Behemoth Pt. 02

As Jason drives me home from our date, we talk and laugh companionable for ten minutes, and before I know it he's parked in my lot. We're too distant from the correct door though, and I debate on asking him to move the car closer.

Should have told him that before he parked, dummy. It's a little late now. High on the success of the day, I decide to be brave and take my chances with the hundred-foot walk to the entrance. Nothing will happen.

"Thanks for the lift." I try to say it nonchalantly, but just end up sounding awkward.

"No problem. See you in the morning." He hesitates, like there's something else he wants to ask, but decides against it. I don't push. Instead, I open the door and step out next to the car. Shutting it behind me, I wave to him as I begin to walk away, and then promptly fall onto my butt when my foot slips off the curb. My ankle twists beneath me, awkward and painful.

Faster than I would have expected, Jason is out of the car and at my side. I gingerly touch my left ankle--the one without the bracelet, thank God--and pull my fingers back as if burned. Shit that hurts.

"Lu! Are you all right?" I know he means well, but anyone who can see the look on my face and hear the hissing noise that's coming from between my pursed lips knows I'm not.

"It hurts." I spit the words at him, and then regret it. Jason hasn't done anything except be helpful. I shouldn't take this out on him.

"Hang on. Let's take a look." He rolls up my pant leg, and I exhale sharply but don't move. "Oh, it's already getting swollen. You need ice."

"Yep." I don't mean to sound glib, but I do. My manners are in short supply from the throbbing pain that's currently shooting up my left shin. "Can you help me up?"

"Er...of course, but you prob--..." One look at my face and he cuts his train of thought short. I don't look like a woman who ought to be argued with right now.

Realistically, we both know that I need to get off the asphalt and into my apartment. It's impossible to tell if I've broken anything, but sitting her chatting about it won't do much. We need light, and ice, and painkillers.

Like an animal control officer approaching a vicious dog, he puts his hands up in a gesture of non-aggression. I place a palm on the hard muscle of his shoulder and try to lift my butt off the ground. It's not really working. Emboldened by my failure, he puts his arm under my shoulder instead, and attempts to stand up while taking me with him.

It sort of works, and I'm able to use the fender of his car as a crutch once he's got me raised up off the ground. Eventually, we're both upright and breathing hard.

"Thank you." His arm is still under my shoulder and his hand is gently rubbing circles on my back in consolation. I think he's scared of me right now. When this is over, I'll owe him a coffee. But first we need to get me upstairs.

"We've got to get over to that door." I nod in the direction of the main entrance, and it suddenly looks a lot farther away than a hundred feet. "I'm on the fourth floor, and the elevator is through there."

He frowns, but doesn't argue. "No problem. Can you hop?"

My lips turn upward a little bit at the idea of hopping to the entrance. But he's serious, and I know that as undignified as it may look, it's a decent plan. "Yeah, I think so. Can you move your arm a little?"

He pulls his bicep out from where he had it wedged into my armpit and stands upright. Instead, he places his arm around my waist and crooks his wrist at an angle around the front of my hip in order to get a grip on me, rather than gripping my waist with his hand. It's adorable and sweet that he's careful to respect my personal space, even in a situation like this.

"Hop?" I ask, and crinkle my nose.

He nods in agreement. "Hop."

Together we take the first hop towards the door, and then another. It's awkward and slow, but eventually we make it. With a little bit of maneuvering, we get the door open, and before I know it we're in the elevator. By this point all the blood from being upright and getting exercise feels like it's flowing directly to my injury, and the adrenaline of getting into the building begins to wear off.

"Hit floor...four, please." I'm a little bit woozy, but I don't want to look like a wimp. Not after he just manhandled me across the parking lot without complaint.

Unfortunately he isn't fooled. "You okay over there?" He bends his lanky six-foot-something down to my five-foot-something and peers upward into my eyes. "You look a little funny."

Before I can think of an appropriate response, the bell dings and the elevator stops with a lurch. We both sway. When the doors open, I forget I'm not supposed to put my weight on my foot and I cuss when it hurts.

"I don't think I've ever heard you swear before." He looks both amused and concerned.

