Exile
 
(c) 2003  Anais Ninja  anais_ninja@hotmail.com 
http://www.asstr.org/files/Authors/anais_ninja/index.html 

 
Note:  This is my story.  The names and details have been changed to 
protect the privacy of those involved.  Some of this account has been 
reconstructed from memory, but most of it has been based on a journal I 
kept during these years. 
 
This is a sequel to _Wanderings_, which can be found on my asstr.org site:
http://www.asstr.org/files/Authors/anais_ninja/wander/index.html


 

Chapter Nine - Let it Bleed (Ff Mf teen drugs)



Megan woke me up the next morning.  She had to go to the bathroom and 
she couldn't pull the dresser away from the door by herself.  As I 
crawled out of bed, the pain between my legs returned.  I let Megan out 
of the room and laid down again.  My tits hurt, my cheek hurt, 
everything hurt, and my head was throbbing.  Megan came back into the 
room.

"You'll miss breakfast, Annie," she said, tugging at my arm.  "C'mon."

"Screw breakfast.  I'm going back to sleep," I muttered.  Screw classes, 
too.  I had every intention of staying in bed all day.

"Annie, I don't want to go down there without you," she pleaded.

"Baby, I can't move.  It hurts too much," I replied.  "Go on without me, 
sit with Manny and Billy or stay close to Sister Bernice."  Megan bit 
her lip and nodded, giving me a kiss on the cheek before leaving the 
room.  I lay in bed, watching the snow fall outside, wishing I had 
another Dilaudid for the pain.

I remembered the first time I saw snow, back in Maine, just a few months 
before.  Del and Paco were ecstatic, and so was I.  We'd seen it in 
movies, on television, but nothing could prepare us for the real thing.  
Ramon cursed it, because it meant that he'd have to drive down to the 
docks and sweep the snow from the deck of his boat, but we were 
fascinated with it, making snow angels and building a snowman and 
throwing snowballs at each other, laughing and screaming with joy.  

Later that day we walked over to Julia's house with a couple of snow 
shovels that we found in the garage, clearing off her driveway and the 
walkway to her front door.  She rewarded us with hot chocolate and sat 
us down in front of her fireplace to warm ourselves, telling us the 
story of a huge blizzard she experienced when she was just a little 
girl.

It seemed to snow almost every day in Maine, and when it began to pile 
up and turn to grey slush it didn't seem so very magical anymore.  But 
the wonder of  that first day would stay with me forever.

Staring at the snow relaxed me, calmed me.  I could feel the warmth of 
Megan's body lingering on the sheets.  I rolled over and pulled the 
blanket up to my neck, falling asleep again.

Megan was lying on Father Ken's desk, naked except for the frilly 
ruffled panties that held her ankles together.  Father Ken stood by her 
head, Mr. O'Hare at her feet, both of them holding her down, restraining 
her squirming body.  I was sitting in one of the chairs, an unwilling 
observer.

As is often the case with dreams, I wanted to scream but I couldn't, I 
wanted to run away, but I couldn't, I wanted to close my eyes, but my 
eyelids were made of glass and I couldn't look away.  I sat there, 
paralyzed, as Mr. O'Hare took his thick club of a cock and pressed it 
against Megan's puffy lips, pushing, pushing, pushing his way inside.  
As Megan began to bleed, dark red fluid gushing from her slit, she 
looked at me, her eyes pleading for me to do something, anything.  She 
opened her mouth to say something but Father Ken stuffed it full of 
cock.  Her cheek bulged and she twisted her head back and forth, trying 
to dislodge the invading member.  Then Mr. O'Hare pulled his bloody cock 
out of her ruined cunny and he and Father Ken flipped her over on her 
tummy.  O'Hare pressed his cock against her tush, trying to shove his 
enormous member into her tight little bottom.

That's when Megan screamed.

That's when I woke up.

That's when I heard the screaming.

It was real, not a dream, not a hallucination.  It was real and it was 
coming from the hallway, along with the sound of hard shoes, and 
something being dragged along the floor.  I sat up, swung my legs out of 
the bed, and tried to stand, nearly falling in the process.  I heard a 
door slam, heavy footsteps heading back down the hall, and then the 
screaming stopped.

I was nauseous with pain, staggering down the hall to Megan's room, 
opening the door without knocking.  She was lying on the bed, curled 
into a tight little ball, her arms wrapped around her knees, her face 
wet with tears.  Each step I took sent stabbing pains through my lower 
belly, but I made it to her bed, nearly falling on her, wrapping my arms 
around her curled-up form.

"What happened?" I asked her.  "Megan, baby, tell me what happened?"  
She was crying so hard she couldn't speak, and all I could do was hold 
her, rock her, stroke her hair.  Gradually, she began to calm down, her 
shaking becoming a mere tremble, her tense body relaxing little by 
little.

"Megan, honey.  Tell me."

"He hurt me," she croaked, her voice a toneless rasp.

"Who?  Where?"

"Father Ken.  Down there," she sobbed.

"Let me see, baby.  Let me see where he hurt you."  I gently tugged at 
her legs, trying to uncurl the knot she'd made with her limbs.  Her 
dress had bunched up around her waist.

There was blood on her panties.

"Bastard," I said under my breath.  "I'll kill him."  I took Megan in my 
arms and held her as the sobbing started again, her tears nearly soaking 
through the shoulder of my robe.  I cradled her in my arms, rocking her, 
gently kissing her, wishing that whatever blind idiot god looked over us 
would have mercy on her.  Give me her pain.  Take it away from her and 
give it to me.  I don't care if it kills me, just make her pain go away.

"I did like you said, Annie," she whispered.  "I screamed when he 
touched me.  I screamed and he hit me."

"Baby, oh baby, I'm so sorry," I said, my own tears starting now.  "I'm 
sorry.  I'm so sorry."

"He hurt me, Annie," she said again.  "He put his thing...down there."

"It'll never happen again, angel.  I promise.  I promise."  My mind was 
racing, trying to figure out what to do next.  I felt a warm wetness on 
my leg, under Megan's bottom.  For a second I thought she'd wet herself, 
but it turned out to be more blood.  Her panties were soaked through, 
and even more was oozing out from between her legs.  This wasn't from 
her hymen, she was really bleeding badly.  Something was very wrong.

"Megan, can you walk?" I asked her.  I felt her nod.  "Let's go to my 
room first, then I'm taking you to the hospital.  Come."  I grabbed her 
coat, a nice warm parka with a hood, and took her by the hand, hustling 
her across the hall to my room.  Her dress was also stained with blood, 
but I didn't want her to change, not even her soggy panties.  Better 
that the doctors and nurses should see this, see what a monster Father 
Ken was.

I got dressed quickly, stuffing my journal into the pocket of my coat.  
Trish's number was in there, scribbled on the back of her business card.  
I poked my head out into the hall, making sure the coast was clear, and 
we ran down the stairs as fast as our pain would let us.  It was 
lunchtime already, and I could hear voices in the dining room.  It was a 
clear shot through the front hall and out the door.  There was no one to 
see us go, let alone stop us.

Boston City Hospital was only a few blocks away.  We ran, the snow 
crunching beneath our feet, cars passing us as we stumbled down the 
sidewalk, their tires shushing through the slush, turning it grey in 
their wake.  Megan fell down a couple of times, and the third time she 
didn't get up.

"My ankle," she sobbed.  "Annie, my ankle."  It was then that I noticed 
the trail of blood, one for each pace she'd taken, leading all the way 
back to the shelter.

