Five hundred dollars, two laughing-crying fits and three stores later, I find myself stuck in a fancy dressing room of a gown boutique. The room is lined with plush red velvet curtains and a matching bench. Harry dragged me in despite my complaints against doing so - I didn't really want to go into a gown boutique, but now I suppose I'm happy I did.
This seat in here is so nice. Not just to sit on, but I can't stop rubbing my palms across it. I watch in awe as the colour grows deeper and lighter with each swipe across. It's almost as soft as my sweater but the fabric is slightly different which makes it so much more interesting for me. I could sit here for hours just feeling it against my hands. Wow. I feel warm.
Harry's tattooed hand sticks through the side of curtain for the third time - this time, a black lace dress flows from the hanger. It's lengthy, nearly dragging along the floor even at the height Harry's passing it to me at. It's gorgeous - a halter-like neckline that dips down to mid-breast and the underarm slits even deeper than that. It shows a lot of skin, from what I can tell. The halter deviates into thin spaghetti straps right below the collarbone which cross at the back and stop mid-spine.
To say that this is a stunning dress is an understatement.
Why did I agree to dress shopping while drunk? I could barely get into the other dresses. What makes him think I can figure out where to put my head in terms of where the straps cross?
It takes me a few minutes, perhaps ten or so, but I figure the gown out. It's a perfect fit - not too tight that my boobs are bursting out, but not big enough that they sag, either. My chest looks nice, if I do say so myself. I mean, Jesus, I didn't even know I had that much boobage going on.
I'm so fuckin' plastered. Why am I here. I should go home and smoke.
"Are you okay? Did you get it on?" Harry's accent drags me back to reality.
I nod, not thinking that he can't see me, and step out from behind the curtains. Row upon row upon row of dresses fill the narrow shop, some racks so tall that it's hard for anyone to see us at the back left corner of the store. A couple of spotless mirrors lay to the right as I walk out, tilted so that I can see nearly all angles of the dress.
I turn at stop, looking at myself in the mirror. My hair hangs messily over my shoulders from the bandeau I took off. Pulling it up into a ponytail, I turn to the side and continue analyzing the dress.
How much is this?
"You look absolutely stunning," a voice breathes into my ear as I close my eyes and concentrate on his hot breath exhaling onto my shoulders. Lips press against the skin beneath my ear and move down slowly, a few light hickeys growing beneath the skin. I nearly gasp at the pleasureful sensation. My knees grow weak.
My eyes snap open when I feel a finger much rougher than Harry's slide the strap down my shoulder. In the mirror, I see myself, frightened and piss drunk, barely able to stand. Behind me stands a man sprouting dark brown hair littered with grey streaks. I nearly fall over when we make eye contact in the mirror.
Immediately, my happy, love-filled and drunken aura is shattered like a bullet through a windshield. Fantasy explodes, and reality is revealed.
"Get the fuck away from me!" I screech at the top of my lungs. "Oh my God! Someone help!"
I nearly trip over the dress as I leap a few metres forward, eyes quickly darting back and forth across the store. I scan for Harry but the only person I see is the cashier knocked out across the counter. Where is everyone? There were at least three staff in here when we walked in!
"Harry!" I yell. "Harry!"
Martin stays still, watching me with an evil, sexual glint in his eyes. He stands in front of the mirror, facing me. My eyes continue to dart around. Anxiety begins to fill my chest, my heart pumping so fast that it feels as if it's being bruised. My stomach tightens with angry, psychopathic butterflies that feel like they're eating me from the inside out. My vision is starting to go blurry.
"Harry!" I yell again. Martin's brown eyes are imprinting in my skull again and I don't know if I'll be able to handle it.
"Stop yelling his name, it's giving me a headache. He's not here anymore. So why don't you calm down, breathe easy, and come to Daddy."
I lurch forward, all traces of the vodka I downed splattering all over a rack of dark green silk gowns. I nearly fall forwards as I try to get away but a pair of large, gritty hands wrap around my hips and yank me backwards. A sensation of helplessness hits me as my legs flail freely in the air. Pain shoots through my skull as I accidentally bash my head against a metal pole whole struggling to get away from him. Immediately, I go limp.
He's gone?
Harry's gone?
Tears begin to stream down my face, both the pain and fear blurring my vision. My heart thrashes against my chest but my legs won't move anymore. Martin puts me down but I immediately drop to my knees, more pain spreading through my chest as I collapse harshly onto the wooden floors. Holy fuck, my boobs are killing me now.
"What do y-youu mean, h-he's gone?"
"He's gone, butterfly. Tops or bottom?"
"That doesn't make s-sense!" I cry, terrified.
"You saw the girl at the register? She's gone, too."
My heart drops into my stomach. Immediately, a wail leaves my lips louder than anything I've ever heard. Tears immediately begin pouring down my face faster than anytime I've ever cried. Not even the first time I was raped, or the most violent I cried like this. The pain is my chest is so real that I actually look down my dress to see if I'm bleeding. His words created an illusion so realistic that it clawed its way through my skin and organs, grabbed my heart, and yanked it out. Yet I can still feel it - the ghost of my heart, at least, but the pain is real.
