check a few things, Meg. I know this may feel uncomfortable, but I’m not going to hurt you. Please understand we’re all here to help you. Even if it seems that we’re asking too much, we have your best interests at heart.”
The nurse reaches out. She takes Meg’s wrist with her gloved fingers. Immediately, Meg recoils. She yanks back her hand.
“No,” Meg says, though she doesn’t know why. She is shaking her head. The night is not so beautiful anymore. “No,” she says again. “No, no.”
“Your wrist is bleeding,” the nurse says patiently. “I just need to look at it, see if it needs treatment.” She reaches out again with her gloved hand and takes Meg’s wrist.
“No!” This time Meg flies off the table. She clutches her bleeding wrist against her chest, feeling her heart pound as she searches frantically for some means of escape. The door is closed. She is trapped in the tiny exam room with this woman and those gloves. The gloves smell. Can’t the woman smell them? They have a horrible, horrible smell.
Meg turns around and around. No place to go. No way to escape. She shrinks down onto the cold, white floor. She cradles her bleeding wrists against her, and for reasons she can’t explain, she whimpers.
The nurse is looking at her. Her face has not changed. Her expression is set, unreadable, but at least she doesn’t come any closer.
“Does your wrist hurt?” the nurse asks quietly.
Meg has not thought about it. But now that the woman mentions it . . . Meg looks down at her wrists. Big, huge welts circle the tiny forms. She can see fresh blood and dark purple bruises marring her skin.
“They . . . they sting,” Meg says. Her voice holds a trace of wonder.
The nurse squats down until she is eye level.
“Meg, I’m here to help you. If you let me, I will treat your wrists and help them feel better. I also want to help you another way, Meg. My job is to assist in catching the person who did this to you, who made your wrists sting. To do that, I need to take some pictures. And I need to examine the rest of you as well. I know this isn’t easy right now. But if you will trust me, I promise I won’t hurt you.”
Slowly, Meg nods her head. She isn’t afraid of this woman. In fact, she has come to like her stern face and unwavering gaze. This woman seems strong, in control. Meg rises back up. She holds out her raw, torn wrists.
But the moment the woman touches her again, places those latex-covered fingers against her skin . . .
“I’m going to be sick,” Meg says, and just barely makes it to the stainless steel sink.
The door opens, then closes as the nurse leaves the room. Meg runs the water for a bit. She rinses off her face, which she had already done twice before the police came, another thing that made them growl in disapproval.
Meg’s mouth hurts. She finds a mirror and studies her face for a long time. The corners of her mouth are bleeding slightly. The flesh there is torn.
Meg is honestly confused. She searches her memory for some kind of hint, but all she can recall is a faraway sensation of whisper-light touches against her skin. Soft, teasing caresses. And she is holding her breath, hoping he will come closer, closer.
Please, kiss me.
She shivers. And a moment later, she realizes that for the first time all night, she is afraid.
From outside comes the sound of voices. The nurse and the police officers are once more talking about her.
“Latex? She was tied up with strips of
latex
? For God’s sake, gentlemen, that’s the kind of detail you might want to mention to me. I just approached her all gloved up and she about climbed the walls. No wonder she was scared out of her mind.”
“So you think she was raped?”
“Of course she was raped. Have you looked at her mouth? Consensual lovers don’t generally gag their partners.”
“Yeah, yeah, but . . . listen to her. ‘Isn’t it a beautiful night.’ And she’s humming all the time and smiling to herself.
The nurse reaches out. She takes Meg’s wrist with her gloved fingers. Immediately, Meg recoils. She yanks back her hand.
“No,” Meg says, though she doesn’t know why. She is shaking her head. The night is not so beautiful anymore. “No,” she says again. “No, no.”
“Your wrist is bleeding,” the nurse says patiently. “I just need to look at it, see if it needs treatment.” She reaches out again with her gloved hand and takes Meg’s wrist.
“No!” This time Meg flies off the table. She clutches her bleeding wrist against her chest, feeling her heart pound as she searches frantically for some means of escape. The door is closed. She is trapped in the tiny exam room with this woman and those gloves. The gloves smell. Can’t the woman smell them? They have a horrible, horrible smell.
Meg turns around and around. No place to go. No way to escape. She shrinks down onto the cold, white floor. She cradles her bleeding wrists against her, and for reasons she can’t explain, she whimpers.
The nurse is looking at her. Her face has not changed. Her expression is set, unreadable, but at least she doesn’t come any closer.
“Does your wrist hurt?” the nurse asks quietly.
Meg has not thought about it. But now that the woman mentions it . . . Meg looks down at her wrists. Big, huge welts circle the tiny forms. She can see fresh blood and dark purple bruises marring her skin.
“They . . . they sting,” Meg says. Her voice holds a trace of wonder.
The nurse squats down until she is eye level.
“Meg, I’m here to help you. If you let me, I will treat your wrists and help them feel better. I also want to help you another way, Meg. My job is to assist in catching the person who did this to you, who made your wrists sting. To do that, I need to take some pictures. And I need to examine the rest of you as well. I know this isn’t easy right now. But if you will trust me, I promise I won’t hurt you.”
Slowly, Meg nods her head. She isn’t afraid of this woman. In fact, she has come to like her stern face and unwavering gaze. This woman seems strong, in control. Meg rises back up. She holds out her raw, torn wrists.
But the moment the woman touches her again, places those latex-covered fingers against her skin . . .
“I’m going to be sick,” Meg says, and just barely makes it to the stainless steel sink.
The door opens, then closes as the nurse leaves the room. Meg runs the water for a bit. She rinses off her face, which she had already done twice before the police came, another thing that made them growl in disapproval.
Meg’s mouth hurts. She finds a mirror and studies her face for a long time. The corners of her mouth are bleeding slightly. The flesh there is torn.
Meg is honestly confused. She searches her memory for some kind of hint, but all she can recall is a faraway sensation of whisper-light touches against her skin. Soft, teasing caresses. And she is holding her breath, hoping he will come closer, closer.
Please, kiss me.
She shivers. And a moment later, she realizes that for the first time all night, she is afraid.
From outside comes the sound of voices. The nurse and the police officers are once more talking about her.
“Latex? She was tied up with strips of
latex
? For God’s sake, gentlemen, that’s the kind of detail you might want to mention to me. I just approached her all gloved up and she about climbed the walls. No wonder she was scared out of her mind.”
“So you think she was raped?”
“Of course she was raped. Have you looked at her mouth? Consensual lovers don’t generally gag their partners.”
“Yeah, yeah, but . . . listen to her. ‘Isn’t it a beautiful night.’ And she’s humming all the time and smiling to herself.
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