There Are No Saints: Chapter 8

By the time I get home from walking the dogs, I’m late for a date with Josh.

We’ve been seeing each other on and off for a couple of months. He’s a photographer who likes to take pictures of repurposed buildings. Really, he makes most of his money shooting weddings.

He’s good-looking, decent at sex, and better at conversation, though he has a tendency to get preachy. He’s judgmental as fuck about me bartending at Zam Zam because he says half the regulars are alcoholics and I’m fueling their addiction. Never mind that I met him at Zam Zam, and he’s hardly a teetotaler.

Much like Erin, Josh didn’t notice when I disappeared for four days. We only meet up once every week or two, both of us busy with work and side projects.

I haven’t fucked him since the incident. I haven’t fucked anybody since then, and I’m not sure how I’ll react when I do.

Even though that maniac didn’t rape me, I feel just as violated. There’s no way to compare trauma, and I don’t want to try. But the terror I felt, and the physical pain, can’t be that far off.

Sometimes I just want to forget the whole thing.

Other moments I’m filled with a deep, roiling rage. I want to find that motherfucker. I want to hunt him down. And I want to cut off little pieces of him until I start to feel better.

That isn’t going to happen, though. It’s pretty fucking clear the cops aren’t doing shit because they don’t believe what I told them. Even if they did, there’s no witnesses and no evidence. I’m not even a good witness.

Besides . . . I don’t believe in revenge.

This isn’t the first time in my life someone hurt me. Holding onto the anger, stewing in the rage, will only boil me alive from the inside. I learned that the hard way.

What could I do, anyway? I’m 5’5, 112 lbs. I’ve never punched anyone in my life. Even with a taser gun and a pile of duct tape, I’d have a hard time subduing a fully grown male. I have no illusions about my ability to fight, to hurt, to kill.

It’s hard to let go, but that’s what I’m trying to do. I’m trying to tell myself that I’m alive, I’m healing. As long as I’m still breathing, I can keep moving forward. Everything can be overcome except death.

Even if I could find that asshole, all I’d do is get myself killed.

I hurry into the house, knowing Josh will be annoyed if I’m late again.

Joanna passes me on the stairs, likewise hurrying to a date with her long-term boyfriend Paul, as I jog up the three flights to my attic room.

“You look gorgeous!” I tell her.

“You too!” she lies.

I laugh. “Don’t worry, I’m about to change.”

I strip off my clothes, sweaty from skating around the park with the dogs. Even though we’re well into October and the sky was cloudy, it was close to eighty degrees, muggy and humid.

I consider rinsing off in the shower, but I don’t really have time. Instead, I pull a black mini dress out of the closet, along with pair of suede boots.

The glint of silver on my chest catches my eye. I pause for a moment in the middle of the room, looking down at my own naked body.

I never removed the piercings.

Maybe I should, because every time I see them, I remember the blinding, burning pain as that psychopath shoved a needle through my nipple.

But it also reminds me that I ran down that fucking mountain, naked and half dead. I survived. In a sense, I stole these silver rings from him, because he thought they’d adorn my corpse.

Shimmying into the dress, I look around for some clean underwear. It’s been two weeks since I hauled my clothes down to the laundromat, and I’m in short supply. Desperate and late, I snatch up the panties off the floor, pulling them on.

“What the fuck,” I mutter, as wetness presses against my pussy lips.

Hooking my thumbs on either side of the briefs, I lower them to knee level.

I examine the crotch of the underwear, trying to figure out if I got my period without noticing. It’s hard to tell on the black material.

Stepping out of the panties, I rub my thumb across the strip of cotton sewn into the crotch. It feels distinctly slippery. Raising my fingers to my face, I smell a faint bleachy scent.

I drop the panties on the floor, heart racing.

I know what cum smells like.

Don’t be ridiculous, I tell myself. You’ve lived in this house for two years. Nobody comes up here.

Three of my roommates are male, but two of them are gay and the third, Peter, is engaged to my other roommate Carrie. He’s the only one of us who’s not an artist, which means he’s the only person who pays his rent on time. He works at Adobe, and he’s so shy and soft-spoken that we’ve probably only spoken twelve words over the last two years.

Of course, the rest of my roommates have friends over constantly. It’s possible some asshole could have come up here and poked around my stuff.

I sweep the room, wondering if I would notice if anything had been moved.

My copy of Dracula is still right next to the bed, open to the same spot as before.

Other than that . . . how the fuck would I know if someone had been in here?

My heart hammers against my sternum, my hands trembling as I set Dracula down once more.

You’re being paranoid. So your underwear was wet. It’s probably just . . . you know, discharge or some shit.

I don’t want to be this person. Jumping at shadows and thinking everybody is out to get me.

I can’t live like this, terrified and paranoid.

I take several deep breaths, trying to slow my racing heart. I look at my new phone, bought with a credit card.

7:14. I’m really fucking late.

Snatching up my purse once more, I leave the underwear on the floor and hurry out of the room commando. No underwear is probably better than dirty underwear anyway.

Josh is irritated it took me so long to arrive.

“I’ve been sitting here twenty minutes with this drink!” he says. “The waitress is pissed.”

Our waitress is leaning up against a pillar, flirting with the busboy.

Josh often transfers his own feelings onto other people. Especially me.

“You like the caprese salad, right?” he says, scanning the menu.

“Not particularly.”

He’s not listening, eager to put the order in as soon as he can catch the server’s eye.

“We’ll have the caprese and the pork belly to start,” he says.

I don’t argue, because Josh will be the one paying for the meal. I’m still a broke bitch.

Relaxing a little, Josh slings his arm across the back of my chair.

He’s 5’10, dark-haired, with a tasteful amount of scruff on his face. He’s got classic Polish features, something I’ve always liked, and he reads and watches an immense amount of documentaries, so we’re never forced to sit in silence.