"Hold on to my neck, baby," I said, my heart pounding, my hands 
trembling.  "I'll carry you there."  She wrapped her arms around me and 
I picked her up, holding her blood-soaked bottom as I staggered towards 
the hospital.  Just one more block and we're there.  Just one more block 
and we're safe.

"It hurts, Annie," Megan sobbed.

"We're almost there, angel.  Hang on.  Try to hang on."  She was small 
for her age, but her body felt heavier with each step.  I heard her 
breathing become labored, shallow.  The color was draining from her 
cheeks.  My hands were slippery with her blood.

Don't let her die.  Oh, please don't let her die.

I somehow found the energy to make the last block, despite the pain, 
despite the exhaustion, staggering up the driveway past a row of parked 
ambulances.  The emergency room's double doors automatically opened, 
that hospital smell hitting me like a slap in the face.

"Help me, she's bleeding!  Somebody, please help me!"  I called out for 
someone, anyone.  A nurse rushed out from behind a long counter and 
called for a doctor, taking Megan from my arms.  As they laid her on a 
gurney I sank to my knees in the middle of the reception area, out of 
breath, my whole body throbbing with each beat of my heart.

I could taste blood in my mouth; I must have bitten my lip while I was 
carrying Megan.  A second nurse knelt next to me, her hands on my back, 
my belly, my breasts.  I squirmed away.

"Relax, honey.  I just need to check you for stab wounds or gunshots."

"I wasn't shot.  I wasn't stabbed," I said.  "Where are you taking her?"

"She's in good hands," the nurse said.  "Don't worry.  Let's just have a 
look at you."  She helped me up from the floor and guided me back, past 
the reception desk, past a door that said "TRAUMA", and into a curtained 
area with an examination table.

"Let's clean off your hands, first," she said, filling a basin with warm 
water.  I looked at them under the cold fluorescent light of the 
cubicle.  My hands were covered with Megan's blood.  The nurse took a 
green cloth, the same color as her tunic and pants, and began to clean 
the blood from my hands and wrists.

"What happened to you?" she asked, dipping the cloth in the bowl.  The 
water began to turn pink.

"He raped her.  That bastard raped her."

"Is she your sister?"

"No."

"Is the person who did this also the one who beat you?"

"Yes."

"Did he rape you, too?"

I hesitated for a second.  I knew that if I said "Yes" a doctor would 
examine me, and he'd find the diaphragm inside me.  I couldn't take it 
out the night before; it hurt too much to try.  But the mere fact that I 
was wearing it might cast doubt on whether I was really raped.  I wasn't 
even sure of it myself.  I would have willingly slept with Father Ken 
that night, but he forced himself on me anyway, beating me up with his 
cock instead of his fists.

"No, he didn't."

The nurse finished cleaning off my hands in silence.  I looked at her ID 
tag.  Serena Hadley.  A pretty name, Serena.  She was short, buxom, a 
round face and coffee-colored skin, her hair set in a myriad tight 
braids, each one with a little multicolored bead at the tip.  They made 
a soft clicking sound when she moved.

"What's his name, honey?  The man who did this."  Her voice was soft, 
but there was an anger lurking beneath.

"Kenton Foley."

"Father Ken Foley?" she asked, flabbergasted.

"Yes, ma'am."  I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a chrome-plated 
paper towel dispenser on the wall.  There was blood on the corner of my 
mouth, but the swelling had subsided.  What made me catch my breath was 
the black ring under my eye, the swelling of my cheek robbing my face of 
its usual symmetry.

"Lie back honey, let me look at your face," she said.  She gently 
examined me, turning my head this way and that, carefully prodding my 
injured cheek.  Then she dumped the pinkish water from the basin and 
filled it again, daubing the blood from my lip with a fresh cloth.

"What's your name, dear?"

"Annie."

"And hers?"

"Megan."

"Her last name?"

I didn't know her last name.  I gave Serena mine.

"Annie, I've got to look at you.  This isn't going to hurt, I promise.  
I just need to look, okay?"  She snapped on a pair of beige latex 
gloves.

I nodded and laid my head back, staring at the fluorescent light fixture 
in the ceiling.  Nurse Hadley lifted my long skirt, stiff with Megan's 
drying blood, and tugged at my panties, pulling them down my thighs.

"You've got some bruising, Annie.  You say he didn't assault you?"

"No, ma'am."  She touched my labia and I flinched, bolting upright.

"Sorry, Annie.  I'll let the doctor finish examining you.  Is there 
someone we can call for you?"

"No, ma'am."  The nurse pulled my panties back up and gently smoothed my 
skirt over my thighs.  She peeled off her latex gloves and tossed them 
into a trash container, returning to the exam table and taking my hand 
in hers.

"Honey, the doctor will be in soon to look at you some more, and we 
might have to take some x-rays of your face, just to rule out a 
fracture.  It's probably just a bruise, but we need to make sure.  Do 
you understand?"

"Yes, ma'am.  I understand."  She squeezed my hand and smiled at me.

"Annie, in cases like this, we're required to notify DYS."

"DYS?"

"Department of Youth Services.  And the police."

"Police?!?  No, you can't..."  I sat up, trying to swing my legs off of 
the table.

"Shhhh...calm down, dearie.  Lie back.  Shhhh..."  She squeezed my hand 
again.  "It's the law, Annie.  We're required by law to notify them."

I laid back down on the table and sighed, wondering what would happen to 
me, to Megan.  Would I ever feel her arms around me again?  Nurse Hadley 
had me roll up my sleeve, and she wrapped a sphygmomanometer around my 
arm, inflating it by pumping the little bulb.  She read the gauge and 
made note of her readings on a chart clipped to an aluminum clipboard.

"Can I see her?"

"I'm afraid you can't, at least not right now.  The doctor's still with 
her."

"Is she going to be okay?"  Serena gave my hand another squeeze.

"She looked like she was in shock from loss of blood.  I'm not sure what 
her condition is right now, but I think you got her here just in time."

"Just in time?"  Just in time for what?

"Stay here, dearie.  I'll see how she's doing.  Be back in a minute.  In 
the meantime, change into this."  She gave me an open-back hospital gown 
and then she padded out of the room, her white sneakers squeaking on the 
tile floor.

I sat up on the table.  My first thought was to leave, to walk out, but 
Serena had been so nice, so comforting.  I managed to get my clothes 
off, and it didn't hurt too much, though I had trouble tying the back of 
the hospital gown.  Megan's blood was all over my clothes, my sweater, 
my skirt.  Del's old coat wasn't too bad, just a couple of streaks of 
blood on the sleeves.

The nurse returned with a young man in green scrubs, stethoscope slung 
over his neck, ID card clipped to his pocket.

"Annie, this is Dr. O'Hare.  He's going to take a look at you."  She 
snapped a plastic band around my wrist.  I looked at it; my name was 
printed in letters made up of tiny black dots.

"Hi, Annie.  Where does it hurt?", he asked, pressing his stethoscope to 
my chest.

"Everywhere."

Nurse Hadley stood by while the doctor examined me, feeling my ankles 
and wrists, my arms and legs, palpating the glands under my chin.  He 
lifted my gown and looked at the bruises on my thighs and labia, and 
then he had me sit up and pull the gown off of my shoulders, carefully 
inspecting my back, my breasts, my belly.

"Serena, I need a tox screen, chem seven, blood gas.  And get a rape 
kit."  She nodded and left the cubicle.

"Father Ken did this to you?" he asked, once she was out of earshot.  I 
nodded.