"Try to save it for special occasions." I grunt to him in between hops. This is getting old, quickly. But we're finally at my door. I dig through the brown leather purse that's hung across my shoulder, and eventually pull out a simple silver keychain. Within a moment, I've got the door unlocked and opened.

He doesn't ask to come in, but in my helpless condition we don't have much of a choice. We hop through the doorway together and I pause for a moment to turn on the entryway lamp. Yellow light floods the length of the hall, and I find myself feeling relieved to be home at last.

"Couch is...this way." Am I really this out of breath from hopping? Miranda always tries to get me to go to the gym with her and I generally find an excuse not to.

Not anymore, slow poke.

I fall gracelessly onto the couch, and he takes a step back to appraise me. "Do you have ice?"

"Yes. Freezer." I don't manage to get any more words out before he turns around and retraces his last few steps. We passed the kitchen on the way in. It's back down the hall, slightly, and on the left.

I watch him turn sharply from the living room into the hallway, and that's when I know something isn't right. The light should be on in the hallway, and it isn't. Why isn't it still on?

I turned it on. I did.

My denial only serves to give him an extra second of time to overtake Jason. A dark shape, too big for the narrow confines of my apartment, comes barreling from the section of hallway that Jason has his back to. How did he get where we just were? That area should be empty. There is no physical way he could have gotten there, other than slipping by while Jason was putting me onto the couch.

That is exactly how he did it. It's frightening that a man with so much size can move with such stealth. What's more frightening is the speed and gusto with which he slams into Jason, knocking him to the floor with a thud that would cause any responsible neighbor to come calling in concern or anger. But my neighbors aren't responsible, or ever concerned about anything. He could knock Jason to the floor five times over, and no one would come to check on me. It's terrifying and dismal, but it's true.

"No!" I scream too late. In the scuffle that follows I can only watch as Jason's head is thrust first into the floor and then into the radiator, again and again. Screaming was instinct when I was surprised, but now terror keeps my tongue mute. My body is frozen to the couch, and my hands are the only part of me that moves as the fight turns into a one-sided altercation, and Jason's body slowly goes limp. They wave and flutter with each hit, in mockery of an orchestra conductor. Only my orchestra is choreographed to highlight the disparity between a man who has the power of life and death in his hands, and a boy whose heart is the strongest weapon available to him.

Life is no fairy tale, and in this performance brute strength is what drives the show. It's impossible to see Jason's face, because the man is completely atop his body, two massive leather boots straddling each side of Jason's skinny blue-jean clad thighs, which stopped moving a long time ago. Ragged, uneven breathing is just barely audible, now that the thumps have stopped, and I find myself thanking God that he's still alive.

Please, please leave him alone. The man atop Jason seems to be waiting to see if he moves again, and I pray for his sake that he doesn't. Satisfied, I watch him thrust a hand into the pocket of his black slacks and pull out a silver pair of handcuffs.

The ones he left on my pillow were still there when I left for work this morning. These must be different. Is he buying them in bulk? The thought comes unbidden to my mind, and I draw in a jerky breath as I realize that my question is wildly inappropriate.

But it's too late. He's heard me, and like an animal unable to escape the predator that it knows is approaching, I grow even more still and silent. My injured ankle is all but forgotten, and I visualize him removing himself from the hallway, if only for a moment, so I can make a run for the front door.

And leave poor Jason behind. But I know I have to do it, if either one of us is going to make it out of here.

Now that the fight is over, I realize with a start that there's a whimpering sound coming from my chest, high-pitched and frenetic. How long have I been doing that? I know I'm not invisible, but the sound makes me obtrusive. In an effort to quiet myself, I pick up a leaden arm and iron my palm flat across the bottom half of my face. The noises contort themselves into the sounds of fitful breathing, and I'm forced to calm down as I focus on pulling in oxygen from my nose rather than my mouth.

Has it been a minute since this entire episode began? Five minutes? I don't know, but time seems insignificant in the scheme of things. We--me, Jason, and him--have all existed here, in this violent living nightmare, for both an eternity and an instance. I'm terrified to say I want it to be over, because I know the end of this bloody encounter is only the beginning of whatever suffering he has planned for me. If he is in his own fucked-up version of heaven and Jason is in an unsanctioned hell, I am in a fragile state of purgatory.

