STAY
WITH ME
A slur of sirens echoed
somewhere in the distance… and this was the first time they ran for
me. Possibly the last, too. I’d be that passing thought people
sometimes get when they catch wind of the sound; when they can
afford to spend a curious moment on what could have happened to set
them off.
It was almost
white noise for me too. Almost. I wish I could have drowned it out
like everyone else; but it held too much power over me. It meant I
was broken.
Really
broken.
It meant that
this was real. That I wasn’t about to wake up in a cold sweat,
heart pounding.
It also meant
someone was coming.
Someone was
actually coming and I was still alive and that was exactly what I’d
prayed for when he pulled me out of his trunk; so I don’t know why
I couldn’t even out my breath or stop shivering even though this
could all be over soon.
…But how
exactly would it end?
What would the
papers say about me and my murderer if the ambulance didn’t reach
me in time? …if they couldn’t drive to the hospital fast enough …if
the doctors couldn’t put me back together once I arrived...?
Would either of
us have a name in the report, or would my memory be reduced to a
trophy clipping stapled to his wall?
I wasn’t ready
to die.
Not like
this.
Would death be
anything like that empty state before we’re born? We all knew what
it was like to not exist.
I wasn’t ready
to be nothing.
I started the
morning wondering trivial things like what it meant about someone’s
sanity if they spoke to their cat and questioning if I’d ever
gather the courage to utter more than my order to the cute guy at
the coffee shop. Completely oblivious that this was likely my last
day.
I’d never been
kissed. I never even came out of the closet—not that people
couldn’t figure it out on their own. I simply hid everything away.
Including myself.
None of that
mattered anymore.
At least it
wouldn’t, soon enough.
“Hold on just a
little longer,” said a voice, calm and soothing like running a
wound under cool water. “Can you hear that? Help is on its
way.”
But he wasn’t
real. No one would’ve wandered to that sketchy area beneath the
bridge where I’d been dragged. Not this late at night. It was the
kind of place you’d expect to get mugged or to find broken bottles
and used needles.
Or a body.
Something did
scare off my attacker, though. The only reason he didn’t stick
around to witness my life snuff out was because of footsteps. His
footsteps.
“One second,”
the young man mumbled, and I was scared that he’d leave just as
fast as he arrived. The zip-tie suddenly snapped free from my
wrists and the duct tape peeled off my mouth instead. “There.
That’s better.”
“Thank you,” I
breathed—maybe whimpered. I don't know how it came out. The air
felt so cold in my throat and lungs. A chill crept through my torn
hoodie and clung to the damp fabric. Maybe I’d freeze to death
before bleeding out.
As if reading
my mind, he tugged off his jacket and draped it over me. Wasn’t he
worried I’d ruin it? But I couldn’t argue; the warmth smelled so
nice with a faint musk. It could only be described as home. Not my
home …but somewhere very pleasant. Somewhere I could curl up and
rest.
“Who did this
to you?”
I recognized
that he asked me something but couldn’t grasp the words, like when
you repeat them over and over until they turn to gibberish. It was
another language.
My life wasn’t
the only one that would change dramatically, all because one person
couldn’t deny his sick impulses. This poor stranger was about to
watch someone die—too kind to let me pass away alone. I knew this
from the way he squeezed my hand. He wasn’t going anywhere.
No. I had to
live so he didn’t have to see it. So my image wouldn’t haunt him. I
didn’t want to play a role in a story saved for psychologists.
“Hey, listen.
What’s your name?”
“Hm?”
“What’s
WITH ME
A slur of sirens echoed
somewhere in the distance… and this was the first time they ran for
me. Possibly the last, too. I’d be that passing thought people
sometimes get when they catch wind of the sound; when they can
afford to spend a curious moment on what could have happened to set
them off.
It was almost
white noise for me too. Almost. I wish I could have drowned it out
like everyone else; but it held too much power over me. It meant I
was broken.
Really
broken.
It meant that
this was real. That I wasn’t about to wake up in a cold sweat,
heart pounding.
It also meant
someone was coming.
Someone was
actually coming and I was still alive and that was exactly what I’d
prayed for when he pulled me out of his trunk; so I don’t know why
I couldn’t even out my breath or stop shivering even though this
could all be over soon.
…But how
exactly would it end?
What would the
papers say about me and my murderer if the ambulance didn’t reach
me in time? …if they couldn’t drive to the hospital fast enough …if
the doctors couldn’t put me back together once I arrived...?
Would either of
us have a name in the report, or would my memory be reduced to a
trophy clipping stapled to his wall?
I wasn’t ready
to die.
Not like
this.
Would death be
anything like that empty state before we’re born? We all knew what
it was like to not exist.
I wasn’t ready
to be nothing.
I started the
morning wondering trivial things like what it meant about someone’s
sanity if they spoke to their cat and questioning if I’d ever
gather the courage to utter more than my order to the cute guy at
the coffee shop. Completely oblivious that this was likely my last
day.
I’d never been
kissed. I never even came out of the closet—not that people
couldn’t figure it out on their own. I simply hid everything away.
Including myself.
None of that
mattered anymore.
At least it
wouldn’t, soon enough.
“Hold on just a
little longer,” said a voice, calm and soothing like running a
wound under cool water. “Can you hear that? Help is on its
way.”
But he wasn’t
real. No one would’ve wandered to that sketchy area beneath the
bridge where I’d been dragged. Not this late at night. It was the
kind of place you’d expect to get mugged or to find broken bottles
and used needles.
Or a body.
Something did
scare off my attacker, though. The only reason he didn’t stick
around to witness my life snuff out was because of footsteps. His
footsteps.
“One second,”
the young man mumbled, and I was scared that he’d leave just as
fast as he arrived. The zip-tie suddenly snapped free from my
wrists and the duct tape peeled off my mouth instead. “There.
That’s better.”
“Thank you,” I
breathed—maybe whimpered. I don't know how it came out. The air
felt so cold in my throat and lungs. A chill crept through my torn
hoodie and clung to the damp fabric. Maybe I’d freeze to death
before bleeding out.
As if reading
my mind, he tugged off his jacket and draped it over me. Wasn’t he
worried I’d ruin it? But I couldn’t argue; the warmth smelled so
nice with a faint musk. It could only be described as home. Not my
home …but somewhere very pleasant. Somewhere I could curl up and
rest.
“Who did this
to you?”
I recognized
that he asked me something but couldn’t grasp the words, like when
you repeat them over and over until they turn to gibberish. It was
another language.
My life wasn’t
the only one that would change dramatically, all because one person
couldn’t deny his sick impulses. This poor stranger was about to
watch someone die—too kind to let me pass away alone. I knew this
from the way he squeezed my hand. He wasn’t going anywhere.
No. I had to
live so he didn’t have to see it. So my image wouldn’t haunt him. I
didn’t want to play a role in a story saved for psychologists.
“Hey, listen.
What’s your name?”
“Hm?”
“What’s
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