Excerpt from Novel by Becky Due

I died at 3:33 this morning. It’s kind of strange because while I was still alive, I loved those numbers on the digital clocks. Three threes, maybe because I wanted three babies. I always paid attention to numbers. My favorite was 12:34, one-two-three-four. It didn’t matter if it was afternoon or night; I saw it almost every time. I saw it tonight on his dash clock, too. I guess for the last time. I liked 11:11, eleven-eleven, too. But it was 3:33 that was the last time I saw.

I’m not in pain. In fact, I feel pretty good, better than I have for a long time. Kinda light and floaty. Maybe some kind of drug I’ve taken might be as close to explaining how I feel. I can’t believe it’s over. I’m not sure yet if I’m happy or sad. If I had some family close, maybe I’d be more upset, or if I had my own family, three kids and a wonderful husband.

I do miss my mom, though. I remember how she used to rock me when I was just a little girl. She used to brush my hair back off my face with her fingertips, sometimes tucking it behind my ear. Her hands always smelled of flowery scented lotion. She was so warm and I guess you could say tender. She was soft. She loved me. Sometimes she read to me, sometimes she just watched TV or listened to music with me. I remember the way the chair creaked when she rocked, putting me to sleep every time. They say if you count things that keep you up at night like the drips of a dripping faucet or loud chirping of the crickets, it will put you in a deeper sleep than ever. Maybe that’s how I feel, like I’m in a deep, deep sleep. The rocking chair was one of the greatest gifts my mom ever gave me, besides the times she rocked me in it. Even now, well, I mean before… whenever I needed comforting and peace I went straight to my rocking chair. I wish I was there now.

They covered my body with a sheet. Oh, God, this body. Look what I’ve done to it. Scars, physical and emotional. I wish only physical. But I guess that wouldn’t make sense. How can you have physical scars without having the emotional ones that go along with them? The physical scars never let you forget. And the man and woman who covered me will never let me forget. Laughing while saying, “Another one bites the dust” in the tune of the Queen song. Like they’re glad I’m gone. They didn’t even know me. But then again who did? Did I even know myself?

Maybe it is for the best. I never mattered to anybody. I was a brush in the dark, like the trains that used to pass behind the house every night when I was little. I wonder what time it was, if it was 12:34 or 3:33. Those nights were hot and we were poor, but I did have my own fan. I used to set it at the foot of my bed on a small stool. When the train would come, I would turn it off so I could hear the clanging of the metal on metal. I liked the sounds. I always wondered if my mom and dad heard it, too. Sometimes, I wanted to go in and wake them up so they could listen to it with me. Or maybe it was so I could crawl into bed with them. I think I woke up every night because of the train. But only in the summer when it was hot and we had the windows open. Many nights I couldn’t fall back to sleep, so I’d flip around with my head at the foot of the bed, turn the fan on high, and sing or talk into it. I liked to hear and feel the vibration. Once in a while, my dad came in to tell me to go to sleep. It was hard to sleep in that heat. It must have been for him, too. Some nights he’d sing into the fan with me. Only once I remember mom ending up in my room, too, all of us lying at the foot of my bed singing into the fan.

Even with only a sheet for a cover it was too hot. But I had to have that cover. Sometimes I’d take my pajamas off instead of the sheet. I had this strange feeling that if I wasn’t covered with the sheet something would get me. I could have my head, arms and shoulders out but nothing else. That fear stayed with me throughout my life.

But in death, I want the sheet off. I want to scream! I want to kick it off! But I can’t…

I hope my dad is waiting for me just inside the gates. I know he’s there. He was the greatest man I ever knew. I guess he was an alcoholic, bad one, too. But he found that group of people and his higher power the day I was born. He was drunk the first time he saw me, and cried for the first time in his life. I loved to listen to him tell the story, even the gross part how chunks came out of his tear ducts, snot out of his nose and mouth. What hadn’t been used had been blocked, until that day in the hospital. He sat on the floor beneath the viewing window crying, until someone made a phone call and the room filled with men who really cared, men who had been there. Mom and I were lucky. Mom knew the difference, but I never did. She always told me I was her gift from God, and Dad’s, too. Many lives changed on that day. He was the greatest man on earth. I only wish he could have stayed longer. I was twelve when he passed away. Many lives changed on that day, too.

