ashen. There are
dark-blue bruises under her eyes and small, pinpoint red blotches on her
cheeks, both a result of the strangulation. I cannot see her throat because of
the plastic brace surrounding her neck but assume it is also deeply bruised.
Her chest rises and falls just after the harsh
whoosh
of the respirator.
Live, damn it!
“We’re ready for her in ICU now, Dr. Moyer,” announces a
male nurse from the doorway.
I do look at Phillip then. “Who did this?”
“I don’t think the police have a clue.”
“Who brought her in?”
Phillip shakes his head, tucking his hands into the pockets
of his white lab coat. “I can’t give you any information, George. Hopefully the
police investigation will provide some answers.” He touches my shoulder. “We
need to get her moved to ICU.”
I nod and step aside as the male nurse enters with an
attendant. They position all the equipment for the move. Sighing with regret
for what I’ve left behind for so long, I drop my face, ashamed, and do not care
they see my tears. I do not mourn the loss of my career, I mourn not knowing
this woman. As I face her, lying so near death, I think I should run as fast
and as far as I can, but I can’t move. I want to know who she has become in the
years we steered clear of each other.
After she has been wheeled out, Phillip faces me. “Are the
police looking at the wrong angles?”
“What do you mean?”
“They believe it was a random rape, but I know you saw what
I did—the old bruises, the scars. Could this have been BDSM gone terribly
wrong?”
George
I don’t die in the cold barren recovery room after they
wheel Gigi out to take her to her room in ICU. I drop to the ground, clutching
my chest, screaming as pain I’d never known before tears through me. I think I
am dying, having a heart attack…but I don’t die. After a few moments I can
breathe again.
My thoughts are fogged as I make my way to the ICU waiting
room. I can’t believe this.
Gigi Marconi.
I think I should call Lin. I know she will be worried, but
what will I say?
I don’t call her. Instead I sit in a small, uncomfortable
chair directly outside ICU. As far as I’m concerned, I’m here for the duration.
Here until I know that Gigi is out of the woods and able to be her own
spokesperson, even if that means writing her decisions on a whiteboard. The
sooner that happens, the better, because any and all obligation I feel will end
there.
I told myself that once before. It seems a lifetime ago. I thought
if I could only help her a little…
“So where do you cut yourself now?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Where? Because I know you haven’t stopped.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Yes, you do. I understand. It’s a hard habit to break.”
“It’s not a habit!”
I snickered. “If you’re willing to talk about it, I’m
willing to listen.”
She gave me an odd look; I doubt anyone had ever been
brave enough to ask her about her scars. She wore her pain like a trophy,
cutting herself, scarring herself. “Cutting is my past.”
She shone as a bright light even on the cloudiest days,
always laughing, humming or making a joke. I needed to know if the happiness
was a façade to hide the pain, or whether the pain was to purge the happiness.
One beautifully sunny afternoon she was humming as loud
as a person could possibly hum, and after ordering a vente latte, I asked, “Do
you hum because you’re happy?”
She replied, “Humming drowns out the intolerable.”
I smiled at her, my analyzing id being on full alert,
searching her face for a deeper truth. “Being at work is intolerable then.
You’d rather be outside with your friends.”
Her entire being went still, though a moment before she’d
been wiping the counter. She stood, holding the rag an inch above the surface.
She seemed to be trying to decide the more acceptable lie and finally answered,
“Today I’m drowning out the screams.”
It was my turn to stand frozen, unsure of what to say or
not say, my voice trapped by professional propriety. She wasn’t a patient; I
had no right to offer any conjecture whatsoever. “What are you doing after
work?”
“Why?” Her eyes narrowed in suspicion.
“Actually, I was just going to draw you a map to a cove
down the road. It’s sheltered, private. It’s a good place to scream.”
“Will you take me there?”
“I shouldn’t. It wouldn’t be a smart thing for me to do.
It wouldn’t be ethically acceptable.”
“Convincing me or you?”
“I cannot go with you.”
“Fine,” she answered tersely, sounding so much older than
she should have, jaded, disillusioned. “Draw the map.”
I drew the map, I left the coffee shop, but I didn’t
leave. I waited in my car for her to leave and then I followed her, at a
discreet distance of course, until I was assured she was indeed going to the
cove, and then I took a side road onto a remote overlook so that I could watch
over her, guaranteeing her privacy and safety.
I’ve heard a lot of screams. My patients knew the cove as
The Screaming Place. There they could embrace a primordial power and overcome
remorse, grief, heartache, physical pain or anger. There they could release
their anger, pain, need unencumbered of others’ judgment. I was hoping Gigi
could find the same healing energy without my professional guidance.
