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SUN SLANTED THROUGH the floor-length windows of Lexie’s new rental home. It was a small ranch, cheery on the outside with pale blue siding and white shutters. Flowers bloomed along the walk, pops of bright color against the muted backdrop of the house.
Nestled amongst a cluster of century homes and the occasional Cape Cod like hers, she was only a couple minutes away from the town square. The location couldn’t have been better.
Though small, the place was hospitable, with an eat-in kitchen, a small living room, and two bedrooms. The house didn’t feel like home, but nowhere did, not even her parent’s house. One thing Lexie had discovered these past months was that nothing or nowhere could possibly feel like home when you didn’t feel at home within yourself. Home meant peace, to be comfortable, feel secure, protected. And Lexie doubted she would ever experience those things again—within herself, this house, or life in general.
Lexie walked into the kitchen, to her refrigerator, and grabbed the pitcher of iced tea. She filled a glass, looking around the room. Boxes were strewn about, some stacked in neat piles, while others were piled on top of furniture. Her whole life sat in stacks, wrapped up and packaged away in thin squares of cardboard.
A part of her wanted to turn away—turn a blind eye to the life she led before, leaving her things packed away, forever collecting dust. Forgetting how things were, how they could be, seemed easier.
Prior to her rape, her life had been carefree. She had a job she loved, an apartment in the city with a great view (which she fought ruthlessly to get), and the best friend a girl could ask for. She had left home with practically nothing and worked ruthlessly for her life. Some things were missing, sure—like love, Elliot—but she had been happy, satisfied for the time being.
Her grip tightened on the cool glass of tea, and once again, she asked herself the one question which plagued her. How could one event, one cruel act, ruin her life so completely?
A piece of her wanted to forget the life she led before, because living day-to-day, knowing what she lost, nearly killed her, but the part that remembered, that needed her to remember, was stronger. In some respects, her old life led to her rape, and a part of her feared that if she moved back into her old apartment in the city, the same thing was destined to happen all over again, as if it were a magnet for the viciousness that had been imposed on her. Nevertheless, at the very least, she desperately wanted the old Lexie back. She wanted to be able to go to a new town, a new city, walking the streets, stopping somewhere unfamiliar for a bite to eat, without fear of the demons which may lie in wait behind each door. She wanted to laugh again, to really laugh, the throaty, gut-wrenching kind of laugh that either left her doubled over, clutching her stomach, or wiping tears away from her eyes. She wanted to enjoy the simple things; because she no longer really enjoyed anything. Behind any happiness, any crystal clear, sunny day, lie the memory of what happened, clouding everything good with malignance.
Lexie walked over to her sofa and sat down. She rubbed a hand over the smooth white fabric. She remembered the day she picked it out. She was with Sienna. They went to every furniture store in town until Lexie found the one sofa which suited her most, the one she said, “just begged to come home with her.”
She missed Sienna. The clincher was that she needed her more than ever, yet she had trouble calling her, looking at even a photograph, or speaking her name, without the image of Brent, dark, ugly, and threatening, overwhelming her.
Lexie leaned forward on the sofa and covered her face with her hands, hoping to shield herself from the desperate thoughts. She had trouble envisioning a future where she and Sienna could manage to have the same friendship they once shared—a notion which left her feeling ragged and drained. Hopeless was a word she never would’ve used to describe their relationship. But lately, that’s what it appeared to be.
Moreover, hopelessness seemed to be the theme in her life as of late. The crushing desire to regain some part of her former self, her former life, seemed to tear her in two. She was like the baby King Solomon had the women fight over in the infamous biblical feud. She was in the middle of a fight for her life. The rape pulled her one way (towards darkness and despair), while her desire to thrive (an innate survival instinct), pulled her in another direction. She wanted to rise from the ashes and form new life for herself. One which encompassed both the Lexie of old, and the new, scarred one. Yet part of her wished to give in and pull herself into the desperation and despair that churned around her like a tide pool, dark and deep, soaking through her, chilling her to the bone and threatening to drown her.
She heard footsteps on the small porch just outside the front door. Her first reaction was confusion because her family was all at the farm working. Her second reaction was fear. Pure and bitter, it rose around her like a thick fog, grounding her to where she stood.
She remained immobile, knowing she needed to look out the window, see who was at her door, but her muscles wouldn’t budge. The pounding of blood in her ears blocked out any other noise. She no longer heard the traffic on the street or the preening of birds in the trees.
The knock on the door drilled straight through her, matching the rapid thumping of her heart.
“Lex? It’s Elliot.”
Her body reacted slowly to the familiar voice, but after a few moments, the tension in her shoulders dissipated, and slowly, one-by-one, she felt her extremities go liquid. The pumping in her ears disappeared, leaving behind a humming in the surrounding silence.
