Celeste
did her cool-down exercises after the ballet class, dressed, quickly pulled on
her cowboy boots and rushed to her car.
She'd
make it in time for her night class in economics if there wasn't a delay on the
freeway. With one hand, she rummaged around in her voluminous shoulder bag
through books and the other paraphernalia of her life, searching for an energy
bar she knew would probably be squashed beyond recognition by now.
She
pushed the radio on. "Today
police reported finding the body of an unidentified woman who according to a
Department's spokesperson had been knifed and raped..." Celeste pushed the
button off.
I
don't want to hear that, too depressing, she thought. She'd have to wait until the news was over to get any music.
The
traffic was hopeless, everyone was going somewhere. Sunday was Christmas.
Eventually,
she was able to get music, but only Christmas songs that sounded
dissonant, jarring as though on a worn tape, and interspersed with
shopping commercials, "...only three more days..."
The
parking lot at the community college was almost empty.
Her class must be the only one in session, or else everyone had cut.
The buildings looked deserted. She
shivered in the brisk, bone-chilling wind blowing through the Coyote Canyon as
she ran in. No time to go to the
ladies room.
The
instructor hadn't arrived and only half the class was there.
After ten minutes he was still a no-show.
The murmurings about leaving became louder.
Then someone cited the heavy traffic, so they waited another five minutes
before dashing off to their real lives.
Celeste
ran to the ladies room. One of the
double doors, the out-only, was propped open.
She ran in.
While
she was in the stall she heard the door slam shut. She came out doing up her belt.
Santa
Claus was standing by the sinks.
Someone
in the wrong rest room?
He
was smirking. Fear gripped her.
"You
don't have to bother buttonin' up, darlin', cause I'm going to be takin' 'em
right down again."
Her
mind splintered.
Cell
phone? In the car.
Gun?
Home in the nightstand.
He
advanced--like a man who was going to get what he wanted.
She
could hardly breathe.
When
he was closer, Celeste swung her heavy leather bag with every ballet muscle
she'd ever exercised, and connected. The
large metal clasp caught him on the side of his head. He staggered and went down
on one knee. She ran past him and
pushed on the exit door that had been open.
Locked.
She
threw herself against the other one, but she knew it only opened in and there
was no handle on it. She scrabbled
at the bottom but there was no space for her fingers to get under to pull it
open.
Celeste
pushed against the exit door again. It
still didn't budge. She banged on
it with her fists, screaming, "Help, help!"
Who
would be left to hear her?
He
had probably waited until everyone was gone.
Suddenly,
there was a grip on her shoulder. His hand.
She
jumped back out of his grasp.
His
mouth was open--she could see his rotten teeth. He held up the key like a
trophy.
The
bastard had locked them in.
She
had to get the key.
"You're
going to pay for that." His
eyes were so demented that she froze. He lurched toward her.
In
her head she heard her ballet teacher, "One, two, three, jette!"
She
did, catching him not quite in the groin of his red pants, but enough to throw
him off balance again. Not enough
for him to drop the key.
He
pulled something out of his pocket. She
heard a click and saw the knife sparkling in the light.
How
could she defend herself?
Mace.
She
had mace.
Somewhere
in the rat's nest of her purse.
"Looks
like I'm going to be cuttin' you."
The
newscast--the woman the police found, knifed and raped. Unidentified.
He
came closer.
Jette!
This
time she connected as he sliced down through the leather of her boot to her leg.
The
knife flew to the left as he bent over in pain. She kicked again, catching his jaw. He flew back, his head clunking on a sink. He slid to the
floor. Immobile.
The
key went under the sinks to the right.
Key
or knife?
Key.
She
grabbed it up, her nails rasping against the cement floor, ran to the door,
tried to unlock it. Her hand was
shaking so much she could hardly get the key in the lock but she did.
And
turned it--just as she was pulled to the floor, falling hard, the contents of
her bag spilling.
He
gripped her booted leg, dragged her toward him.
She
twisted, then kicked him hard in the face with the heel of her other boot.
She heard a crack and his nose bled but he still clung to her leg. His
bad breath choked her.
As
she tried to brace herself to pull away, her hand touched one of the contents of
her purse--the mace.
She
grasped it, fumbling with the case.
He
lunged up at her, climbing up over her boots. She held her breath and closed her
eyes and sprayed him with a short burst. Like she was spraying a cockroach.
He
screamed, crawling to the sink, splashing his eyes with water. She scooped
everything into her bag, held the mace like a gun and turned the key in the
lock. She sprayed mace at him as
she backed out of the door and locked it.
She
was tearing, shaking so badly she could hardly stand. She grabbed the doorframe.
She
lurched to the end of the hallway and pulled the door open gasping the fresh,
cold air of freedom.
She
reached into her jeans pocket for her car keys, then dropped them twice before
she could unlock the car. And twice
more before she got the key into the ignition. The radio came on.
Her
teeth chattered and her body shook. She
turned the heat to high.
As
she opened the glovebox for her cell phone, the newscaster said "Police
have identified the body of the woman who was knifed and raped..."
She
stretched a shaking hand to the phone.
That
could have been her.
It
almost was her.
She
could have been his next victim. Now she was mad. He'd dared mess with her. He'd
dared to try to rape her, cut her.
What
if she called and the police came and he never got convicted? Even with what she
told them about what happened? What if she went though the trial and all of
that? And he was let off. She knew it could happen.
He
would try again. To get even. He know where to find her after the trial. He'd
have her address.
He
could come for her. She wouldn't be able to get away as she had tonight. He
wouldn't let her. It'd be worse. He'd torture her to get even.
Her
left hand cradled the phone as a right finger hovered over the buttons.
911?
What
if she waited for a few days? He'll
be locked in there until then, hungry, desperate and in pain. Like his victims.
What if she waited until after Christmas? Maybe even after the winter break?
She
could leave him there.
She
leaned sideways to put the phone back.
The
compartment's light shone on it like a spotlight.
Her
gun.
It
wasn't in her nightstand. She remembered she had put it in the glove
She
still had the key to the ladies room door.
What
if she went back?
With her gun.
Copyright
©2005, Gay Toltl Kinman
All Rights Reserved