What I heard that day, I never wanted to hear again.
She screamed, yes, and I was well-versed in screams,
having heard screams of pain, desperation, heartbreak and insanity, but from
her lungs came the scream of one damned to the fires of hell, or so I imagined.
“You look like shit, man. You should go home and get some
sleep.”
I open one eye and see Phillip standing over me. He holds
out a Styrofoam cup of coffee. I manage to sit up a little straighter and
accept the cup. “Thanks.”
“Look, you know how this works. We’re going to keep her in a
drug-induced coma until some of the trauma has time to heal. We won’t even
think about bringing her around for several days. Why don’t you go get some
rest?”
I nod. I know she’s not out of the woods completely, but
she’s through the worst of it. She isn’t facing imminent death. I nod again, or
maybe still, because I am not certain that my head hasn’t been bobbing forward
and back the entire time he’s been talking.
I can’t believe we’re talking about Gigi. I’ve spent the ten
years since the trial not thinking about her, but seeing her so near death all
I can think about is the years we’ve had apart. She’s grown up, become a woman,
and I mourn the time lost.
Gigi was a fascination. An addiction.
I know I should run as fast and as far as I can to put fresh
distance between us…
I run only as far as Lin’s apartment.
I find myself poised to knock on the door, feeling like a
lifetime has passed since our date. It seems impossible it was nineteen hours
since I put her in a cab with a soft kiss and the promise to call her as soon
as I was able.
What do I tell her?
I close my eyes, not knocking, and
hear the sound of her door opening.
When I open my eyes it is to find her standing before me in
a short silk robe, roughly tied at her waist so that it gapes, showing the
flimsiness of the sheer slip she wears beneath. She is dressed for bed. In her
arms lies the answer to how she knew I was here in the form of a furiously
barking Pekingese. She taps its nose. “Shush, Tink!”
I jerk, slightly startled when she touches my arm and pulls
me inside her sparsely furnished, modest living room. Setting the dog on the
ground, she stands and pulls me into her arms, or maybe I fall into hers. All I
know for certain is that she is whispering urgently into my ear. “Are you all
right, George? Please, tell me what has happened.”
I lift my gaze and whatever she sees in my eyes brings a
look of sadness and horror to hers. Tears spill from her eyes though I can shed
no more.
I wrap my hands around her face and drag her forward,
kissing her, wanting to wipe the anguish from her expression. “Don’t ask me any
questions, Lin, not yet. I need your strength. Please, just hold me.”
All it takes is her nod, her assent, and I am kissing her
again, controlling her with the grip I have on her face. I push her to the edge
of the couch, lifting her onto the sofa table that runs the length of its back.
A vase crashes to the floor, but I don’t stop kissing her. I don’t think about
anything. The words I came here to say are forgotten and I just need. I need to
feel her life beneath my hands—the warmth of her skin, the beat of her heart—to
remind me I am alive. I feel Lin’s hands at the buckle of my pants, her
delicate fingers parting the folds of cloth, helping me to fill her. I do,
thrusting like a savage beast, holding her hair in one fist and her soft,
pliant ass in the other. She screams, and I’m not certain I am not hurting her.
I pound into her, again and again, lifting her to straddle my body when it is
not enough. I. Just. Can’t. Get. Enough. Forcing myself into her deeper and
harder.
Did I do that to Gigi? Am I responsible for the recklessness
that sent her to the emergency room tonight?
“Oh God! Oh God!” My fears take me to my knees, still
holding Lin against me. I am as hard and as needy as a raging stallion. I push
her shoulders back as gently as I am able, but I don’t stop pounding into her,
not for a second. I look into her face and see her eyes are open, staring at
me, forcing me to make eye contact with her even though I shouldn’t. I come to
my senses a little, enough to know that what I am doing to her is little better
than rape. “I’m sorry, so sorry.”
“Shhh,” she tells me. “Give me your pain, George. I can take
the storm raging in you.”
I give her the full fury of my need.
Minutes later, hours later…cold water runs over my arched
neck as I stand bowed, hands against cool porcelain tile, looking at the drain,
watching the pattern of water as is sluices down my body, my leg, my foot,
traveling and pooling, swirling, before sliding down the drain. I don’t know
how long I’ve watched the spray…long enough for the water to turn cold. I think
if I take many showers here I will have to buy Lin a larger hot water tank.