"I don't believe you.  He's been a friend of my family's for years," he 
said.  "Years.  He'd never do something like this."

I was speechless.  I wanted to tell him it was all true.  I wanted to 
give him my journal.  It was all right there.

Then I read his ID tag again.  "Dr. Fred O'Hare, Jr.".  His father had 
fucked me on Father Ken's desk.

"If you don't tell us who really did this to you and Megan, you're going 
to juvi hall, to jail," he said, turning and leaving the cubicle.

I was about to get up from the exam table and leave when the nurse 
returned, needle, vials, rubber band, and a plastic container in hand.  
She set the last item the counter and wrapped the rubber strip on my 
forearm, making the veins near my elbow appear.  Then she rubbed a spot 
on my arm with an alcohol wipe and jabbed me with the needle, filling a 
glass vial with my blood.

"How is Megan?" I asked her.

"She's up in surgery right now," she said.  "It was close, but she 
should be okay."

I sighed, feeling relieved for the first time that day.

"I heard what he said to you," she continued.  "I believe you."

"You do?"

"Boy came in here last year, right before Christmas, a kid from the 
shelter.  All torn up like Megan," she said.  "Kept saying it was Father 
Ken, Father Ken."

"What happened to him?"

She shook her head, drawing another vial of blood and loosening the 
rubber band, putting a gauze patch over the puncture and fastening it 
with surgical tape.

"Megan," I said.  "I couldn't keep her safe..."

"Annie," Serena said, taking my hand in hers.  "You saved her life.  If 
it had been five more minutes..."

My lower lip quivered as I thought about Megan, how close to death she'd 
been.  Despite what Nurse Hadley said, I still felt responsible.  I was 
the one who told her to scream.  Had that served to inflame Father Ken, 
to stoke his ire?  Had he taken out his rage against me on this helpless 
little girl?  My tears began to flow, and Serena held me against her 
green smock, rubbing my back as I cried, holding my hand, caressing my 
cheek.  Then she tied the back of my gown for me and made me lie down on 
the table.

"I'm going to run these down to the lab.  I'll be back in a few 
minutes," she said, patting my hand.  "Don't worry.  O'Hare can't start 
the rape exam without a female staff member present.  Policy."  She 
squeezed my hand and left with the vials of blood.

I wasn't about to have Dr. O'Hare examine me again, even with a nurse 
present.  My clothes were draped over a chair.  The skirt was a mess.  
There was no way I could wear it.  The sweater was stained with blood, 
too, but I could put it on backwards and wear my coat over it.  A little 
bit of surgical tape on the back of the hospital gown made it look like 
a skirt.  A funny skirt, but a skirt nonetheless.  I put on the coat and 
rolled up the sleeves, hiding the blood stains.

It was just as easy to leave the emergency room as it was to leave the 
shelter.  On my way out the automatic doors that led to the ambulance 
bay, I passed a pair of policemen on their way in.  A minute later I was 
on the corner of Mass. Ave. and Albany Street, dialing Trish's number 
from a pay phone.

There was no answer from Trish's home phone, so I tried the number that 
was printed on the other side, her work number.  She picked it up on the 
third ring.

"Trish, I need your help," I blurted out.  "I'm in trouble."

"Where are you, Annie?"  I gave her the address of the nearest apartment 
building, a brownstone on Mass. Ave.

"Stay there, honey.  I'll be there in five minutes."

I hung up the phone and went over to the apartment building.  There was 
a basement entrance under the stairs, a few feet below street level.  I 
huddled behind a row of battered aluminum garbage cans, the cold wind 
blowing up and under the taped-up hospital gown.  I'd started to shiver 
from the frigid weather when a taxi pulled up to the curb.  The back 
door opened and Trish stepped out, looking around.  I jumped out from my 
hiding place, tripping on the stairs and skinning my knee.  Trish ran 
over and helped me up, sliding into the back seat of the cab after me.

"Annie!  What the fuck happened?"

"I can't...I can't...," I stammered.  The driver turned to look back 
through the scratched plexiglas partition.

"We need to get you to a hospital," she said.

"No, please, no," I said, as tears began to run down my cheeks.  I held 
up my wrist with the plastic identification band Nurse Hadley had given 
me, slipping my finger under it and stretching it until it snapped off, 
landing in Trish's lap.  Trish realized that I had just come from City 
Hospital.  She gave the driver her address and the cab pulled away from 
the curb.

Trish helped me up the stairs to her apartment, holding me under my arm 
as I negotiated each step, step by painful step.  Once inside her place, 
she guided me into her bedroom and made me lie down, still in my coat, 
sweater, and the thin hospital gown.

"Warm up, Annie.  I'll make you some tea," she said, pulling the thick 
quilt over me.  I huddled underneath the blanket, still shivering, still 
crying.  She returned a few minutes later with a steaming mug of 
peppermint tea.  I sat up in her bed, shrugging off Del's old jacket, 
and held the mug in my hand, bringing it up to my nose and inhaling the 
aromatic steam.

"Annie, tell me.  What happened?"

"Father Ken," I said.  She shook her head.  I sipped the hot tea, 
feeling its warmth spread through my body.  The shivers stopped, the 
tears stopped, and I began to tell Trish everything that had happened.  
By the time I finished, the mug was empty.  Trish put her arms out and 
held me, kissing my bruised cheek.

"I need to know about Megan," I said.  "I need to know that she's okay."

"Let me try something," Trish said.  She picked up the phone and dialed 
Information, asking for the direct number to the hospital's pediatric 
intensive care unit, writing it down on a narrow spiral bound notepad.  
Then she called the PICU, clearing her throat while the phone rang on 
the other end.

"Hi, this is Francine DeLeo from DYS.  To whom am I speaking?  Marcie?  
Marcie, my boss needs to know the status of a little girl who was 
brought in earlier...about an hour ago...her name is Megan."  Trish 
turned and winked at me.

"What's her last name?" she whispered, covering the phone's mouthpiece.

"I gave mine.  Mercer," I said, sotto voce.

"Megan Mercer," she said into the phone, using that weird Boston accent, 
the first "r" in "Mercer" sounding like a "w", the last "r" mutating 
into "ah".   Mewsah.  "Yes, that's right...yes, I'll hold."

"She's checking," Trish whispered.

"Oh please, oh please, oh please let her be okay," I whispered.  Trish 
reached out and put her hand on my arm, gently squeezing it.

"She is?  They did?  Great, that's good to hear.  Thanks a bunch, 
Marcie."  Trish hung up the phone and put her arm around me.

"The nurse said she's in stable condition, but she might need surgery 
again.  They're going to wait overnight and monitor her condition 
first."

I let out a deep sigh and closed my eyes, settling back into the bed and 
relaxing for the first time that day.

"Sleep, honey.  Get some sleep and we'll talk later, okay?"  She kissed 
me on the cheek again and began to get out of bed.

"Wait, Trish," I said.  "Here.  It's all in here."  I pulled my journal 
out of the coat pocket and handed it to her.  She opened it and riffled 
through the pages, stopping on one and reading it to herself, her jaw 
dropping as she scanned the page.

"Annie, do you mind if I photocopy this?"

"No, go ahead," I said, rolling over on to my side.  Trish shook her 
head slightly and left the bedroom.  I heard her leave a few minutes 
later, heading for a copy shop a few blocks away.  I looked out the 
window at the dull grey sky.  The snow had stopped.  I fell asleep.


