Tomcat

Chapter Four-1

Chapter Four

Cory jolted. Without his hands on her, Tommy felt naked. “Not her!” Cory was screaming. “You agreed. Not her, god damn you!”

Tommy tried to struggle up off the table but someone was pushing past Cory and reaching for a fistful of her hair. He yanked Tommy's head back. She stole a breath against the stench of a foul mouth. His face was potted with sores; a skin condition from lack of personal hygiene. He probably washed as often as he brushed. He had attempted a scraggly beard to cover the infection, but it was so sparse it did nothing to hide the scales, scratches and puss-sores that blossomed like button-mushrooms across the raw skin.

Beth yelped and another man shouldered her aside so he could drop his weight across Tommy's legs. Tommy attempted to scream but “fungus-face” anticipated the move and forced the butt end of a rubber flashlight between her jaws and, forcing it deep, drove her head back, the bitter taste of rubber flooded the back of her throat. Tommy's arms flailed and she tried to reach the man's eyes with her nails, but he knocked her hands aside and leaned down on the flashlight.

“Stop struggling for f**k's sake,” he said. “This was going to happen no matter what. Make it easy on everyone.”

Tommy let the fight drain out of her arms, not because he demanded it, but because she was struggling to breathe around the obstruction in her throat. Tommy blinked around for Cory and her fear intensified when she realized he was no longer in the room. Tommy assessed her attackers. God, there were four of them: black jeans and leather vests; tattoos. And she was sickened by the sight of the video-cameras held aloft on the shoulders of two of them. Someone tore the blinds open and the whole insane scene was flooded with blinding sunlight. Tommy was too strangled to cry out, but she needed to empty her lungs of the screams that had layered up behind the flashlight.

Now that they controlled her, things calmed a little. The cameras were trained on her body, recording her face and heaving chest. The pressure eased in Tommy's throat as “fungus-face” shifted his weigh to sneer in her ear: “Ol’ Cory got us a nice one this time.” Someone chuckled lightly. “Now look Ricky or Timmy... whatever the f**k your name is. The boys here are makin' a little movie and hey, lucky you... you’re the star.” He laughed, enjoying himself. “Now I’m going to take this flashlight outta your throat. But if you scream, I’ll break your jaw with it. You understand what I’m sayin’ to yuh?”

His words were knocking around inside her skull and a camera closed in to record the fear that registered on her face.

The guy eased the flashlight a little, and slowly, tentatively, removed it from her mouth. He tapped the side of Tommy's jaw, just to let her know where he would break the bone if she screamed. Tommy felt the heft of the D-sized batteries to the right of her chin and closed her lips to try to purge the taste of rubber and sweat.

“A little massage? Was that what you came for?” The laugh was like the oily sludge that swirls about the rocks on a fouled shoreline.

“f**k you,” Tommy spat back. “And tell your friend to take his hand off my...”

“A nice heart massage, baby. That's what you need.” He ignored Tommy's protests. “The little yellow girls always went 'wally-eyed' for a heart massage; tough for them to do, when you think about it. The greasy laugh again. Tommy turned her head away, her cheek against the table. “You see, I start here,” and he pushed Tommy's right breast up; pricked the skin with the point of a knife, along the line of the rib.

Something shifted deep inside Tommy's head. Oh no, she thought as she sensed the seething blood-beat of another soul. Oh no, please... and she tried to ignore the feeling of spiraling free-fall and she focused her attention, instead, on the knife.

“...and I cut along here,” he said, causally dragging the point of the blade across, tracing the edge of the rib cage to a spot under the opposite breast. “Not too deep,” he added. “Don't want to open up your stomach. Just deep enough to get my hand inside, so I can reach up and take your heart; hold it in the palm of my hand. Nice and soft. I don't think it hurts much. The yellow girls, they used to lock onto my eyes. Wouldn't make a sound while I cut them. Sometimes weep a little, knowing that life was slipping away.”

Tommy heard words forming deep within her skull. It was Tomas: He's bluffing. Your hide's too damned thick. It's not sharp enough. He might stab you but he'll never cut you. You can take him. Go on, girl. Take him. Tommy felt a strange surge of confidence, that wasn't justified. But it was tangible, all the same; moving through her shoulders, out along her arms. Expanding her chest.

“I'll hold your heart,” the thug continued, “feel it beating in my fingers. You've never truly been with someone, truly shared, until you've let them touch your heart; for real, I mean. Then you'll feel me squeeze; lightly at first, then just a little harder. The pressure will build. You'll sense it. Your heart will miss a beat or two; then flutter like a bird's wing and you'll go all weak and lonely inside. And the last thing you'll see is me leaning in to kiss you: bye-bye!”

He smiled, pulled back, easing the knife a little. Someone laughed. He looked around, losing his focus for an instant. The grip on Tommy's ankle went slack.

Now!