She exhaled, fighting back the tears which threatened her aching, burning, eyes. Her reaction was just another reminder of how she had changed, of how her life seemed an endless minefield, with her in the middle, just waiting for someone to step on the wrong spot, the one that would implode, taking her life once-and-for-all.
Her legs wobbled like rubber. Regardless, she managed to make her way toward the door. She peeked through the screen and confirmed the visitor as Elliot.
He stood with his back toward her, peering out into the street, his hands in his pockets.
She forced her vocal cords out of remission, and said, “Hey.” Her voice cracked, showing her nerves.
Elliot turned around, brows scrunched, his lips pressed into a thin line. The concern in his eyes was palpable as he searched Lexie’s face.
She forced a smile, and his demeanor visibly eased.
The smile she got in return was pure Elliot—slow, steady, and with the power to light up the world. “Sorry. I got nervous when you didn’t answer right away. I thought maybe something was wrong or maybe you had changed your mind about my coming today.”
She thought of his request to spend time with her. She had been reluctant to say yes, for fear of where things might lead. But in the end, she was powerless against him, and she agreed. Foolish or not, every ounce of her wanted to be near him.
“No. I’m glad you came. I can’t tackle all this by myself,” she said, turning towards the living room. “Plus, I don’t want to be alone...” She bit her lip. Standing this close to him, made her remember how natural being with him was, how comfortable and easy. Even now, a part of her wanted to throw her arms around his neck and lay her head on his shoulder. Loving Elliot was easy and always had been. Not loving him, even after all these years, was the hard part.
“Come in.” She moved from the door, allowing him to step further inside.
He brushed past her and into the living room. After a few awkward moments of small talk, they got to work on the boxes. Together, they unpacked, finding homes for Lexie’s things, while ignoring the intimacy of kneeling together on the floor, hovering over her old life, finding room for her things in a new one.
They remained mostly silent with the occasional question from Elliot as to where to put something, followed by Lexie’s suggestions. Despite the lack of conversation, the air between them was charged. When she reached across him to take a framed photo of her and Sienna, she prepared herself for the zap she knew would come with the contact.
They pulled decorations, pictures, photography equipment, amongst other things, from the boxes. Everything they removed told a silent story—one about the life she led after him and before now. She wondered what conclusions he drew from her possessions and how they affected the way he saw her.
“So, how have you been?” Elliot asked breaking the silence.
There were a million answers to this one question.
“Fine.” She shrugged.
He looked at her, his clear blue eyes, penetrating her to the core. “No. How have you been, really?”
Lexie sighed. All the things she wanted to say most, she couldn’t. “Okay, I guess. Scared mostly. Sometimes angry. It depends on the day.”
“Are you scared right now?”
Lexie’s jaw clenched, her mouth tightening with the movement. What could she tell him? That most days she was petrified, but when he was near all her fears faded away? That he made her feel safe, more at home than she had felt in over six months? All of those answers were dangerous, so she evaded, avoiding the real question: Are you scared when you’re with me?
“Going through my things scares me...It scares me that I may never be the same person again, that I’m not the same person now. I look at the remnants of a life I lived only months ago, yet is as unfamiliar to me as a stranger—a notion that’s indescribably scary. All of my things, my furniture, scare me simply because they remind me of my apartment, of the place where...”
Elliot nodded, letting her answer die, then walked over to the corner of the room and took a new box off the stack. He began to open it and unwrapped a set of dishes, which he placed in the kitchen sink to be washed.
“It’s a nice place,” he said, looking around the room.
“Yeah. It is.”
“How long do you plan on staying?”
Lexie shrugged. How did she answer a question, she herself, didn’t even know the answer to? “I don’t know. I can’t go back to Pittsburgh, at least not now. I’ve never known anywhere else, and the idea of moving somewhere unfamiliar seems...impossible. For now, this is the only place I see myself. Plus, my therapist thinks the support I have here, my family, is the best thing for me.”
She glanced up from her unpacking, gauging his reaction at the mention of a therapist, relieved to see he looked nonplussed.
He opened his mouth, then closed it. She could tell by the clouded look in his eyes, the set of his jaw, that he was thinking hard about something. Whatever question he was about to ask, he must have decided against because he remained silent for several beats before he said, “I’m glad you’re back.”
Why? She wondered. How could he possibly be glad she was back? How did his heart have so much room to forgive?
She avoided his gaze. “Thanks.”
An hour of unpacking in the living room and kitchen passed. They moved on to Lexie’s bedroom at Elliot’s suggestion. He thought getting her clothes put away and having somewhere to sleep was most important. Otherwise, she’d be sleeping on the couch.