                                  * * *


"Wake up, Annie.  Honey, wake up."  Trish gently shook my shoulder, 
rousing me from my sleep.  The dull grey sky had turned television blue 
as the sun began to set.  "How to you feel?"

"Okay, I guess."  My limbs felt stiff, but the pain between my legs had 
begun to recede.  I sat up in bed and I heard my stomach growl.  
"Hungry."  I hadn't had anything to eat since dinner the day before.

"I've got nothing in the house right now except cereal," she said.  "I 
can have something delivered.  What would you like?  Pizza?  Chinese?"

"Pizza," I said, my voice raspy from thirst.

"Pizza it is," Trish said.  I leaned forward to stretch and Trish 
noticed the bloodstain on the backwards sweater.  "Let me get you 
something to wear, okay?"

"Thanks," I said, pulling off the sweater, my favorite, warmest wool 
sweater, now stained with Megan's blood.  Trish rummaged through her 
dresser and came up with a grey sweatshirt with the word "Georgetown" 
printed across the front.  I pushed the quilt aside and shrugged off the 
hospital gown.

"Annie, wait.  Let me see you," Trish said, seeing the bruises on my 
thighs.  "Can I?" she asked, gently tugging at the waistband of my 
panties.  Her eyes began to tear up as she saw my bruised labia.  There 
was a spot of blood on the crotch of my panties, even though my period 
wasn't due for another two weeks.  She gave me a pair of her panties to 
wear, plain cotton bikini panties that were a little too loose.  I put 
on the sweatshirt and got out of bed, following her into the dining 
area.  While she called for a pizza, I had a bowl of Cheerios, nearly 
finishing it before she hung up the phone.

"Thirty minutes," she said.  I was starting my second bowl of cereal 
when she sat down across from me.  "Annie, there's sort of a problem 
with your journal."

"Problem?"

"There's stuff in there that's going to get you into big trouble.  The 
drugs, Billy, Chris..."

"What about Billy and Chris?"

"Well, it's possible that if we show this to the police, you might be 
charged with contributing to the delinquency of a minor."

"But I'm a minor."

"I know, but it doesn't matter.  They were younger than you.  Manny?  
Not a problem.  He was your age, right?"

"Right."

"It's not like it's a federal case, but you might end up in juvenile 
hall until you're eighteen," Trish said, her face taking on a grave 
mien.

"What if we don't show them that part?"

"Won't matter.  Defense will want to see the whole thing.  Something 
called 'exculpatory evidence'."

"What about my bruises?" I asked.

"It would have been better if you stayed at the hospital, let them check 
you out."

"I couldn't," I said, explaining the link between the doctor and his 
father, Mr. O'Hare.

"Fred O'Hare?  Big guy?  Grey hair?  Fiftysomething?" she asked.  I 
nodded.  "Shit.  He's the district attorney."

"That's bad?"

"That's bad," she said.

"What do we do now?"

"Let's eat first.  I'll think of something."  Trish went over to the 
kitchen counter and reached into a cabinet, pulling out a bottle of red 
wine.  She opened it and rinsed out two glasses, pouring one for me.  It 
was a weird combination, cereal, milk, and wine.

We sat quietly at the table until the intercom sounded.  Trish buzzed 
the delivery person up and got some money from her purse.  The pizza 
smelled wonderful, garlicky and cheesy.  Despite having had two bowls of 
cereal, I wolfed down four big slices, washing them down with a second 
glass of wine.  Afterwards, Trish wrapped up the two remaining slices 
and put them in the freezer.

"Could I take a bath, please?" I asked.

"Sure, honey.  Stay here and I'll start the tub and get you some 
towels," Trish said.  She poured me a third glass of wine and 
disappeared into the bathroom.  I heard the sound of running water, and 
between that and the wine, I needed to pee.  Picking up my glass of 
wine, I walked into the bathroom.  While Trish went to get fresh towels, 
I pulled down my panties and sat down on the toilet.  Then I remembered 
that I was still wearing my diaphragm.  Before I emptied my bladder, I 
reached inside my sore little pussy to remove it.  The stabbing pain 
returned as I fished it out.  There were streaks of blood on the latex, 
and I nearly passed out.  I was sitting on the toilet, my head between 
my legs, the bloody latex disk sitting in the sink, when Trish returned 
with fresh linen.

"Annie?  Annie?"  She dropped the towels on the floor and stroked my 
hair.

"It hurts," I murmured.  "It hurts."

"Baby, let me get you something," she said, straightening up and opening 
her medicine cabinet.  As she looked through an assortment of orange 
plastic vials, I let go of my bladder, voiding into the toilet.  I felt 
a burning down there.

"Here, I've got some Percodan left over from when I broke my wrist 
skiing," she said, tapping a pill out into her palm.  "No more wine for 
you, though."

Trish fetched a glass of ice water and returned as I was taking off the 
sweatshirt she gave me.  After I swallowed the pill, she unhooked my 
bra, clucking her tongue at the bruises on my breasts.  She helped me 
into the bathtub and knelt next to it, gently washing me with a soapy 
cloth, trying to avoid the bruises on my body.

"What a piece of work that guy is.  What a piece of work," she said, 
rinsing me off with her hands.

"He was nice to me.  Sweet.  Until last night," I said.

"He pimped you out to other priests.  That's sick," she muttered.

There was nothing I could say to that.  I leaned back in the tub, 
submerging my body in the warm, soapy water up to my neck.  Trish sat 
next to the tub, lost in thought.

"Annie, we're going to pretend that your journal doesn't exist, okay?  
I'm going to take my copy to the office tomorrow and shred it.  No one 
will ever know, okay?"

"Okay.  What about the original?"  I didn't want to just destroy it.  It 
had been my faithful companion for the last few weeks, my patient 
listener, hearing my confession.  My heart was in there.

"We'll figure something out, like stashing it somewhere.  A bus station 
locker or something, or maybe you can get a post office box and mail it 
to yourself."  I didn't like the idea of going to the bus station again, 
but the post office box sounded like a good idea.

"Okay, but what are we going to do about Father Ken?  Or the police?"

"I've got an idea," she said.  "Finish up your bath and we'll talk about 
it later."  She left me in the bath, the warm water soothing my aches 
and pains.  After a little while, I got out and dried myself off.  The 
Percodan had done its magic, and I felt better than I had all day.  Even 
my skinned knee had stopped throbbing.  I washed off my diaphragm in the 
sink.  Not knowing what to do with it -- the case was still on my 
dresser back in the shelter -- I left it to dry on the bathroom sink.

Trish was sitting on her living room couch.  On the coffee table in 
front of her was a glass of wine for herself, a steaming mug of tea for 
me, my journal, her notepad, and a small black tape recorder, the kind 
that takes those tiny cassettes.  I sat down next to her and took a sip 
of tea.

"Annie, I want you to tell me your story.  Start at the beginning, 
before Father Ken took you in.  Don't tell me anything about drugs, 
except for what Foley gave you.  Don't tell me about any boys younger 
than you.  You can talk about comforting Chris, but not about that night 
on your floor, okay?"

"Okay, I guess."  I regretted letting Chris fuck me that one time, 
partially because of his vulnerable emotional state, partially because I 
was out of control when we did it, wasted on coke and pills.  Now I 
regretted it even more.

"I need to tell you about ground rules.  You're a confidential source.  
I can't and won't reveal your name to anyone, not my editor, not his 
boss, not the police, not even to a judge.  I'll even disobey a court 
order and go to jail for contempt before I give up your name," Trish 
said, her notebook in her lap, pen poised and ready.  "Do you 
understand?"