He was just turning back when Tommy came up off the table. She grabbed his knife-hand by the wrist and forced his arm across the knee she was lifting. But damn it, Tommy didn't get the leverage she needed. She was flat on her back and hadn't been able to break her legs completely free. Tommy's knee connected with the back of his elbow and it hurt him, but she didn't hear the splinter of busting bone.

“Oh geez... mother fucker...” he yowled. Tommy saw the knife spin away over her head as he tore away, cradling his paralyzed arm. She pushed up and aimed a kick at a camera man. He held a video-camera close to his face and she jammed it back into the bridge of his nose. He swore, the camera dropping from his hand; swinging from the strap. Blood spurted. If I can just get to my feet, I might have a chance, and Tommy twisted onto a hip, trying to bring her legs 'round. But someone was a step ahead and threw himself across her thighs.

“s**t!” Tommy screamed, punching ineffectively at the man's back and shoulders.

She saw the movement from the corner of an eye; tried to twist away to lessen the blow; tried to get an arm up. He hit her squarely, just above the ear, alongside the temple. It was a decisive “swack” with the flashlight and it darkened her vision and loosened her grip. A vicious blow in retaliation for what she had done to his stupid arm. Tommy's brain seemed to slosh like a slop bucket and she slid back; whipped. The man bent over and she opened her mouth to scream, but he drove the butt of the flashlight deep between her teeth.

The taste stayed with her: Stale rubber. The skin grease. Sweat. Blood.

Tommy screamed, but she might as well have been screaming underwater. And all it got her was wasted breath and a couple of fingers hooked up into her nose. It was meant to humiliate and demoralize: fingers hooked up into her nostrils. He tore the nasal membranes and she couldn't breathe. She racked her lungs but there was nothing. Blood was running down the back of her throat and she dully thought she might drown. Pain was splitting her chest. He means to kill me.

When your chest heaves uselessly and your vision darkens and you're sucking at nothing but desperation; well, you’ll do anything for one more minute of sensation, for one precious moment of consciousness. The humiliation? The personal invasion? It all means nothing: a luxury you can suffer through later... if you live.

So in the end, Tommy surrendered it. Gladly; though every nerve in her body was burning like slow-fuse. Complete, unconditional capitulation: Be a big girl... close the eyes... fight the tears... lean back. And after, well, maybe I get lucky... They let me live.

He pulled Tommy up by the hair. “Open your fuckin' mouth,” he shrieked into her ear. A camera moved in close. “Yeah, that's it. Now suck your fingers.”

Tommy knew what he wanted.

“Oh baby,” he encouraged, “you know how to do it.” She closed her eyes and pushed the fingers deeper.

“Get a shot of her t**s,” someone shouted. “Grab your t**s, baby; hold them up for us! That's right. Play with yourself!” She tried her best to please them; didn't struggle when they pulled her ankles apart.

“Look at the piece of knotted meat she has for a cunt,” one of them said. “Looks like a catcher's mitt.”

“Yeah,” was the reply. “She could play for the Yankees. Just spread her knees behind home plate.”

And then they took her. One after the other.

When they were done, and, as a final humiliation, they rolled Tommy over, face down. A pillow was propped under her hips; pointing her bum toward the ceiling. He used a wooden paddle; a kid-sized canoe paddle. He gave her twenty. The men stood around laughing and counting the strokes. It stung. Each and every time the paddle smacked up against her skin, Tommy ground her teeth together, not allowing them the pleasure of hearing her cry out.

“Open up!” The voice was close by her ear and startled her. Tommy lifted her chin and looked straight into the unemotional eye of the camera. She took an intentionally hard blow across her behind; gasping, her brows lifted. With the pain registering on her face, the cameraman smiled and panned back toward her bum and Tommy turned away, staring at the wall as they counted the final strokes.

There was more laughter as they pressed and probed her buttocks, testing the firmness of the inflamed muscle. Tommy screwed her eyes closed and endured the fingers in private places. And finally, the hands drifted away and her body calmed. It took her a moment to realize the weight of the silence. It seemed to undulate around her head but she was afraid of disappointment, and waited; listening all the harder. Nothing. Tommy cracked an eyelid and scanned the wall opposite for telling shadows, but there were none.

Could it be over? She was still too afraid to move, her ears straining. Tommy heard a soft sob and the rustle of movement: Beth. She had began to cry, a plaintive sound. Like a kitten in the rain. Tommy turned. The room was empty. She gave it a few seconds, just to be sure, and to slowly come to grips with the burn, before pushing up.

Something moved inside her rectum. What have they done to me?

She stole a breath and dared to look back, over a shoulder. It was a daisy. A god-damned daisy. Her ass, still propped skyward, sported a big plastic flower. It was the size of a saucer; large white petals surrounded a yellow center where a ludicrous smiley face had been stenciled. The plastic stem was buried. The flower bobbed and gyrated with her quivering muscles, taunting her, daring her to try to forget the humiliation.