"No!" I scream. "No! He's not! No! Stop lying! You're fucking with my head!"
"Top or bottom?" He asks again, now leaning over my limp body. He nearly spoons me as his lips reach my ear. I'm urged to vomit again at his touch.
"Neither," I cry harshly, breath knocked out of my lungs. "Let me go."
"C'mon, my little butterfly, let's have some fun. It's been too long." He smirks at me through the mirror.
"You killed Harry!" I screech. "You deserve to rot in hell for the rest of eternity! I hope you get raped over and over and over and over again, until the pain is so festeringly painful that you beg for forgiveness! You'll suffer for the rest of your days, I swear it!" My voice is rough, throat dry from screaming and crying.
I freeze again as his hands cup my ass, groping them with as much strength and effort as if it were the last thing he'd touch before he died. It isn't even remotely pleasureful - it feels like he could actually be bruising me. I sob quietly. His hands trail down the lacy fabric, taking me by surprise as he yanks the hem and instantly rip it. It splits all the way up my thigh, revealing the black lace panties that just happened to match my dress.
"Well, for now, you'll be the one begging."
I didn't even feel him taking off my underwear. But I felt every single sensitive millimetre of my body as he attempted to slam into me, dry as can be. He spits and I vomit again - this time, it splatters across the mirror and back at me. Another wave of nausea hits me and layer upon layer of my stomach acid coats the previously spotless mirrors.
For those few seconds I was focused on vomiting and how I was getting dry-raped in one of the most painful positions, Harry dropped from my mind. I don't know how he did. Maybe its the alcohol.
There's something about being told awful, life-changing news while anything but sober that just throws you off as a whole. It's like, being drunk or high or whatever it is is usually something you'd do for fun or to cheer up. I got drunk to cheer up and go shopping. My head still thinks everything should be great but it isn't - not even close. It completely rejects it. The rational part of my head wants to scream and cry and quite literally jump off an apartment building, while the rest of me says - what? He's dead? He can't be dead. People can't die when you're drunk. He'll die when you wake up with a nasty hangover.
No, he's dead. He's dead no matter if you're plastered or not. He's dead even if you don't get a hangover. He's dead. He's gone. He no longer resides on earth, not as a son, not as a brother, not as a god-given boyfriend who put up with all of my shit.
He's gone.
My eyes struggle to stay open as Martin continues to force himself into me. I can feel my consciousness slipping away with each fire-hot thrust blistering my scarred insides. My body is shutting down. I can't handle anymore.
A shock hits the store with a loud bang. Everything shakes violently for a few seconds and stops again. The racks of hangers clatter, some thrown across the room with the force. Instantly, Martin removes himself from my bloodiness and stands up. My first thought was earthquake, but I know I was very wrong when I watch the wall six metres from me explode into thousands of chunks of drywall. Dust ignites into flames as the fire spreads, quickly grabbing a hold of one of the racks of gowns and devouring it as if it hadn't been in the presence of oxygen in years.
My head directs me to scramble to my feet, but I barely can roll over from the burning, red-hot pain from my belly button down. Every movement I make, it feels like someone is cutting into me with scissors. I can feel the splits in my flesh from the lack of lubrication. The foul scent of burning wood and fabric quickly fills the whole boutique and leaves me coughing. I grab a sweater and pull it to my mouth as a filter.
When I finally pull myself to my feet with the help of one of the racks, the fire of the explosion has spread to the change room I was using previously. Thank God I never took off my shoes, or I'd be running barefoot through Toronto. One painful step forward in my runners and I'm reminded of Martin's purpose for coming here.
If I don't leave here now, he will find me and he will take me.
Not that it matters. Harry is dead. Harry is dead, despite the alcohol's unwillingness to believe it. I would rather I die than spend another minute near Martin, and now that there is nothing stopping me from killing myself...
I stumble forwards, dress further ripping each leap grows larger. Martin's eyes move from the fire which just about killed him to me, and his expression changes from fear to anger. Suddenly, he leaps forward and tries to grab me. I quickly dodge to the left. He collides with a rack of shorter prom dresses and it falls over, bringing him with it.
With those few free seconds, I push out the door of the shop. The surprise of the cold air not only causes me to nearly trip on my face but brings tears to my eyes. Harry is dead.
I pause for one second, catching a single much-needed breath of fresh air, and instantly whip my head back at the doors. I can see Martin through the fogged glass panes - he's not looking at me. The opportunity is crystal clear for me. My feet begin to speed-walk away before I even comprehend it. The dizziness drifting its way in and out of my brain makes me afraid to run.
My legs yank me forward again, now in a full blown, slightly-drunken sprint. I dodge citizens, swerving in and around groups to go as fast as I can. Some people yell at me as I accidentally bump into them, but I ignore it and keep going back in the direction Harry and I had came earlier. Some notice the blood running down from between my legs and gasp, but nobody follows me to see if I'm okay.