"I do."  I didn't really, but it sounded like Trish was going out on a 
limb for me, and I didn't want to disappoint her.

"Now, there's something called 'off-the-record'.  When you want to tell 
me something that might get you in trouble but is necessary for me to 
follow your story, say 'off-the-record', okay?"

"Okay."

"The tape will be paused, and I won't write it down or use it."

"Use it for what?"  Trish took a big sip of her wine.

"I need to write this.  I need to tell your story.  This is big, this is 
huge," she said.

"I don't know about this," I said.  "I don't know."

"Annie, I know you don't want to go to the police.  You have your 
reasons and I respect that.  But we need to do something.  They won't 
shut down the shelter on the basis of an anonymous phone call.  We need 
something bigger."

"I don't know," I said again.  Trish put down her notepad and pen.

"Look, it's your call, Annie.  If you don't want to, we don't have to."

I thought about that for a minute.  I thought about Billy and Manny, 
wondering if Father Ken would take out his anger on them in my absence.  
I thought about Chris, seeing the tears that ran down his face when that 
priest shoved his prick in the boy's bottom.

"Start the tape," I said, feeling an icy ball form in my stomach.  I 
didn't know where this would lead, but I had to do something.  Anything.

It took almost three hours to get it all out, with about a dozen pauses 
as I choked up and cried, unable to speak.  At the end, when I was 
recounting the events of that morning, I became nauseous and barely made 
it to the bathroom before I lost my dinner.  Trish knelt next to me, 
holding my hair while I puked, stroking my back, pressing a cold, wet 
washcloth to my forehead.  She helped me into her bed and brought me a 
cup of chamomile tea to settle my stomach.

"Brave girl," she cooed, her arms around me.  I lay my head on her 
shoulder while she rocked me, caressed me, comforting me just as I had 
comforted Megan.  "Such a brave girl you are, Anne."

We slept together in her bed.  I had wanted this since the day we met, 
only now I wished the circumstances were different.  There was something 
in Trish's demeanor that was different from that day we met at the 
boutique.  She was more like a mother to me than a lover now, and I had 
the feeling that it would have been a breach of her ethics for us to 
make love.

And I did want to make love to her.  I wanted to escape into pleasure, 
to lose myself between her thighs, to feel a lover's caress instead of a 
mother's.  As I closed my eyes, I could tell she was looking at me, 
watching me, worried about my condition.  The bruising looked even worse 
now, but the swelling in my cheek and lip had all but disappeared.


                                  * * *


She was gone when I woke up, a handwritten note on the pillow instead of 
her head.  It said that she had gone into her office, to shred the copy 
of my journal, to have the tape and her notes transcribed, and to meet 
with her editor.  She left a couple of numbers where she could be 
reached, and promised to be home before dinner.  There was a $20 bill if 
I wanted to order pizza, along with the number of the place that had 
delivered the pie the night before.

I stretched and got out of bed.  After a bowl of cereal, I turned on the 
television for company, but there wasn't anything on that was worth 
watching.  I took a shower and brushed my teeth, using my finger because 
she didn't have a spare toothbrush handy.  My diaphragm was still on the 
sink; I wrapped it in tissue paper and slipped it in the pocket of my 
coat.

I sat around her living room that morning, bored and restless.  Manny 
and Billy were on my mind, what they were doing right now, whether they 
were safe.  It was Saturday, chore day.  I wondered who was doing the 
laundry; that had been my task the last two weekends.

I ended up passing the time by writing in my journal, basically 
repeating some of what I had told Trish the night before.  By the time I 
finished I was hungry again.  The night before I'd thrown up recalling 
the same series of events.  Now I was famished.  I must be healing.

I didn't feel like pizza again, but I remembered seeing a sandwich shop 
around the corner, and I had a craving for a hamburger or a sub.  I 
rummaged through Trish's dresser, looking for a skirt or pants that 
would fit me, ending up with a pair of drawstring pants that matched the 
Georgetown sweatshirt.  I threw on my coat and grabbed the money she'd 
left me.

Trish hadn't left keys for me, expecting that I would stay in her 
apartment all day, but there was a spare set hanging from a hook on the 
side of her refrigerator.  I tested them in the front door, making sure 
they were the right keys, and then I locked up her place and headed 
downstairs.  There was a locked door leading out of the lobby, but I had 
a key for that one, too.

The burger was greasy but good, as were the fries.  I got a can of soda 
to go, and began to head back to Trish's place.  The weather had turned 
and it was nice outside, unusually warm for a winter day in Boston.  The 
sun was shining, the snow was melting, forming slushy puddles at every 
corner.  I decided to take a walk instead of heading straight back to 
the apartment.  The pain between my legs had diminished, just a dull 
ache now, and because I had spent most of the previous day sitting or 
lying down, I felt especially restless, with energy to burn.

I didn't mean to go back to the shelter.  I just sort of ended up there, 
like I was led back to the place by an unseen hand.  Sitting on the 
stoop of a brownstone across the street, I finished my soda and watched 
the shelter, hoping to catch a glimpse of Manny or Billy or someone.

Something was different, though.  Something was wrong.  I sat there for 
a half hour and no one entered or left.  It was after lunch, and I 
expected to see one of the boys sweeping the steps or polishing the 
glass of the front doors, typical Saturday chores.

"Something's wrong," I said to myself.  I tossed the empty can of soda 
into a trash can and crossed the street.  My fear began to rise in my 
throat, but I choked it back and mounted the shelter's steps, opening 
the door, stopping in the middle of the front hall.  It was dead silent.  
Nothing.  No one.

I walked through the dining room, into the kitchen.  There were dirty 
dishes in the sink, syrup and bits of waffles, breakfast.  The stove was 
cold; lunch hadn't been served and there was no one starting dinner.  I 
went upstairs.  All of the rooms were open, clothes and personal effects 
strewn everywhere, as if someone had been looking for something.  
Billy's room was open, his comic books were scattered around the floor, 
an empty knapsack sat on the bed.  Manny's room was open, too.  His 
baseball and mitt were on the floor along with all of his clothes, his 
mattress had been ripped open with something sharp, and the stuffing was 
everywhere.

My room had been given special treatment.  The bed had been overturned 
and the dresser was toppled on its side.  I felt around the inside 
corner of the boxspring, my hiding place.  The bag of pot was gone, as 
was my money, but my vibrator remained, sitting on the windowsill, like 
a middle finger raised at the world outside.

I went back to Billy's room and grabbed the empty backpack.  Before I 
left, I picked up one of his t-shirts and held it to my nose, inhaling 
his familiar scent.  Stuffing it into the bag, I stopped off at Manny's 
room, too, and while I was deciding whether to take his ball or his 
glove, items I hoped to return to him someday, I noticed something 
sticking out from behind the radiator, something dark, made of wood, 
with the glimmer of brass.  I reached behind the radiator and pulled it 
out, Manny's folding knife.  I slipped it into the bag instead of the 
ball or the baseball glove, stuffing one of his sweaters in as well.

Back in my room, I packed my clothes, everything except the frilly 
things Mr. O'Hare had bought for me, stuffing it all in Billy's pack.  I 
found my diaphragm case, along with the spermicidal jelly, and I even 
found my bag of pot, pressed flat against the floor by the mattress.  
Still no money, though.  Right before I left, I grabbed the little 
vibrator and put it in my pocket, not so much that I needed it, but I 
didn't feel right leaving something so personal behind.

