The White Pants

“Get down,” he said, holding the knife in front of him, pointing at her.

Did he even know what he was doing? She wondered.

She knew how to deal with situations like this. She was a smart woman. If this same circumstance had been presented to her in, say, a psychology class, she would have handled it expertly, convincing the man that she meant no harm, and that all she wanted was to help him with whatever problem he had. Convincing him, if nothing else, that she could be 'of use' to him - get him a drug fix, or get him out of trouble, or even get him a really good prostitute, on her. If this was a psychology class, she would have talked her way out of it, easily.

She knew the mindset that perpetrated crimes like this. She knew their fears, their reasons, their twisted logic, sometimes even being passed off as morality. She knew people like him. She would probably know him. She would probably know his history, his parents, or the lack of them, his schooling or the lack of it, his friends and girlfriends. Or the lack. She knew need, she knew desperation. Or at least, she would have known.

In psychology class.

Her brain was numb. Somewhere, the motions - what she should be doing in this situation - were going through her head. Very faintly, though. She couldn't hear that voice.

But it was there, and it was getting stronger.

She opened her mouth, as she tried to focus on the voice, to remember what it was trying to say. It got louder. Not clearer though - just louder.

He slapped her, hard, across the face. And the voice was screaming in her head. It was shouting so loud, it was shouting so fast, she couldn't make out what it was saying. She felt the wetness on her lip, through the voice, as she fell on her knees.

She knew what was going to happen, in a dim, disconnected, other-worldly kind of way. She knew she couldn’t hope. She tried fighting it, she tried fighting him, but where was the point?

The knife slashed her, just below the ear, and she wondered if, if it had just been a little higher, she wouldn’t have heard the voice anymore.

Adrenaline should be rushing through her body right now. Fight or flight. She couldn’t fly, obviously. She might have tried to fight.

But there was no adrenaline. What there was, was coldness. And the voice. Just the voice, getting louder. Her body had become numb, as if to protect itself from what it knew was going to happen.

She felt him pull her pants down, in the same other-worldly way. She didn’t want him to. They were new, and white. And white got dirty so easily. She felt her panties come off, and thanked her stars that she was wearing nice panties. Might have been embarrassing otherwise.

Throughout.

Throughout, she heard the painful voice, screaming in her ear, crying out in pain, deafeningly loud, blinding her so she couldn't see through the haze in front of her eyes. She was down on her hands and knees, facing away from the man, but she couldn't feel him, because feeling was numbed. Numbed by the voice in her head. She shut her eyes, trying to block out the sound. It helped a little, but then the world filled up with psychedelic colours.

She opened her eyes slowly, but the psychedelic didn't go away. She almost screamed in terror; was she going blind? She blinked a few times rapidly, and her eyesight came back. Or at least a garbled, tear-stained version of it. But she knew she could see, and was relieved.

That was when the actual physical pain hit her. That was when she felt the rhythmic pain in her - she giggled to herself, thinking of the man - asshole. And she also felt the blade, poking her in the neck like - a fit of maniacal laughter almost escaped her - Facebook. He had poked her!

She felt wet. Blood. She could see it too, dark red - not too dark, she'd always been slightly anaemic. Blood. She could see it in her head. She knew where the blood was flowing from, but she couldn’t feel it. Orange. Dark orange-ish red-maroon.

And she could feel the rhythm. It was like music. Dark music. It felt beautiful, relaxing.

She felt her body moving in rhythm along with him in a dark, sick parody of the real thing. They were partners, working together. Except she bleeding and he - was he bleeding too? Inside? Maybe. She reflected on the deep philosophy of that thought for just a moment before her real self - the real Amy Stoor - came out if the back and reminded her that she was just thinking bullshit and she should really stop trying to make meaning out of every damn. Godamn. Every Godamn random thought. Where was god?

It stopped. She was turned around roughly. She fell on the ground, feeling reality hit her like a hard, concrete road.

And he was standing over her with his knife, consummation in his eyes. And she didn't close her eyes, because she wasn't the kind that needed to escape.

“His hand was shaking slightly,” she told the police later. “I didn't realise it then, but his hand was shaking slightly. He needed a drug fix. So he started digging in his pockets. His knife shook. He found his drug, and went back a few steps to fix himself. I waited until he'd started. While he was inhaling, when his concentration was elsewhere, I ran. I got up, and I ran.'

It had hurt, to get up. And he hadn't pulled her pant off - just low enough. So she had to pull her pant on again, awkwardly, and hold it as best as she could with her hand as she ran. Her white pant. Horribly stained now.

She'd liked the pant. She regretted what had happened to it. And if there was any way that she could have prevented it getting dirty like that, she would have. She wasn't worried about the dirt around the knees - that would wash away. But the stain of the blood would remain. Forever. She apologised to the pant later, before she burnt it - or was it after? Or during? She wouldn't have wanted that to happen to it. It was new too.

Who would have thought running could be so hard?

She'd always remember the shaking hand, although she hadn't noticed it then. It was Jesus, come to save her.