“How’s Bruno doing?” he asks.

Josh likes animals, probably even more than me. He sometimes joins me at the park when I’m walking the dogs. He takes his shirt off and jogs beside us. Any time it’s socially acceptable to take his shirt off, he will.

“Bruno’s good. I fucking hate his owner, though. Buys him the shittiest food. Keeps him locked in that apartment all day.”

“Big dogs are expensive,” Josh says.

While Josh enjoys attacking people who lack compassion, he occasionally defends just such an individual for no goddamn reason at all, something that never fails to aggravate me.

His hand hangs against my bare arm, his fingertips making erratic contact with the skin. Every time they do, I flinch like an insect has landed on me.

“Then he shouldn’t have gotten a big dog,” I say irritably.

“He already did, though. So . . .” Josh shrugs, as if that’s all there is to say about that.

“Then maybe he should give Bruno to somebody who actually gives a fuck about him,” I say through gritted teeth.

“What, like you?” Josh laughs. “You can barely feed yourself.”

I scoot my chair forward so his arm falls off the back.

“I can feed myself fine,” I say. “Just not caprese salad every day.”

Josh snorts. “I’ve seen your shelf at the house. You’ve got like half a box of Captain Crunch and a can of soup.”

“I love soup,” I inform him.

“Poor people always like soup,” Josh says, grinning at me.

He reaches out to tuck a piece of hair behind my ear. His fingertips graze the rim of my ear, the middle one dipping in toward the canal. I jolt like I’ve been electrocuted.

“Jesus!” Josh says. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Don’t touch my ears, I fucking hate that,” I snarl. “I’ve told you that before.”

“I was touching your hair,” Josh rolls his eyes.

“Just stay away from them,” I snap.

I lean back in my chair, arms crossed protectively over my chest, breathing hard. My heart is racing again.

I know I’m being a spaz. I know I’m overreacting. But I can’t seem to stop.

The waitress drops off the appetizers.

Josh devours the salad.

I eat half the pork belly, which is hot, crisp, and delicious. You can’t beat the food in San Francisco. Unless you want to drive up to wine county, where the farm-to-table food is an hour out of the garden. Josh has taken me to Sonoma when he’s flush with cash from a bougie wedding.

The food calms me down a little, and it seems to improve Josh’s mood too. Or he remembered the reason I might be a little more jumpy than usual.

“Hey,” he says. “Sorry about the ear thing. You have told me that.”

“It’s fine,” I say. “Sorry for snapping at you.”

“Why’s it bug you so much?” he says, spearing another slice of tomato and popping it in his mouth.

I push my plate away, not looking at him. “No reason. They’re just sensitive.”

Josh rests his hand on my bare thigh, giving me a half-smile.

“How about there? Can I touch you there?”

Honestly, even his warm palm against my thigh makes my stomach clench. But I was kind of being a dick before, so I force myself to smile back at him.

“Yeah, that’s fine.”

He slides his hand up a little further under my skirt, smiling wider. “How about there?”

Now my own smile feels rigid on my face, hardening like plaster.

He slides his hand all the way up to my crotch, his fingers grazing my pussy lips.

“Oh, you naughty little whore . . .” he murmurs, under his breath. “You’re not wearing any underwear . . .”

He thinks I did it for him.

I’m in the ridiculous position of wanting to shove his hand away when it appears that this is exactly what I wanted.

Under the cover of the table, he rubs his fingers back and forth across my slit, his middle finger grazing my clit. It feels good like it always feels good to be touched there, even though I don’t really want this. My throat constricts and my face burns. I feel like everyone seated at the tables around us knows what he’s doing, and the waitress knows too. They can all see me blushing.

Josh leans over and murmurs, way too close to my ear, “Maybe we should skip the rest of dinner . . .”

I clamp my legs together, shoving his hand away.

“Actually,” I say, “I’ve got to get back home. I’ve got this project I’m working on. It’s, uh . . . I just have to go.”

I stand up from the table, almost knocking my chair over backward.

Josh is staring at me like I’ve lost my mind. He might be right.

“You’re gonna leave. Right now. In the middle of dinner,” he says.

“Uh, yeah. Sorry,” I say.

I snatch up my purse, throwing it over my shoulder.

“Just . . . here,” I throw down twelve dollars that I can ill afford to spare.

It’s the wrong thing to do. Josh is more offended than if I’d just stuck him with the check.

Too bad— I hurry out of the restaurant, back down Frederick Street, all the way back to my house.

I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me.

This isn’t the first time I’ve been irritated by the way a man touches me—actually, it happens a lot. I have sensory issues, sound and touch affecting me worst. Tonight I’m keyed up ten times worse than usual. I feel like Peter Parker right after he gets bitten by the radioactive spider, when the onrush of super senses almost makes his brain explode.

I can still feel the hot moisture of Josh’s breath in my ear, and the patch on my arm where his fingers tickled me.

I can hear the shrill sound of Frank’s electric toothbrush, and the irritating buzz of the ceiling fan in the living room. Even the irregular clank, clank of its little metal chain swinging against the light.

I clamp my hands over my ears, but it doesn’t block out the sounds.

Breathing hard, I grab my headphones and turn on my music full blast.

Flopping down on my mattress, I try to lay still.

Sweat begins to trickle down between my breasts. This room is fucking stifling; it must be a hundred degrees.

I’m sleeping outside tonight. I have to.

Throwing the glass door open, I drag my mattress out on the tiny porch.

I lay down on my lumpy futon, headphones on my head, arms and legs outstretched.

A light sea breeze dances across my skin. The sky is thick with clouds, piled up in deep drifts of purple, ash, and indigo.

I close my eyes, sinking into the music, finally finding peace.