One last stop before I left the empty shelter: Megan's room, which had 
also been Chris's.  Unlike the rest of the bedrooms, hers was 
undisturbed, her valise sitting on the floor where she'd left it.  There 
were still blood stains, on the bed, on the floor.  I stood and looked 
at the bed where I'd held her, rocked her, kissed away her tears, 
feeling my own eyes welling up.  I had nothing to dry them with, so I 
used one of her little pairs of cotton  panties.  Unlike Billy's t-
shirt, it was fresh from the laundry, it didn't bear her scent.  I 
daubed my eyes with it and stuffed it into the pocket of my coat, 
wanting something tangible to remember her, something that wasn't a 
blood stain on a sweater.

Then I did something I hadn't done since I was six years old.  I prayed.  
I knelt by Megan's bed, right by the big brownish stain of dried blood 
and I prayed for her safety, for her health.  Not to God, but to Julia, 
my guardian angel.

"Please, Julia.  I know you're with me, I know you can hear me.  I'll be 
okay.  I'll be fine.  Watch over Megan instead.  I love you, Julia, and 
I know that you loved me, and I know that you can love her.  Please, 
Julia.  She's still a little girl.  She needs your help.  Please, please 
keep her safe, help her get well, stay with her.  She'll be scared, so 
scared, and she needs you more than I do.  Please, Julia.  Please."

"Amen."  I turned, startled by the sound of another person's voice.  It 
was Sister Katherine, standing in the doorway, a string of rosary beads 
in her hand.

"God will hear your prayer, Anne," she said, coming over to me, kneeling 
next to me, her arm around me, her soft cheek against mine.  We held 
each other for a few minutes and then we got up.

"You've got to go, Anne.  They're coming back to shut the shelter down 
for good," she said.

"Who is?  What happened?  Where did everyone go?"

"Come, I'll tell you on the way downstairs," she said, leading me by the 
hand, out of Megan's room.

"They came right after breakfast.  Two of them went straight to Ken's 
office and led him out to the car," she said in a hushed tone.  "Ken", 
not "Father Ken".  Just "Ken".

"Who?  Who came for him?"

"The Cardinal's driver and the others, his bodyguards.  He's had them 
ever since that psycho tried to kill Pope Paul, that trip to Manila, ten 
or eleven years ago."  She stopped in the middle of the stairs, fear 
visible in her eyes.  "They're all ex-cops, ex-FBI.  The rest of them 
got the boys together and marched them into a bus they had waiting.  
They were allowed to take one change of clothes, and that's it.  Nothing 
else, not even pictures of their families.  They were so scared, Anne."

"Where did they go?"

"I don't know.  Maybe out to the Residence in Brighton, maybe even to 
Fall River.  The Cardinal spent twenty years there as a priest."  She 
continued down the stairs.  I followed her, listening to her frazzled 
account.

"One of them told me to stay in the kitchen, and then they tore the 
place apart, looking for what?  I don't know.  They had guns, Anne.  I 
saw one of them when he took off his jacket.  They were looking for 
something.  I don't know.  I don't know what.  I just don't know."  
Sister Katherine's voice trailed off.  She had nothing more to say.

We stood in the front hall together, holding hands, listening to the 
silence.

"Come with me," I said.  "I know a safe place."  Trish had a couch, big 
enough for Katie to sleep on.  And maybe Sister Katherine could tell her 
story, maybe she could confirm mine.  I had no illusion over what would 
happen if I had to testify against Father Ken in court.  It would be my 
word against his, absent any other corroborating testimony.  The word of 
a fourteen-year-old girl of dubious morals against a man of the cloth.  
Not a chance in Hell they'd believe me.

"Come," I said again.

"No, Anne.  I can't," she said.  "They're coming back for me, and I will 
go with them."

"But they might...you might...," I couldn't even think it, let alone say 
it.  They had guns.

"I know, Anne.  I know," she said, suddenly calm.  "And I deserve it.  I 
committed the sin of lust, Anne.  I deserve whatever I get."

"Sister..."

"Go, Anne."

"Please..."

Sister Katherine pressed her rosary beads into my palm, covering my 
hands with her own, her eyes misting up, her lower lip trembling.

"Take these, Anne.  I know you don't pray to God, but you have faith.  
You have true faith, Anne.  God will always look over you."  A single 
tear rolled down her pale cheek.

"Katie," I whispered.  "I love you."

"I love you, too, Anne.  Now please go.  Before it's too late."

I kissed her on the lips, a gentle kiss, a tender kiss, and then she 
turned around and walked down the hall, towards her room, towards her 
fate, to pray while she waited for them to return.  I watched her fade 
into the darkness, and then I left.  Hefting the overstuffed backpack 
over my shoulder, I headed back towards Trish's place.  I held Sister 
Katherine's rosary in my hand, fingering the smooth white beads, ten 
beads, then one, then ten beads, then one.  Five hundred and fifty one 
beads later I was back at Trish's apartment, letting myself back in with 
her spare keys.

While her words were still fresh in my mind, I took out my journal and 
wrote down everything Sister Katherine had told me.  By the time I 
finished, the sun was setting.  I settled down on the couch and watched 
figure skating on television, distracted, preoccupied with thoughts of 
Billy, Manny, Megan, Sister Katherine, waiting for Trish to return from 
the Herald.

I must have dozed off, because it was dark when the telephone woke me.  
The network news was on, so it must have been dinnertime.  Trish still 
wasn't back yet.  I got up from the couch, rubbing the sleep from my 
eyes, and picked up the phone in the kitchen on the sixth ring.

"Thank God you're there," Trish said.  She must have been at a pay 
phone; I could hear tires on wet pavement in the background, the "dink 
dink" sound of a car pulling into a gas station.  "Listen carefully.  I 
don't have time to explain.  Just do what I tell you."  There was an 
anxious edge to her voice, an urgency.

"Trish!  Where are...?"

"Listen!  There's no time!  You have to get out.  You have to go.  
They're coming for you."  Trish sounded as if she was on the verge of 
tears, trying hard to keep her composure, to stay cool.

"Who?  Who's coming?"

"They had me locked in a room for hours.  They made me tell them where 
you are.  You only have a couple of minutes.  Go.  Get out.  Now."

"What about you?  Can I meet you somewhere?"

"They're watching me, Anne.  I can't see you.  You have to go," she 
said, sobbing on the other end of the line.  "There's money in the top 
drawer of my dresser.  Take it.  Take it and get out.  I gotta go..."

"Trish!  Wait!  Trish!"  She'd already hung up the phone.  It clicked 
again and then there was just a dial tone.

I didn't even hang it up.  I let it dangle from the wall unit and went 
into her bedroom, where my bag and coat had been parked.  I didn't even 
have to pack.  Rummaging through the top drawer of her dresser, I found 
the money she'd mentioned.  It was her underwear drawer, bras and 
panties and pantyhose, the smell of potpourri wafting up from a sachet 
at the bottom.  It smelled like Mrs. Pomerantz's lingerie shop.

Only $30.  I had a strange thought: more than enough for a bus ticket 
back to Maine.  Mr. Hubbard would make me suck his smelly cock, even 
fuck me.  Maybe I could get money out of him to do it.  If a priest 
would pay for my pussy, why wouldn't he?

No.  No way.  I stuffed the cash into my jacket and grabbed the 
knapsack, dashing out the door and not even bothering to lock it.  I ran 
down the hall and reached the top of the stairs when I heard a loud 
banging coming from the lobby.  Someone was kicking the front door.  
There was a splintering sound, wood giving way to shoe leather, and 
heavy footsteps, in the hall, on the stairs.

