Walking down the sidewalk, you’re on your way home from work. You step a quick, lively pace. Running late, you start to think about dinner: beef or chicken? Kids are at your mother’s, so maybe a couple steaks would be nice. Bottle of wine, a few candles… you smile to yourself and brush a lock of hair out of your eyes. Your only worry is at which store to stop.
You never know he’s there until he’s a breath behind you. You see only the flash of metal; you gasp, then his right hand, hot and grimy, covers your mouth, and a sharp knife is pressed to your throat. He pulls you backward into a darkened alley, the only light coming from behind curtains on a fourth-story window. You stagger back to keep up; you feel cold, curving metal shiver on your throat. Panic rises and you grab at his hands, but he grunts and deliberately jerks the knife. The tip of the blade, bent almost to a fishhook, jumps and rips a neat little hole in the side of your neck. You cry out through his meaty fingers and try to lean away. But the knife tip is touching on the right, and his head presses into the left. Tears come as you realize: you’ve nowhere to go.
His grip shifts only slightly, to better hold you with the knife. Hot breath smells sour as he pants in your ear. His right hand comes down, yanking your arms down with it. Fear drives you now, and you beg.
“Please, no,” you whimper, your body stiffening. His rough tongue licks the side of your neck; his right hand grabs your breast and squeezes. “You can have my purse, just please don’t–”
He growls in frustration and jerks the blade up again, harder this time. You wail, pressing your head back, but his shoulder catches you. Not just a dot now, there is a short, vertical line on your skin that burns white-hot. Weeping, your hands ball into loose fists and you pray for release. Fear begins to ebb as despair gently settles in.
His right hand darts down to lift your skirt and yank down your panties; you hear a zipper. You take one last moment to steel yourself–then he slams into you, rough and fast. You bite your lip rather than cry out again. He pushes again, three times, four, five… Finally you feel him pull out. Relief blossoms, temporarily damping both fear and despair. At least it’s over, you think.
But the instant before he releases you, the knife streaks back in a practiced, circular motion. Knees weak, you drop to the ground and your hand comes up to your neck. A long line burns fiercely, and your hand comes away wet. You stare up at your attacker, seeing for the first time that he wears not rags, as you assumed, but a rumpled yet expensive suit. Instead of filthy and disgusting, he is handsome and stylish.
He stares down at you and your eyes lock. Still panting, he watches intently as you collapse to your elbows, clutching your bleeding throat. He made sure to catch both arteries, so it won’t be long. Despair rears its ugly head one last time as blackness creeps in at the edge of your vision. Blood–your life–drips from the knife he still grips in his left fist. His eyes are black pools, reflecting nothing but madness, and his lips part into a slight smile.
You’re sprawled full-length now–not even your arms will work. Your hand falls limply next to your cheek. You meet his eyes and manage only a whisper: “Why?” His answer–”Because I can”– follows you down as your eyes quiver shut and you breathe your last.
And me? Doesn’t matter–you didn’t know I was there until I was a breath away.
- Copyright: © 2005 Gretchen Cranmer