He was protecting me (Alex)
Thanks for stopping by and getting this far in Just Remember to Breathe. This is the conclusion of chapter nine, and the major turning point in the novel. I’d love to hear any thoughts or feedback on the story!
While we’re here, I want to give a quick update on the Kickstarter campaign for Insurgent. Four days in, and the campaign is now 10% funded, with $395 pledged by 10 supporters! That’s great news, but there’s still a long way to go. If you want to check it out and support Insurgent, please visit the Kickstarter page!
On to the story:
“Woah,” Randy said as he grabbed my arms. “Be careful!”
I’d lost my balance, and when he grabbed my arms I still didn’t have my feet under me. He shoved me against a wall, hard, then pressed himself against me.
“God I want you so bad,” he said, putting his lips against the side of my face. I tried to push him away, but he was a lot stronger than I was. As I squirmed, I screamed, as loud as I could, “Let go of me! Help! Dylan!”
“Oh, shut up,” he said. He pushed his right hand against my mouth, and with his left he stuck his hand under my skirt, his disgusting hand reaching between my legs. I fought, as hard as I could, struggling against him, against the need to vomit and scream and cry out at the same time.
Suddenly there was a huge muscled arm around his neck. He was yanked off of me, and I heard a guttural shout, “Get your hands off of her!”
I fell to the floor. Dylan was there, dragging Randy away from me, his face murder.
Randy struggled against him, pulled away, and then Dylan grabbed him by the shoulders and slammed him against the wall.
“I’ll kill you, you motherfucker!” Dylan screamed. Then he reached out, and with his right fist, still encased in the cast, he punched Randy in the face. I heard bone crunch, and Randy’s face just collapsed, blood spurting out of his nose. It was a nightmare.
Randy fell backwards to the floor, and Dylan rushed forward, straddling him. He was like nothing I’d ever seen. Savage, his face twisted in rage, the muscles in his shoulders and arms bunched up and tense. He threw a punch, then another, screaming in Randy’s face the entire time. Then he grabbed Randy by the shoulders and lifted his upper body and slammed it on the floor, twice, hard. Randy’s head bounced off the floor with a loud cracking sound.
The music had stopped, and there were screams as some of the other guests saw what was happening. Dylan raised his fist to punch Randy again, and suddenly Sherman was behind him, grabbing Dylan behind the elbows.
“He’s down,” Sherman shouted in Dylan’s ear. “That’s enough!”
Dylan struggled in his rage, trying to get away, to get back to Randy and his murderous rage.
Sherman shouted, “It’s enough! Go check on Alex!”
At my name, Dylan stopped struggling. He turned, suddenly, toward me. I could see spatters of Randy’s blood on his face.
I burst into tears as someone called out, “Somebody call 911!”
The next moment, Dylan’s arms were around me, and I was sobbing. I was sobbing because of the attempted rape, because of my fear, because of Randy’s attempt to attack me a second time. But I was also sobbing for Dylan, for the man I loved, who had been in such a murderous rage. I was sobbing for what might happen to him, because Randy was unconscious and looked as if Dylan had hit him hard enough to kill.
I was sobbing because I was terrified that I was going to lose him.
The next twenty minutes were a blur, as the paramedics and police arrived. The paramedics went to work on Randy, and soon carried him out on a gurney, a brace around his neck, bandages on the back of his head. Then the police went to work, questioning people.
Then they came to us. They had to pull us apart, because I wouldn’t let go of him. His arms were calm, down by his side, but I kept mine around his waist as they pulled us apart and placed the handcuffs on him. I sank to the floor as they took him away.
As they hauled him away, one officer on each side, hands gripping his upper arms, he turned his head and looked back at me, his eyes wide. I couldn’t tell what he was trying to say.
A female police officer approached me, and said, “You’re Alex? I’m Officer Perez. You can call me Christina.”
I nodded, unable to stop the tears; sobbing uncontrollably.
“I need to take your statement now, while it’s fresh, okay?”
I tried to control myself, and it just got worse. “Is he going to be okay?”
“Well, it’s too soon to tell. They’re taking him to the hospital now, there may be a head injury.”
“I don’t mean him! He’s a rapist! I want to know about Dylan.”
Her eyes widened, then she said, “Wait. Let’s back up, and please tell me the whole story.”
And so I did. Starting with the first date I had with Randy last spring, then when he tried to rape me and his roommates intervened. About how I was too ashamed to report it. And how he had cornered me in the kitchen, backed me into that dark hallway, and then stuck his hand up my skirt while holding me against the wall.
“He was going to rape me,” I whispered. “Dylan stopped him. He was protecting me.”
All the time I was telling the story, Carrie and Sherman were standing at the other end of the kitchen. Carrie’s eyes were huge and sad. When the questioning was over, without a word, she walked over and put her arms around me. I began sobbing again, breaking down this time completely. I cried like I was never going to be able to stop. I cried for the boy I loved, who had grown not just into a man, but a man filled with rage.
A man who might be capable of murder.
A man who had just been led away, his arms locked behind his back in handcuffs.
This is first draft material from a new story I’m working on. You can find the beginning and contents of the story, here.