I dashed up the steps to the third floor just as the footsteps hit the 
second.  There was another flight of stairs; these went to the roof.  I 
quickly ran up them, coming to a stop at a locked door.  The ceiling  
light bulb had burned out, and I cowered against the door in total 
darkness, listening to the sound of Trish's door opening.  A few minutes 
later it slammed shut.

There were more footsteps, coming up from the second floor.

"You check the basement, I'll look up here."  Someone in a pair of heavy 
shoes descended the stairs, while his partner came closer.

I heard a click, and a dim beam of light began to probe the darkness.  
The beam traveled along the wall of the staircase, coming closer.  I 
huddled against the door, into the corner, into the shadows, holding my 
breath.  If it hits me, I'm dead.  If it misses, I live.

It missed.

The yellow flashlight beam flicked off, and I heard the sound of 
footsteps descending the stairs.  I took a deep breath as soon as they 
were out of earshot.  A pair of voices filtered up from the lobby, 
followed by the sound of the broken door banging shut.  I jammed my hand 
in my pocket and counted the rosary beads.  Six hundred and fifty three 
beads later, I emerged from the darkness and descended the stairs.

Were they waiting out front?  Did they think I might come back to the 
apartment?  I couldn't take the chance.  I went downstairs from the 
lobby, down to the basement.  There was a familiar smell, the odor of 
heating oil.  I recognized it from the house in Maine, that dripping 
tank in the corner of the cellar.  At the end of a dimly lit passage, 
between padlocked wooden storage stalls, there was a steel door.  I 
opened it slowly, peering through the crack, then around the edge.  No 
one.  Just silent green dumpsters.  I slipped through the door and ran 
down the slushy alley, down to the next street over, Blackwood Street.

I stopped running when I hit the sidewalk.  Whoever it was that was 
looking for me didn't know what I looked like.  Sure, they had a 
description, and maybe they had some idea of what clothes I was wearing 
when I left the hospital, but I was wearing Trish's sweatshirt and 
sweatpants, and the backpack slung over my shoulder obscured the Miami 
Dolphins logo on the back of Del's jacket.  I straightened up and headed 
towards Mass. Ave.

There was only one place I could think of, one place that they wouldn't 
find me, the abandoned building around the corner from the shelter.  In 
the nook under the stairs was a gap in the boards that I might be able 
to squeeze through.  Even if I couldn't, the nook was enclosed, a place 
to hide, a place where I could figure out what to do, to take stock of 
my situation.

The gap was just big enough.  I passed my backpack through the hole in 
the boarded-up doorway and just made it through, getting a splinter in 
my leg in the process.  It was dark, pitch black, but I had a pack of 
matches.  I lit one, hearing something scurry in the darkness.  I didn't 
want to know what it was.  There was a rotting staircase, half the 
wooden steps gone.  It creaked beneath me as I gingerly transferred my 
weight from one foot to the other, keeping a firm grip on the railing.

There were lights on the first floor, utility lights, low wattage bulbs 
strung around the walls, bare except for a wire cage on each fixture.  
It looked as if someone had started to work on the building, boxes of 
nails, sheetrock, and lumber piled up in the hallway.  The old walls, 
cracked and peeling paint on plaster, were broken through in various 
places.

Like Trish's building, there were two apartments on each floor.  Only 
the first floor was lit, so I didn't go upstairs.  One apartment was 
filled almost to the ceiling with black plastic garbage bags.  The floor 
creaked beneath my feet, and I saw a dark shape scurry from under the 
bags.  The other apartment had been cleared out, half the walls dressed 
in new wallboard, the others stripped of plaster and lath, just beams, 
pipes, and wires.  There were still dirty dishes in the sink, as if the 
previous residents had no time to wash them before they were evicted.  I 
though about the shelter, how I'd seen the same thing, breakfast dishes 
undone, no one to do them.

I turned on the faucet.  It coughed to life, brown water followed by 
clear, cold water.  No heat, no gas on the stove, no hot water.  In what 
might have been a living room, there was a bare mattress, a brown stain 
in the middle, a black smear on the floor, the remains of a candle.  
Someone had lived here, squatted here.  Were they coming back?  The 
mattress had a coating of plaster dust.  So did the floor, and only my 
footprints were visible.  I flipped the mattress over.  There was an 
even larger stain on that side.

I was tired.  I didn't care.  I dropped my bag and sat on the mattress, 
holding my head in my hands.  I was hungry.  I was cold.  I was lonely.  
I was scared.  Scared for me, scared for Trish, scared for Sister 
Katherine.  Scared for Manny and Billy and Megan, and I knew that they 
were scared, too.

I wanted a pill or a drink more than anything else, even food.  I was 
hungry, too, but I wanted to get high, low, sideways, anything but what 
I was feeling.  I had my bag of pot, stuffed into the bottom of my bag, 
but nothing to smoke it in.  Then I remembered my tampons, recalling 
something Manny had said when he saw them on my dresser one night.  
Rummaging through my pack, I pulled out the pot and a tampon, carefully 
peeling the wrapper from the latter.  I cleaned the seeds from a pinch 
of weed, sprinkling the pot along the length of the paper.  I twisted it 
into a tube and licked it.  Not too much, just enough to make it adhere 
to itself.  I shook it until it dried and then lit it with a match.  It 
crackled from seeds I hadn't caught, and it tasted pretty bad, but that 
didn't matter.  I lay on my side on the filthy mattress and got stoned, 
Manny's knife by my side.  It made it easier to fall asleep.


                                  * * *


The rats woke me up the next morning.  As the sun came up, they began to 
retreat to the darkness from their foraging grounds.  One must have run 
across me.  I could still feel its feet running across my breasts as I 
sat up, knife in hand, frozen in fear.  I heard skittering, the sound 
retreating, leaving me alone with my pounding heart.

I was freezing, even though I'd taken most of my clothes out of my 
backpack and used them in lieu of a blanket and pillow.  I huddled in my 
coat, shivering, the zipper pulled up over my nose, trying to warm 
myself with my breath.  Reaching into the almost-empty pack, I pulled on 
two pairs of tights and put my jeans on over them.

I was hungry, too.  I'd skipped dinner in my haste to leave Trish's 
place.  There was a 24-hour store a few blocks away.  I packed my 
knapsack, intending to take my stuff with me rather than leave it 
behind.  It was pretty heavy, even with both straps around my shoulders, 
but lugging it was better than losing everything I had in the world.  I 
pushed it through the gap in the boards and followed it, emerging from 
the building into the pink light of dawn.  There was a cold bite in the 
air; today wasn't going to be nearly as warm as the day before.

I bought a couple of sandwiches, cold cuts on rolls with soggy lettuce, 
a couple of cans of soda, and a pack of rolling papers, so I wouldn't 
have to use a tampon wrapper.  The sandwiches were pretty expensive, a 
couple of bucks more than freshly made food from a sandwich shop, but 
this was the only place open at this early hour and I was too hungry to 
care.  The cashier rang up my meal and gave me back a dollar in change 
from a $10 bill.  Before I left I tried calling Trish from the store's 
pay phone, but there was no answer.  I thought about trying to call the 
hospital, using Trish's little ploy to check on Megan's condition, but I 
wouldn't have been able to pull it off.  I sounded too young.

Back in the derelict brownstone, I sat on the mattress and wolfed down 
one sandwich and half of the other, stashing the leftover half in my bag 
so the rats wouldn't get to it.  Eating so fast on an empty stomach made 
me sort of queasy, so I rolled a joint and smoked half of it.

