most radical question that came to mind: “How did you drop the man with the stun gun?”
“Why don’t we take care of you first, okay?”
The four feet between the toilet and the bathtub looked like a chasm, but Ana nodded resolutely. “I can do this,” she said. She wanted some answers, but she wasn’t sure she wanted them now.
“Yell if you need me,” Sabel said. She paused in the doorway and gave Ana a stern look. Her face, framed by the open collar of her black shirt and her loose, windblown hair, looked like an ivory carving of some fey queen with fierce sapphire eyes. “Promise?”
Ana nodded. When the door shut, she slumped against the back of the toilet and tipped her head back. At least Sabel hadn’t offered to undress her. The shock and fear were still dampening every other sensation in her body, but some part of her mind warned her that tomorrow she was going to feel unbelievably horrified.
She hitched the dress up and struggled out of it, then threw it into the far corner of the room. Her bra followed and then the underpants. This part of a crisis was familiar to her: get clean, shake and cry from the shock, remember to eat something as soon as she felt hungry, and get to sleep if she could manage that; otherwise maybe she could stand some mind-numbing television.
She took the opportunity to put a tad of weight on her feet. They didn’t hurt as much as she expected from the trip up the stairs—the painkillers must be doing their thing. She was able to get to the edge of the tub with minimal ache. She braced on her hands and slid back into the cold porcelain basin, propping her heels up on the sides to keep the bandages out of the way. Then she leaned forward enough to close the drain and turn on the water. Sabel had run it until it warmed and made sure that it wouldn’t freeze her.
As the warm water embraced her, the shivery adrenaline of the last hours began to ebb, uncovering her deeper fears. She wasn’t supposed to get hit ever again in her life, or have to fight and run. San Francisco had been safe for her the last nine years, nothing like where she’d grown up. She hated the way that part of the evening felt familiar: feeling afraid and threatened, being trapped, the anticipation of pain that was as bad as the real pain when it came. But this was different, she insisted to herself. This time she could fight back effectively. She wasn’t a kid anymore.
Hell, even as a kid, she fought. In the trickle-down economics of their family, their father’s frustration and rage was passed on to her oldest brother Mack, who doled it out to her and Gunnar with all the brutal simplicity of a child. He hit them when he felt like it, choked them and laughed at their panic, and most often simply threatened and then mocked them. It was such a natural part of their lives, Ana used to think all families were like that and then she hit puberty. Mack stopped hitting and wrestling her and his attentions took a crueler turn, until the day she went after him with a knife. He never touched her again, but much about that day and all the days before it left her feeling like a monster.
The familiar heat of rage simmered under her breastbone and she wanted to strike out. She put her hands under the water and forced them open. She’d given all the details she could to the police. She had Drake’s name and she’d seen the faces of two of the men and had listened carefully to all of them. Although she couldn’t identify most of them, or where they’d taken her, she would use every resource at her disposal from the police to the media to the Internet, and she wouldn’t stop until these men were found and arrested. This time the right people would get hurt.
When the warm water had eased some of the soreness in her muscles, Ana picked up the soap and washed as well as she could without hurting herself more. Then there came the problem of getting out of the tub. She opened the drain and let the gray water out.
“Why don’t we take care of you first, okay?”
The four feet between the toilet and the bathtub looked like a chasm, but Ana nodded resolutely. “I can do this,” she said. She wanted some answers, but she wasn’t sure she wanted them now.
“Yell if you need me,” Sabel said. She paused in the doorway and gave Ana a stern look. Her face, framed by the open collar of her black shirt and her loose, windblown hair, looked like an ivory carving of some fey queen with fierce sapphire eyes. “Promise?”
Ana nodded. When the door shut, she slumped against the back of the toilet and tipped her head back. At least Sabel hadn’t offered to undress her. The shock and fear were still dampening every other sensation in her body, but some part of her mind warned her that tomorrow she was going to feel unbelievably horrified.
She hitched the dress up and struggled out of it, then threw it into the far corner of the room. Her bra followed and then the underpants. This part of a crisis was familiar to her: get clean, shake and cry from the shock, remember to eat something as soon as she felt hungry, and get to sleep if she could manage that; otherwise maybe she could stand some mind-numbing television.
She took the opportunity to put a tad of weight on her feet. They didn’t hurt as much as she expected from the trip up the stairs—the painkillers must be doing their thing. She was able to get to the edge of the tub with minimal ache. She braced on her hands and slid back into the cold porcelain basin, propping her heels up on the sides to keep the bandages out of the way. Then she leaned forward enough to close the drain and turn on the water. Sabel had run it until it warmed and made sure that it wouldn’t freeze her.
As the warm water embraced her, the shivery adrenaline of the last hours began to ebb, uncovering her deeper fears. She wasn’t supposed to get hit ever again in her life, or have to fight and run. San Francisco had been safe for her the last nine years, nothing like where she’d grown up. She hated the way that part of the evening felt familiar: feeling afraid and threatened, being trapped, the anticipation of pain that was as bad as the real pain when it came. But this was different, she insisted to herself. This time she could fight back effectively. She wasn’t a kid anymore.
Hell, even as a kid, she fought. In the trickle-down economics of their family, their father’s frustration and rage was passed on to her oldest brother Mack, who doled it out to her and Gunnar with all the brutal simplicity of a child. He hit them when he felt like it, choked them and laughed at their panic, and most often simply threatened and then mocked them. It was such a natural part of their lives, Ana used to think all families were like that and then she hit puberty. Mack stopped hitting and wrestling her and his attentions took a crueler turn, until the day she went after him with a knife. He never touched her again, but much about that day and all the days before it left her feeling like a monster.
The familiar heat of rage simmered under her breastbone and she wanted to strike out. She put her hands under the water and forced them open. She’d given all the details she could to the police. She had Drake’s name and she’d seen the faces of two of the men and had listened carefully to all of them. Although she couldn’t identify most of them, or where they’d taken her, she would use every resource at her disposal from the police to the media to the Internet, and she wouldn’t stop until these men were found and arrested. This time the right people would get hurt.
When the warm water had eased some of the soreness in her muscles, Ana picked up the soap and washed as well as she could without hurting herself more. Then there came the problem of getting out of the tub. She opened the drain and let the gray water out.
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