I'd never been a sociable kid. Just like now, I had only ever had a few close friends, and during recess in elementary school, I'd played by myself. That day I was playing right by the fence. There was a clump of dandelions there and I'd been trying to weave them into daisy chains, only I didn't really know how to weave a daisy chain.
Witnesses would later say that Chris's truck drove past three times, but I was oblivious. I was sitting on the grass, surrounded by decapitated dandelions. Their flowers kept popping off their stems when I flexed them too hard. One minute I was tying two stems together, the next a hand was clapped over my mouth and I was hoisted into the air.
I watched the dandelions fall out of my hands and scatter onto the pavement while I was jostled so hard I thought I'd throw up. The ground pitched and sprang away, beneath me. Looking back, I can figure out that Chris had thrown me over his shoulder and jumped the fence, but at the time I was just aware of being gripped so tight that it hurt, people shouting in the background, and feeling seasick.
Chris vaulted into his truck with me still over his shoulder. My head hit the doorframe, hard. Dark spots swam in my vision. He threw me down into the passenger footwell and I landed on a pile of garbage. Potato chip wrappers, an old t-shirt, some broken CD cases. Before I could get my feet under me, he'd slammed his door and hit the gas. I was thrown against the base of the passenger side seat. A siren started up behind us, but it seemed like a small and distant beacon of safety that faded fast. Chris drove like a maniac, and swore an unending stream of epithets.
He said he'd kill me, that I had to be quiet, that he'd bash my head in.
He was a steroid user, and this was one of his rages.
I was being kidnapped, just like they warned us about in assembly. And none of the safety advice they gave us applied. I could scream, but no one would hear, and Chris would probably kick me in the head. It was too late to run. It was too late to do anything.
We were going so fast and he was jerking the steering wheel so hard that I kept getting thrown against the car door, the dashboard, the seat, the gear shift. I tried to brace myself, and I started to cry.
“Shut up!” he shouted. “You shut up!”
But I didn't shut up, so he cracked me across the head so hard that I blacked out for a moment. I don't know what he hit me with, but it made my head throb like a sub-woofer. I could even hear the thrum of blood through my ears, like the sound of bass tones reverberating through a car body. I put my arms over my head and curled up tight.
The floor of his truck was filthy. It reeked of stale cigarette smoke and red and black wires dangled down from beneath the dashboard. I heard more sirens in the distance. Come get me! I thought.
I don't know how long we drove. The problem with being so little was that I just couldn't know that much. Things were happening to me and I had no control. We left the paved road and were now jouncing over a dirt road. Or maybe it wasn't even a road. Maybe it was a field. He didn't slow down, though, so I just stayed curled up tight, bouncing like a lotto ball.
“Chris?” I whimpered.
“You know my name?”
Well, of course I knew his name. I'd seen his picture at Dr. Winters's dental office. I'd even seen Chris, himself, a few times there.
“You know my name? Answer me!”
“No,” I lied.
He brought his fist down on my side, a glancing blow that startled me, but didn't hurt. I pulled in tighter into my fetal position, though, hoping that if I bluffed like it hurt, he wouldn't hit me again.
We tore across the desert, off to some unknown destination that I would later learn was out on the West Mesa. We drove and drove until Chris slammed on the brakes and got out of his side of the car. Warm air rushed in and cool, air conditioned air streamed out. A moment later the door on my side opened and Chris grabbed me by the collar and hauled me out onto the dirt and dry grass. I landed on my hip and skinned the heels of my hands. Dust swirled up and made me sneeze.
Okay, I thought, here's my chance. I'd run, I decided. I'd just take off and scream and-
Click-clack.
I lifted my head and found myself staring up the barrel of a shotgun, Chris's face was a blurry pink mass way beyond it.
“N-no...” I whimpered. “No!” I guess most people would have begged for mercy, but I was still a little kid, and my mind was in a strange place. Maybe I'd been hit in the head too hard, but what I was thinking wasn't, “Please don't kill me,” but rather, “This isn't fair! You can't do that. These aren't the rules! You don't just haul people off and shoot them for no reason. This is wrong.”
“Go away!” I shrieked. “Leave me alone! Go away!” I put my hands over my head, as if that would somehow save me from a bullet.
For what felt like an eternity, nothing happened. The sun beat down, scorching the skin of my hands and neck. An ant crawled across my shadow, antennae rooting around in the loose dirt. Chris breathed a hard, panting breath. Then I saw the shadow of the gun lower.
I looked up.