But it shatters as he rises from his knees to his haunches, and puts a colossal hand out in front of him.

I hold back a shriek of protest at the impression that he's going to harm Jason again, but with practiced movements he places his fingers against his neck instead. Checking for a pulse. He removes his hand, seeming satisfied with the result, and I don't know if that bodes well or ill for Jason.

"Is...is he dead?" I don't mean to speak, but it slips out. If he's dead, I have no reason to cooperate. But if he's not...

"No." The single word is spoken, levelly, to the wall ahead of him instead of to me, but the power behind it reverberates down my spine and through my bones. I shiver involuntarily.

Immersed in his task, he grasps Jason's wrist and pulls his entire arm upwards, then clips one of the cuffs around his limp wrist. The other end is cuffed to one of the ancient cast iron foot of the hallway radiator. Not even an able-bodied man would be able to free himself from that, and Jason is far from able right now. But he's not dead, and for that I am grateful.

Gratitude is overtaken by fear as I watch him yank remorselessly on the chain between the cuffs, verifying its strength. With a subtle grace that men his size generally don't possess, he rises and turns to face me in a single swift movement. Shadows obscure his face, but residual light from the living room illuminates his body.

My imagination did no justice to the true proportions of the man who now stands before me. I am astounded by his wide, imposing physique and substantial height. He is the epitome of masculine perfection, from the chiseled collarbones highlighted within the smooth curve of his t-shirt collar, to his thick chest and impossibly lithe torso that flares out suddenly atop bulky, powerful thighs. He is both beauty and death personified. Being seated on the couch only serves to highlight the disparity between us--I am small, weak, and at a physical disadvantage. He is mighty, imposing, and a natural-born predator.

Nothing in the world has ever been more obvious to me: I do not stand a chance against this man.

As if needing to prove it, I make a sudden half-hearted leap over the arm of the sofa in an effort to reach my bedroom. He's on me in a tenth of a second, anticipating my throes of desperation before I even knew they existed. We go down together, skidding across the floor the way a toboggan skids down an icy hill, our bodies bastions of narrowly controlled recklessness that flirt with both exhilaration and fear.

We come to a stop together. I land on my stomach with one arm thrown out in freedom and the other pinned beneath me in captivity. His heavy torso rests upon my legs, momentarily inert from the fall.

Is he dead?

But he writhes, and my hopes are crushed.

Dismayed, I attempt to rise and realize that the wall we hit is just a few feet from the entrance to the bathroom. If I can get in there, I can be safe.

Get up, Lu! Hurry.

Is the voice that urges me to safety my own? I don't have time to consider its origin--my sole concern is survival, but the signals from my brain do nothing to compel my body to act in its own defense. I'm frozen in place, much like he is, and we're in a race against the clock to see who makes their move first.

It's too late. He does. I howl in disappointment at my failing as his victorious hand finds purchase on the clenched muscle of my rear thigh. I make one last desperate attempt to drag myself out from under him, but it's impossible. My leg becomes the anchor for his entire body's weight as he begins to raise himself up on a single arm, an act of both physical necessity and sheer unhindered dominance.

The pressure from his hand becomes a burning agony as he continues to push himself upwards, to his knees. As he rises, he clenches his hand tighter around the soft flesh of my upper thigh to give stability to his own body while simultaneously administering punishment to mine. We've passed the point of no return, and I know now that the bathroom door may as well be a world away, because I will never be able to reach the safety within it.

My cries for him to get off of me slowly turn into hiccups, then sobs, as he methodically pulls his body up and over mine, alternately sliding his knees against the floor for leverage as he works his way along my torso. He stops when his crotch is level with my waist, and drops his weight down abruptly, pinning me mercilessly against the floor. I'm more helpless than I've ever been, and this bondage is more personal than his last visit, because now it's not cold steel that holds me hostage, but the strength and flesh of his own body.

I hiccup again, and the burden of him atop me gives the ricochet of it nowhere to go but down--my chest grinds into the hard floor, and I wail from the indignity and discomfort of my position. The arm beneath me is numb, but I can feel the sharp angle of my wrist bone digging into the tender flesh where belly meets hip. I hiccup again, and it digs harder.