The sun was up now.  I had nowhere to go, nothing to do but hide, stay 
out of sight.  The shelter was just around the block, but I still felt 
like this was the safest place I could find, short of taking a bus out 
of town.  I thought about Portland again, just for a second before 
dismissing the thought.  Given a choice of sleeping with rats and 
sleeping with Mr. Hubbard, the rodent option still came out ahead.

And so I spent the day on the stained mattress, wrapped in Del's old 
coat and two sweaters, mine and Manny's.  I was numb, from the cold, 
from the events of the last 48 hours.  I read my journal for a while, 
leafing back through the past few weeks, and then I wrote a couple of 
pages.  Afterwards, I finished off the second sandwich and the last 
soda.

Both of the bathrooms on this floor were gutted.  No fixtures, just a 
hole in the floor.  I briefly thought about using the sink, but I 
squatted over the hole in the other apartment, the one with all the 
garbage, and emptied my bladder.

Between the cold, the rats, the brown water that ran from the faucet, 
and the demolished bathroom, I was motivated to find somewhere else to 
stay, even just for a night.  There was a homeless shelter near 
Michael's loft, but they wouldn't take in someone my age; DYS would have 
been there as soon as they called.  There might be another abandoned 
building I break into, but as bad as this place was, it had lights and 
running water, and the gap in the boards downstairs was just big enough 
for me to squeeze through.  Someone bigger wouldn't be able to make it.

I decided to stay as long as I could.  Those men who were looking for me 
would eventually give up, or so I hoped.  I spent the rest of the day on 
the mattress, hugging my knees and rocking back and forth to keep warm.

The sun was setting when I began to get hungry again.  Despite the 
inflated price of their sandwiches, I went back to the convenience 
store, buying just one sandwich and a soda this time.  The sandwich 
looked fresher than the ones I'd bought earlier, and as I walked back to 
my hideaway, my stomach growled with anticipation.

I was about to turn the corner near the brownstone when a taxi pulled up 
to the curb.  The window whizzed down and the driver called out.

"Hey!" he said.  I turned to look, wondering if I knew him.  Maybe he 
was the guy who took Trish and I back to her place the day before.  I 
walked over and leaned through the window.  He didn't look familiar.

"You cold?" he asked.  "C'mon in."  He had a cup of coffee in his lap, 
from the store where I bought my sandwich.  I hadn't noticed him in 
there.  The heat wafted out of his car, nice and inviting.  "C'mon," he 
repeated, pressing a switch on the armrest to his left.  The door lock 
thumped open.  I opened the door and got inside, wanting to feel some 
delicious heat before I returned to the derelict apartment.  The driver 
handed his coffee to me and I just held it in my hands for a while 
before taking a sip.  I didn't have gloves and my fingers felt pretty 
numb.

"Thanks," I said, handing the coffee back.

"How much?" he asked.

"How much?" I repeated.  Did he want to know how much of his coffee I 
drank?

"How much for a BJ," he said.  "Thirty?  Twenty?"

I felt a chill spread through my body, despite the car's heater, despite 
the coffee.  The cab driver didn't invite me to sit here out of the 
goodness of his heart.  I began to reach for the door handle.

"Thirty-five.  I'll give you thirty-five," he said, taking my reluctance 
as a bargaining position.  $35 was more than twice the money I had in 
the world at that moment.  $35 just to suck his cock.  $35.  I took my 
hand off of the door and looked at him.  White, middle-aged, thinning 
hair, mustard stain on his shirt, bit of a gut.

"Fine," I said.  "Thirty-five."

He reached into his trousers and pulled out a wad of cash, peeling off a 
twenty, a ten, and five $1 bills, stuffing them in my hand as he moved 
his seat back as far as it would go.  Then he unzipped his trousers and 
fished out his hardening cock.  There were people on the sidewalk, some 
coming home from work, some walking dogs.  I thought about bolting from 
the car with his money, but instead I stuffed the cash into my jeans and 
looked around before leaning over his spread legs.

Other than the fact that he was circumcised, his penis was like Father 
Steve's: short, thick, fat head.  He smelled like dried sweat, and there 
was a faint urine taste when I swirled my tongue over his glans.  With 
one hand on his shaft, jerking it up and down, I wrapped my lips around 
his stiff  tool, sucking him quickly.  His ass shifted in his seat, his 
hips pushing up towards my face, stabbing my mouth with his hardness.

"Faster," he muttered, and I picked up the pace, bumping my head against 
the steering wheel a couple of times.  "Faster..."  I wrapped both hands 
around his cock, and sucked harder, faster, wondering how many people 
could see my blonde head bobbing in his lap from the sidewalk and the 
buildings on this street.

"That's it...that's it...that's it...yeah...," he groaned, his thick 
thighs tensing as he erupted in my mouth, filling it with his bitter 
seed.  He must have been hoarding semen for a month; he just kept coming 
and coming, spurt after spurt of hot juice flowing from his fat 
cockhead.  His cock began to soften, he sighed, and his thighs relaxed.  
I milked the rest of his cum with my lips and released his flaccid penis 
from my mouth.

"Good.  That was good," he said.  "You from around here?"

"Sorta," I said, licking a drip of spunk from the corner of my mouth.

"Here.  Here's a tip," he said, pulling a $5 bill from his shirt pocket 
and pressing it into my palm.  "See you 'round."  He put his foot on the 
brake and shifted out of park, my cue to leave.

"Sure.  Thanks," I said, opening the door and pulling my backpack on to 
one shoulder.  I closed the door and heard the locks thump again, the 
little chrome posts receding into their silver receptacles.  The cab 
turned the corner and motored down the street as I headed back to my 
hideaway.

My stomach had stopped growling, the cabbie's semen in my tummy quelling 
my hunger, for a while at least.  I popped open the soda and sat on the 
old mattress, washing the taste of his cum from my mouth.  Then I ate 
half of my sandwich, saving the rest for breakfast, cursing myself for 
not buying a newspaper that I could spread over the mattress's stained 
ticking.

I smoked another joint and read my journal again, changing a few words 
here and there, filling in some of the details I'd left out.  I began to 
wonder if Trish had actually had a chance to shred her copy.  Maybe they 
had it, maybe they were reading about the things I had done with 
Michael, with Manny and Billy and Chris, with Sister Katherine, with 
Trish, with Father Ken and his colleagues, with Mr. O'Hare.  That last 
name made me laugh out loud, the thought of a district attorney trying 
to explain away the fact that he'd fucked me with his big prick on 
Father Ken's desk.

There were other things in my journal, even more personal things.  I 
reminisced about my life with Ramon and the boys, with Julia, and I even 
wrote about some of the things I'd done with Luci and Tina.  Not 
everything, though, but enough to make my skin crawl at the thought of 
strangers reading my journal.

I stayed up late that night, until I could hardly keep my eyes open, 
falling asleep to the sound of rats scratching in the half-demolished 
walls, in the broken ceiling, under the floorboards.  I'd moved the 
mattress to the middle of the room, where the light from the low-wattage 
bulbs was brightest.  Manny's knife was open, laying next to me on the 
mattress where I could grab it quickly if I needed it.  The last thing I 
saw before I closed my eyes was the glint of dim yellow light shining on 
the steel blade.


                                  * * * 
 

(c) 2003  Anais Ninja  anais_ninja@hotmail.com 
http://www.asstr.org/files/Authors/anais_ninja/index.html