Chris pulled a handgun out of the back of his jeans and, pop, a dull, burning ache hit my calf. I looked down and saw blood spilling out onto the dirt. Pop. It felt like he'd shoved a hot poker right through my shoulder. I fell back and my head hit the ground with a thud. Warm, sticky liquid soaked its way across the back of my shirt. Pop. My stomach blossomed with fire. I didn't fully understand that I'd been shot. The gun didn't sound like what I'd heard on television.
He stared down at me then, and I glared back up at him. “Go away,” I whispered.
I wondered if blood would bubble from my mouth, like it did in the movies, but it didn't.
“Leave me alone,” I rasped.
Chris wiped the gun off on his shirt, polishing away fingerprints, and threw it as far as he could. I heard it land in the distance on the dry grass. Then he turned his back on me, got into his truck, and drove off, leaving me to stare up at the deep blue, New Mexico sky, my life's blood streaming out of me onto the dust.
An ant walked across my throat, but I didn't even move to shoo it. All the color was leaving the world. The sky went pale blue, then gray, then black. There were sirens, but they were impossibly far away. The last thing I had been aware of was the sound of my racing pulse and the feeling that my entire back was soaked through with blood.
***
A ringing silence had descended in the courtroom. Doug looked back at Jason, who just stared down at his hands.
Chris had his eyes closed, and his lawyer did not look happy.
“Your honor, as you know, I've entered into evidence some pictures of her gunshot wounds,” said Doug. “Ms. Winters, do you feel that the defendant might hurt you again?”
“He kidnapped me and shot me multiple times without warning and without provocation,” I said.
“Do you anticipate seeing him in the future?”
“Not if I can avoid it. And that's why I'd like this restraining order, to avoid it. I just want to get on with my life.”
“Why didn't they go for attempted murder?” asked the judge.
I looked up, startled. Was she allowed to ask questions like that?
But Doug didn't seem to think it was odd. “They did, your honor,” he said. “But the jury found him innocent of it.”
The judge shook her head in disbelief and turned to me. “How did you survive a gunshot wound at close range, to the stomach?”
“The police were right behind us, your honor. There was a cop at my school who followed my brother and radioed for backup, so that by the time I was out in the desert, they had four cars and a chopper on his tail. They airlifted me to UNM Hospital within minutes.”
“Still.”
“And I was lucky, I guess. If that term applies to someone who's been shot three times by her own brother.”
Her mouth quirked in a smile. “All right, is that all?”
“That's all from me, your honor,” said Doug.
“Fine, your witness, defense.”
Chris's lawyer got to her feet and fixed me with a very determined glare. “Ms. Winters, yes or no, has my client contacted you since he was released from prison?”
“I don't think so.”
“Yes or no?”
“He might have slashed my tires.”
“Yes or no!”
“There's been a lot of vandalism and he drove-”
She slapped the table with a bang. “Yes,” she said, “or no.”
“I can't answer that.”
Doug nodded.
“Have you seen my client, since his release?”
“No.”
“Has he called you?”
“No.”
“Has he emailed you?”
“No.”
“Facebook message?”
“No.” I got her game now. She just wanted a long list of “no's” to make my testimony look trivial. Fine, I thought, I could keep answering these questions. My story had made its impression. All the lawyer tricks in the world wouldn't dilute it.
Chris put his head on his hands, as if even he were embarrassed by this whole charade.
***
After everyone had made their case, the judge directed us to one waiting room and Chris to another. The decision, she promised, would be made shortly. I turned to Doug and Steve and smiled. “Thank you,” I said.
“You can smile. I'm still traumatized,” said Steve as he packed up his papers. “And now you're laughing.”
And I was. What could I say? Some days it was good to just be alive, and this day, watching Chris so ashamed that he couldn't look at me, was one of those days.
We got up and moved towards the back of the courtroom. Jason was on his feet and turned to look at Chris as he went past.
Chris paused, looked at him, then me, then him again. “What?” he said. “You got something to say?”
His lawyer took him firmly by the arm and steered him on.
Jason just shook his head.
“Oh yeah, that'll get you laid,” said Chris. He shot me a leer before his lawyer dragged him out the door. She looked like she was digging her nails into his arm.
I giggled. “Did you get that, Jas? Research for your next role. What a real criminal sounds like when he's trying to be manipulative and witty.”
“You feeling okay?” asked Steve.
“Maybe a little giddy.”
“Come with us, Jason,” said Doug. “I think you belong in our waiting room.”