She entered the room in front of Elliot. The contrast between this home and her old apartment were startling. Instead of the clean, modern lines of her city apartment and the large vaulted ceilings, this room had typical nine-foot ceilings with an old-fashioned light fixture. The floors of her old apartment consisted of gleaming hardwood in honey tones, which accented the earth tone shade of the rooms throughout. However, the plush gray carpeting and practical white walls of the rental home suited Lexie just fine.
She glanced in the corner, where the one thing, which seemed larger than life, remained the same. Her old wrought iron bed lay in pieces in the middle of the room.
She stared at the bed, her eyes vacant, remembering bits and pieces of the night of her assault like shards of glass, jagged and sharp. Swallowing, she glanced up at Elliot. Concern shadowed his eyes, and she wondered briefly if the people in her life would be in a constant state of worry.
“Get rid of the bed,” Lexie said, her voice flat. “Please. Can you get rid of it?”
He looked at her with a flash of understanding in his eyes, and without hesitation set his mouth, and nodded, wordlessly.
He took the headboard first and then the footboard, carrying each of them out the sliding glass doors to the small patio out back. He heaved them onto the stone with force. He returned for the mattress, awkwardly lifting and shifting it onto its side, and then pushed it through the door.
Lexie followed him, watching, her hands clasped into a single ball in front of her. An irrational part of her needed to see for herself that the bed was gone, no longer in her home, drenching everything in the memories of the nightmare engrained in its every fiber.
When he finished, he leaned into the wall, his arms bracing himself, forehead pressed against the cool, smooth surface as his hands clenched into fists. Anger radiated from him, strong enough, Lexie had to look away.
She gathered her hair in her hands, lifting it off her hot neck. She closed her eyes, trying to maintain a level head, trying to ease back the memories, the feelings, and the fear that had slowly begun to reach her, like a thick, choking smoke. Because holding her emotions at bay seemed somehow crucial to her making a new home there.
After a moment, she opened her eyes. But when she glanced around the room, there seemed to be a gaping absence in the bare spot where her bed had sat moments before, so she focused on the freeing sensation of being free of the reminder.
Eventually, her anxiety eased, and she returned to unpacking her suitcases, removing her clothes and organizing them into drawers in her dresser and in her closet. When she glanced over at Elliot again, he was elbow deep in a box of his own, pulling out a stack of photo albums—ones that had been stowed under the bed at her apartment. She watched his expression, so focused, and noted the gentle curve of his lips, then noticed the soft lines and shadows around his eyes and wondered vainly if the stress of her leaving had put them there.
He continued unpacking and pulled out an article of clothing. He stared at it, puzzled, his face contorted, most likely wondering why it was in the box with her photos.
She got up and moved toward him, explaining, “I had mover’s pack—” she started to say but stopped cold.
Her eyes widened, and her arm that had reached out to grab the garment from him froze. The hanger in her other hand fell, clattering to the floor.
It was a robe, her robe—the one she went to bed in the night Brent raped her.
Lexie stared at the dark cotton, amazed there were no stains, nothing defacing the cloth, indicating the torture of the woman who had worn it.
Without thinking, she moved forward as Elliot’s grip on the robe weakened, and she tore it from his grasp. The black silk mocked her, matching her now-battered soul as she left the room.
The combination of the bed and robe, reminders of what happened, gnawed on her heart. The images in her head buzzed—of Brent, of that night, her blemished friendship with Sienna.
Her breathing became shallow and her feet numb, moving of their own accord, without direction from her. She entered the kitchen. On the counter lay a candle she lit earlier (an attempt to feel at home) and a box of matches.
She snatched the matches off the counter and went to the stove. She didn’t think. She couldn’t if she tried. Instead, her body moved on instinct, anger and desperation driving her actions. Wrenching open the door to the oven, she threw the robe inside. Lighting one match after the other, she threw them on the fabric until it caught fire.
She watched the small flame flicker and dance, and when she thought it may go out, she threw the entire box on the flames. The fabric went up in a blaze. A loud whoosh exploded in Lexie’s ears. Fire, orange and yellow, and bright, licked the outside of the oven, and smoke began to fill the room.
Lexie didn’t flinch when the smoke alarms went off. Instead, she continued to stare at the inferno—smoldering inside the oven like her anger smoldered in her.
She stared directly into the fire with a blinding intensity, the smell of burning acrylic stung her nostrils. The flames seemed to grow before her eyes, reaching toward the hand towel that lay on the counter next to the stove, threatening to catch fire, but Lexie made no move to retrieve it.
Heat burned her cheeks. The image of the robe, her rape, every evil thing Brent did, was washed out by the flames. Soon, she saw Brent’s face in the fire, burning. And one thought ran through her head, over and over, as if looped on a movie reel.
Die.