Mom was never the same; neither was I. I guess we both felt abandoned by his death, and maybe at the same time we felt abandoned by God. We needed him. He was everything to us. We lived our lives for him and he did for us. When he died, Mom started drinking. A lot of dad’s friends tried to help but less and less as time went on. Mom just wanted to kill the pain, maybe kill herself. I came home from school to find her passed out in some strange position in a different location in the house every day. I got strong carrying her to bed. I was scared on every walk home. What would I find? Is my mom going to leave me, too?

She didn’t; I left her.

I couldn’t take it anymore. At fifteen, I left. There was a party house across town. Anybody was welcome, anytime they wanted to be there. I wouldn’t have to take care of anybody but myself. I tried to go to school, but it was hard to get a ride and the walk was long. Even when I did make it, I hadn’t done my homework so I was failing my classes. Then, I didn’t go back. I shot pool, did a little drinking, tried some drugs. I just hung out with everybody who hung out there, and I did what they did. An older man kept a close eye on me for a long time. He protected me from others who might have wanted to hurt me. I used to pretend that he was my dad and that everything would be all right, until he raped me. That was my first experience with sex and I guess you could say my only experience with sex. At sixteen, I was walking at night from a bar owned by one of the guys who hung out at the house. I was high on drugs. I dropped my purse and all my stuff spilled out onto the sidewalk. I bent over to pick it up when a man pulled over and asked how much. “Fifty bucks,” I said trying to be cocky and joking, fumbling with my things. “OK,” he said and opened his car door. At this time, I still didn’t know what I was doing or what I was getting myself into. I staggered my way into his car, closed the door and off we went to a parking lot. All I really wanted was a ride to the house. When he finished, he opened the back seat door and literally kicked me out. I sat on the cold pavement and cried. The pavement felt the same as it does now. Or maybe I felt the same as I do now — dead.

I didn’t understand what was happening. But that’s how it began. It wasn’t always that cold-hearted. Sometimes guys really tried to make me feel good like I mattered, like I meant something to them. That was the worst. They would hand me the wad of cash sometimes giving more than I asked for. Sometimes guys gave me nothing at all or maybe a fat lip or black eye. Some took me to nice hotels, others to the back seat of their cars. Of course I became a pro. I knew how to act and what to say. I always acted like I was having a great time and like it was the best sex ever. A nice smile on my face, “I love being a prostitute, greatest job ever. I get to meet such wonderful people such as yourself.” Or, “I’m just putting myself through school,” would come out, depending on the customer. “I’m lucky; all women should do it.” I was numb and screaming on the inside, crying for my mom and dad to save me. Screaming for God to save me. Please! Somebody save me!

Drinking and drugs numbed the pain. And helped kill me at the same time by keeping me from saving myself. What else could I do? The pain was too great. How else could I survive? This is the way it was. This is what my life had become.

The only comfort I had was the rocking chair and whatever substance I could find to ease the pain. And trains, I still had trains. And that’s why I was trying to save some money. I wanted to ride on a train. I believed I would one day. I used to come home, sit in my rocking chair and imagine jumping on a train and going wherever it would take me. There, I would meet my future husband who would be a lot like my father. And my mother would be my maid of honor, and my father would walk me down the aisle at our wedding. My husband would love me so much, and I would love him. Maybe we’d open a little shop together for tourists who step off the train. Soon, I’d be pregnant with our first child. Maybe we’d name him Train because if it wasn’t for the train we would have never met.