My body moves as fast as it can to the nearest alley between shops, which luckily is less than a block down. The streaks of deep red blood trailing down my thighs dry as my legs freeze in the icy air. People continue to stare at me oddly as I dodge between everyone.
As the alley grows closer, I take a strict left turn and almost leap in. I fall to my knees involuntarily, sliding down into the darkness. The wet ground soaks my stolen and ruined dress. The sogginess is uncomfortable, but it's better than the burning pain that threatens my crotch every time I stand.
I try to hush the wheezing escaping my rising chest. It burns just as bad as between my legs, mouth dry as can be. The smoke from the explosion isn't helping my ability to breathe. Soon, shivers begin to attack my body. I lay my head back and everything swivels in a bout of dizziness.
Make it stop.
I look up to the street again, eyes drooping in exhaustion. I try to focus on the crowd. If Martin passes and doesn't see me hidden in the darkness, I can go through the alleys to get home. I know where I am; it's probably a ten minute walk. Probably slower from my injuries.
My whole body turns ice cold as I see Martin step into view, close to the street in the centre of a group of people. His head turns to the alley and soon, I'm pulled into his ugly brown eyes. His lips move but I can't understand what he's saying. Either way, my legs pick me up with difficulty. I start to sprint as fast as I can through the narrow brick laneway. He yells after me, but my youth allows me to move faster than him.
"He's dead, Aubrey! Why are you running?" He yells from fifteen metres behind me. I can barely see the streets anymore when I peek behind my shoulder.
Please let this be the right route home.
I take a left turn into another maze of back routes, some barely a metre of crawl space between the rundown buildings. Some lights flicker above random side doors, giving the already-horrid night a more sinister feel. My chest breathes fire and my calves burn, causing me to slow.
C'mon. Five minutes more. He's too far behind to catch you now.
With the last burst of energy I have, I somehow manage to push myself another block forwards, nearly tripping more than a handful of times. Relief courses through me as I recognize the fence I once-upon-a-time was introduced to in a similar situation.
Hands forward, I find difficulty in figuring out how to climb up on the fence. Every place I put my hands or feet seems to fall beneath me, causing me to slip down into the cold air. I huff with half-frustration, half-anxiety. My lungs are starting to return to normal which only proves how long I've spent trying to get up. This is my only way out; I'm screwed if I can't figure this out.
A bout of courage hits me like a brick in the face when I hear his screaming voice from a distance. Letting go of the rough wood, I slowly step backwards until there's a three meter gap between me and the fence. On the counter of five, I run forward with the best of my abilities and somehow, somehow manage to grip the right piece of wood with my left hand and pull myself up. I dangle there for a few seconds. Only two meters separates me from the wet gravel.
C'mon. One more foot up, and it's over.
One more foot.
With an angry grunt, I force all of my energy into my torso and kick my leg up over the fence. I search for a notch to place my foot and almost succeed. With a large gust of wind, I lose my balance and soon find myself falling through the air.
I land on the freezing, wet grass with a loud thump. My head smashes against the ground, face first, and a loud crack echoes. Pain shoots through my nose and I stiffen.
Oh, my God. The blood.
I manage to pull myself into a ball. The dress, soaking up as much water from the grass as it can, begins to stain with the blood pouring from my broken nose. The pain is slightly blurred from the alcohol but it's still very noticeable.
Stumbling onto my feet, I reach forward and grab the fence. It takes me a few steps forward when everything hits me all over again.
I'm safe.
And Harry is dead.
I pull open the heavy sliding door with all of my weight and nearly slip on the wet wood of the large porch. The only light emitting from inside are the kitchen spotlights over the island. It's empty, as far as I can see.
My shoes clatter across the clean tiles after stepping in and shutting the door behind me. Mud smears but I couldn't care less.
As soon as my hand reaches for the island for support, my knees buckle beneath me. The tears come in an instant. My bloody tears drip onto the floor with soft pitter-pattering. I blink repetitively, but the tears never stop and I can't even see. My chest heaves in and out heavily and the sobs escaping my lips begin to get louder.
The false pain finds its way to my fingertips and seems to crawl through my veins and into every capillary of my weak, wretched body. My aorta feels like it could burst with anymore pressure. Perhaps it might. It's an odd sensation - part of me feels empty, colder than I've felt in years. I don't even know if I can actually still feel the temperature of anything around me. I can't stop thinking about how he's gone. But I'm not completely empty, either - I'm angry. I'm fucking angry, but that will hit me later.
It only takes thirty seconds until the sobs turn into screams. Some are silent, my jaw hanging low but no sound emitting. The breath is knocked from my lungs quickly and I fall forward onto my chest. Banging my fists against the tile hard enough to bruise them, I scream with everything I have in me.
He's gone. He's gone. He's not coming back. He's gone.
I'm never going to see his face again. I'm never going to feel his skin, trace his tattoos, or play with the ting ringlets hanging from his shoulders as I curl up next to him in the morning. I'll never hear him sing again or watch him bake. I'll never feel his lips. I'll never feel him.
I hope I never feel anything ever again.
I hope my heart fails me before I have the chance to crawl back into life.