I hear the soft padding of her footsteps across the hardwood
floor of her bedroom and know her knock is imminent, but she doesn’t knock, she
pauses in front of the closed door, and that makes me wonder why. I don’t turn
off the water; I just stand there letting it cascade over me, doing every mind
trick I know to just not think. I close my eyes to the swirling water, letting
thoughts pool around my head but not letting them root, forcing them away
unthought-of.
A moment later? An hour later? Lin is standing beside the
closed glass door of the shower. I swallow hard, realizing that mixed with the
water flowing over my face are tears. I wasn’t aware I’d been crying but I had.
I turn to face her, watching as she slowly unties the belt of her robe, and
even more slowly lets the shiny satin fall off her shoulders, revealing her
pale, pale skin in contrast to the bright red of her robe. The robe falls open,
allowing me a small peek of perfect white skin from her neck to her toes,
interrupted only by a square patch of darkness covering her sex.
Normally I prefer both men and women to come to me
completely shaved, but in Lin I find her pubic hair makes her even sexier.
I push against the door until the seal pops and it opens. It
is only a small opening. I go ahead and push the door completely open. I watch
her chest rise and fall, that small movement seeming to slide the fabric lower,
falling off her shoulders completely to catch at her bent elbows, revealing her
breasts to me in the process.
She stands there, letting me look at her. Bending toward
her, I lower my mouth to her breast, surprised at how hot her body is to my
mouth as I suck in her nipple.
She gasps. “You are so cold, George.”
I suckle long and hard, drawing on her flesh, knowing well
the invisible line that runs from her nipple to her pussy. I suck and suck,
harder and deeper, until she is moaning and dancing on her toes. Only then do I
switch, taking her other nipple into my mouth, giving it the same treatment,
waiting for the same response.
The second nipple doesn’t take as long to deliver a
reaction, and she cries out with need. I bite her, pulling her breast toward me
with my teeth, feeling more than seeing the red fabric of her robe fall and
pool at her ankles before she is forced to join me beneath the water.
She makes a sharp startled sound when the cold water hits
her and she tries to wiggle free but I grab her ass, cupping her bottom,
lifting her and straightening in one fluid movement. I bite her nipple harder,
a little pain, as two fingers find her wet slit and push deep, stretching her.
“Do you want this?” I ask roughly, pinching her ass cheek in
the hand supporting most of her weight. She wiggles on my fingers, grasping my
shoulders in a way that is both holding on for dear life and pushing me away
from her. “Can you handle it if I am a little rough with you?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know!” she cries out.
“I should leave now before I do something I might regret.” I
am not sure if I spoke aloud, but it seems she grips me harder, not wanting me
to go. I linger, torn between using her and releasing her, but not removing my
fingers from her heated body. Cold water pounds us both. I push my fingers
deeper and she pushes back with her pussy, taking me as deep as she can and
writhing. “Do you want me to fuck you with my fingers, Lin?”
“Yes, yes!” She screams, “Fuck me with your fingers.”
Holding on to me, she leans her head into the cold spray and
begins sputtering, holding her face beneath the spray so that she is barely
able to breathe. I move her around so that she isn’t in the stream of water but
she scratches my shoulder. “I liked that! I like the water in my face.”
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I can ride your storm, George. I do not fear this.” She
grabs my face between her hands and kisses me, hard and fast, deep, slamming
her tongue into my mouth. My tongue duels with hers, winning until she bites
me, holding on to my tongue with her teeth, drawing blood.
I spin us around so that the cold water is hitting us square
in the face. The kiss intensifies, both of us moaning we are kissing so
roughly; my fingers pumping in and out of her intensify, wet, harsh, pounding
slaps each time I slam my fingers in and out of her. I know just barely enough
Cantonese to translate what she is muttering under her breath. “Please,
ancestors, help him. Help us.”
* * * * *
I am tangled in bedsheets when I awaken, and my first
thought isn’t about the woman lying next to me. My thoughts are of the woman I
left at the hospital. I should have stayed there.
What was I thinking,
leaving her, knowing the hours following her surgery would be the most dangerous?
I meet Lin’s gaze and she smiles sweetly but I look away.
Confused. Guilty. I still don’t know what I am going to say to her about where
I went last night. I could tell her the truth but I’m just not ready to talk
about it.
Struggling out of the bed, I follow a clothing trail to my
slacks and rummage in the pocket for my cell. I quickly look at its face to see
if I have any missed calls. There are three, but those are all from the club—no
doubt I am late for something—and nothing from the hospital. I tell myself that
no call is a good sign but then have the horrible thought that if her parents
found out where she was and that I had already seen her, they would have me
banned from any future visits.