Unmoved by my distress, he languidly angles his body forward and places a single brutish hand flat against the hardwood floor next to my head. The dark hairs on his wrist sway gently as I exhale hard at this new intimacy, my breath the only thing able to escape from the prison of immobility that he has adroitly crafted.

His other hand tangles a fist in my disheveled hair. I wait for the requisite yank of pain, but it never comes.

Is he warning me to behave? I consider his past actions, and decide that he is.

Afraid of accidentally incurring his wrath, I lie still and tightly close my eyes in an ineffectual attempt to block out his existence. It's like trying to deny the existence of the sun or of oxygen--they're too much a part of my own existence for simple denial to be plausible. Even if I could make them disappear, I too would cease to exist because my survival is a single drop of water in the sea that is their own.

He is the sea, and only by remaining in his good graces am I allowed to refrain from drowning in his depths.

"Shhh." The sudden, low timbre of his voice in my ear is both harmonic and captivating; I don't know if I want to embrace its anesthetizing quality, or drown it out with a wail of defiance. But self-preservation overtakes the spark of rebellion that attempts to surface. I respond to his unexpected act of pacification with a meek whimper that is both interrogatory and submissive.

I know my response satisfies him. He eases his weight slightly up off the small of my back. I draw a grateful breath of air.

But he's not done.

"This doesn't need to hurt you." His lips graze my ear intermittently as he speaks, and it is maddening. Like last time, he draws his vowels out, making me wait with anticipation for the next velvety sound to emerge from mouth. The softness of his lips intertwines with the warmth of his breath against my skin and I shiver so hard that a chattering of teeth is my only response to his offering. He acknowledges my difficulty with a deep humming noise in his chest, and I find myself unjustly disappointed that his soothing words have come to an end.

The unwelcome eroticism of this moment is not lost on me, despite my best efforts to reject it. Were he and I in a consensual relationship, the warmth of his voice and the hard angles of his body alone would be enough to convince me to pursue our intimacy farther and faster than I have ever contemplated allowing myself to chase it outside the vows of marriage.

Never in my life has a man effected me on such a physical level, and yet his attraction to me is the worst gift I've ever been given. Like ill-fated Kassandra, I am cursed with the knowledge of tragedy on the horizon--my own, fucked-up tragedy--and his sexual prowess is so bluntly wielded and so natural that I know the most disheartening moment of my life will, for him, be no more than a temporary release; a notch in his bedpost; a short shower and an even shorter memory.

It is unfair, and in my anger I attempt to buck him off, again forgetting that there is only one way this can end for me.

"If you insist." No longer conciliatory, he cuts apart each syllable with surgical precision and lays them out between us as omens of my forthcoming annihilation. The relish in his voice is indisputable.

He wastes no time. The fist in my hair tightens with the explosiveness of seat belt pulling taut in a car wreck, and my neck is bared to him and the cold air that surrounds us.

Tremors overtake my body from the realization that I have fucked up on a massive scale, and his wrath is the inalterable consequence of my failure. For a moment I feel complete acceptance--the fault is mine. You shouldn't have pissed him off, Lu. Maybe, had I been better--worked harder--at giving him what he wanted, this moment could have been avoided.

You are the victim here. He did this to you--no one else. It's hard to forgive myself, much less grant absolution, when my scalp is on fire and my neck is wrenched sideways in agony. I am incapable of looking at anything except for the chipped brown molding of the doorway ahead of me, the one that once gave me hope that if I was strong enough and fast enough and good enough, I might escape his control.

Hollow, derisive laughter forms in my chest, but it sputters out before either of us gets to hear it. Escaping from him, from this, is an impossibility of the highest order. The naiveté that would ever allow such a thought to cross my mind has died a cold and sudden death, like a bird, lost from the flock, that doesn't accept its own demise until it stands half-frozen, alone, in a barren, snow-covered pine. Unexpected disappointments--both my own and the bird's--are both admonishments and punishments against optimism; they highlight our own failings, too late. This is my fault, and forgiving myself for my acts of carelessness would be delusory.