I stood outside. It was kind of chilly, so I just stood back against the wall of the building, hoping a regular would hunt me down. I wasn’t enthusiastic about being out, but I wasn’t any other night either. Earlier in the day, I actually had the courage to call about the cost of a train ride and I felt strong for doing it. The woman was so nice to me on the phone; she didn’t know who she was talking to. And for a minute, I forgot, too. I was more excited than ever. I was so close to taking this trip that I didn’t really fit in this life anymore.

But still, I had some money to make in order to take the trip. The trip would be to go see my mom. I had moved away a few years ago to a bigger city. I called once in a while. Sometimes she sounded good; sometimes she didn’t. It was the same for me: sometimes I sounded good; sometimes I didn’t. Sometimes I only called because I needed money. Sometimes, because I really cared how she was doing. I told her I was a struggling actress, which was the truth. I acted my way through life, and I believe she knew it was worse than I let on. Sometimes I wished she would have sobered up and rescued me from this hell.

I should have saved myself.

There were people out there who could have helped me. Maybe at certain times in my life they tried. But I wouldn’t let them. I guess I was just too stubborn and proud to let them in. How could I? I had become trash. That’s how I had been treated and that’s how I treated myself.

Why would anyone want to help? And really the only people who would want to help would be other women. How in the hell could they help? The men who should have helped me would rather hurt me. So they always know they are superior to us. What help could I get from a woman when some think I’m the enemy? I don’t like being here… I’m the enemy. I wish they would realize that I’m not the enemy. The men who kept me here are, the men who used me and treated me as less than a human. The men who had their power to help me but would rather hurt me.

He lived in a huge house in a valley. When I arrived at the house the thought of stealing crossed my mind, but I knew I was so close to getting out that I didn’t want to ruin my karma. The man seemed too young to have so much but I didn’t ask questions. Later I realized that it was his parents’ home and they were out of town and he still lived at home. He made me lead the way as he directed me down the curvy stairway next to a waterfall and indoor pool. The waterfall landed in different pools where Koi fish swam and plants surrounded the ponds. I tried not to look impressed, but I felt like I was in the Garden of Eden, it was so beautiful. Why would somebody like him come looking for somebody like me. He was not a bad looking guy, a little strange maybe, but not bad looking. He must have had great parents, successful. Oh, well, let’s get it over with. He paid for two hours and the clock was ticking. As we approached the bedroom I started to remove my top. I turned to him to let him watch and I felt the back of his hand like a brick against my face. I fell back against the bed. Oh, God, not one of these. He came after me and hit me again. He had a hold of my hair and pulled at my shirt ripping it to one side. He punched my bare breast again and again. Oh, God! He flung me over to my stomach, pulled my shorts down and climbed on me penetrating my anus, tearing me, ripping me. It felt like a knife going in and out. Oh, God, make it stop! Make it stop! I cried silently hoping he would finish soon. He did. He told me to stay put, so I did. I didn’t know if he had left the room or if he was just standing there silent, looking at me. Too much time had passed so I turned and sat up. When I did, I realized that I was bleeding, but I couldn’t tell where it was coming from. Blood was everywhere, and he was gone. I stood and tried to find my way out of the bedroom and out of the house. I knew the trail of blood I was leaving behind, but I couldn’t help it. I was weak and blacking out. I had to lean on the wall for support. It was suddenly clear to me that he had been stabbing me in my breast not punching me. I made my way to the stairway and I could hear him talking. Please don’t let him see me. I took one step at a time. I was almost to the top when a telephone crashed into my face and sent me falling back down the stairs. I lay there bleeding. He stepped over and picked up the phone. He told whoever he had been talking to that he dropped the phone and that he’d call them back later. He started raping me again. Before he finished he pulled me up and threw me over to a white couch in a sitting area by the pool. He kept punching my face while inside me. I could see a digital clock on the stereo; it was 3:33. I blacked out.

That is the last part of my life. It happened so fast. I’m not sure how I ended up here on the pavement. It’s probably where he dumped me. I’m not in pain anymore, but I hurt because I didn’t get a chance to live my dream… a dream that could have come true.