Tommy reached back, gripped the stem, and with a grunt of disgust, she plucked it from her anus and hurled it across the room. It collided with the shower cabinet and bounced back, laying face up in the middle of the carpet. Tommy seethed as she swung her legs around. Her stomach revolted at the unexpected movement and she forced the vomit down. A cold sweat broke out along her shoulder blades and her belly burned like battery acid.

Tommy took deep, steadying breaths and held on, waiting for things to settle. She looked for Beth. The girl sat on the carpet, propped against the wall where they had discarded her. Beth had pulled the shorty gown tight about her body, quaking and racked with hacking sobs. Her face was curtained by a mass of sweaty blonde and buried in bone-white hands. The men had used her. Tommy put a foot tentatively on the floor and shifted her weight. She was shaky but didn’t fall.

Her dress was still on the bench. Tommy picked it up and clutched it to her breast. God, how could I have been so f*****g stupid? Grabbing a handful of Kleenex, she made her way to the mirror on the far wall to survey the damage. She wiped a smear from the corner of her mouth.

Tommy shook out a couple of tissues, paused, the Kleenex pressed against her cheek. A jolt of panic clutched at her heart and her stomach churned. She stood, paralyzed, staring at her image in the glass. She strained and heard the sound again: Conversation and muffled laughter were coming from behind the mirror. God, they're still here. She imagined a camera there, inches from her face, the vacant lens recording her image as she wiped the evidence from her lips.

Tommy bit down on a balled fist to stifle the scream. Ducking down, she scrambled into the front foyer and groveled by the front door, out of range of the lens. She pulled her dress over her head, smoothed it down and got the zipper part way up. Reaching, Tommy twisted open the deadbolt and swung the door partway back, half expecting the men would come tumbling out; drag her flailing body back to the table. She waited. All quiet, except for the noise of Beth’s sniveling nose. Tommy moved along the floor and peered back into the room and spotted her bag and shoes by the bench. Damn, she had to go back for them.

Tommy listened again, hard. Silence. She took a deep breath and skipped out across the broadloom, glad to be in bare feet. She made the bench and scooped up her straw bag. Her underwear was there, folded on the seat and she grabbed the lace and her sandals. Tommy pivoted and headed for the door. As she stepped over Beth, the girl's head came up, her pretty eyes were now ugly swollen orbs. “I’m sorry, so sorry,” Beth cried. “Tommy. I’m so sorry. It wasn't us.” But Tommy didn’t pause in her desperation for escape.

The front door was open. Tommy was in the hall and running hard, listening for the pound of following footsteps. None heard. She hit the elevator button and while she waited, Tommy jammed the shoes onto her feet. The doors parted with a whisper and she thanked god it was empty. On the way down, Tommy tried her best to straighten her dress, fix her hair and wipe her face. The lobby was empty, and in a heartbeat, she was moving along the parking lot, revolted by the slickness between her legs. Still shaking, Tommy got behind the wheel of the Camry. She eased out into traffic.

The sunshine mocked her.

Hundreds of women were assaulted each week. But it still didn’t seem right that it should happen to her; in broad daylight. The tears started. She hated to cry. Tried not to allow it. Crying was for adolescent girls who had discovered that the wonderful guy they loved, the special one, the one for whom they had opened their legs for the first time, was, with due apologies, sniffing around her girlfriends. Looking for something new. Tommy was proud of the fact she never cried. Never. So now she was having trouble seeing. After a few blocks, she turned off: parked in a small strip mall.

Tommy sat, watching the traffic and sinking deeper into despair; her emotions spiraling down. How could they have used me like that? Treating me like something insignificant; like so much dirt, a slug, an inanimate object provided for their lusty pleasures, something inorganic, a low-life, a stupid nothing. How could one so-called “human being” do that to another? I am a living, caring woman; flesh and blood for Christ's sake. I have feelings... two children... a husband... a successful career. I should be entitled to some respect, shouldn't I?

But they had torn that away; shredded it along with her clothes, her skin, her flesh, and the personal, unalienable rights she held dear as a fundamental cornerstone of her existence as a woman. To take what they wanted was one thing, but then to rub her nose in it. She thought of the video-cameras and the disgrace seemed too much to bear. And, as Tommy was about to hit rock bottom, she felt the heat again, at the base of her skull; a tiny gleam of brightness at first, just a spark, but steadily growing into an ember. Building, expanding, a living breathing thing that opened her heart and filled her lungs with life-saving hope. It formed, surging, uncoiling like swirls of morning mist to wreath her addled brain. She was calmed, as if by a hit of nicotine and she leaned back, closing her eyes. “Tomas,” she exhaled. “Oh, Tomas, what will we do?”

“We kill them,” he breathed in reply.