Elastic Heart (9 page)

I could handle that, though. I understood it. People didn’t view me as a person. They weren’t making fun of
me,
they were making fun of the
joke
. I moved on. What I couldn’t handle any more was the small and supposedly uplifting shit people posted on their walls.

One thing particularly stood out to me. It was a quote done up in a pretty font with a pastel background. You know the type. It read, “Your naked body should only belong to those who fall in love with your naked soul.” At first glance, it’s a beautiful and pithy saying that makes you feel warm and fuzzy inside. A bunch of people liked it and all they had to say was “beautiful” or “Love this.”

The person who had posted it said she only hoped to teach her daughter that one thing.

At first I shrugged at it then moved on.

But it gnawed at me.

And kept gnawing.

Really, that’s all you want to teach your daughter?
All
you want to teach your daughter is that her body is sacred? That she absolutely cannot fail at finding someone to honor her body?

It kept festering inside me. I knew I should just unfollow the chick. She was like everyone else, not realizing how even the simplest of words can shape a person or even an entire generation. I used to think like that. I used to like those photos. And then my naked body was taken by someone who had no intention of loving anything about my soul. He didn’t even love my body.

And
I
was the one who felt bad. That was the messed up part of the whole scenario.
I
was the one made to feel bad.
He
did the wrongdoing but
I
felt bad because my body was ruined.

So naturally I blew up on Facebook. I wrote a long, thought-out argument against slut shaming and how we view women in society and how it needs to change. Her response? “I just liked the words, chill out.”

I deleted my account that day.

Taking another swig of whiskey, I focused on the scars in the wood. Little scratches covered the table I sat at. Some were intentional, with etchings that said shit like “Linda and Joey forever,” but others weren’t. Other scars had just happened, marring the wood for life.

I took another swig.

“There you are.” I didn’t stop to think how Law had found me because he seemed to have some GPS that pinpointed my exact location. I merely took the final sip of my drink and turned to face him. He looked exactly as I’d left him. Handsome. Beautiful. Absolutely perfect. Internally I screamed.

“Why did you leave?” he asked. Concern etched his features, but also something else. Was it understanding? No, it couldn’t be. There was no way he could understand.

I couldn’t tell him that our kiss reminded me of
him
. That I felt sick to my stomach and didn’t want to admit it. That
I
felt horrible that
he
had ruined such a beautiful thing. That
I
felt horrible that I had
let him
ruin such a beautiful thing. That it was easier to run away than confront any of it.

I shrugged and stood up.

“Nami!” Law grabbed my arm as I made my exit from the bar.

“What?” I snapped, turning to face him. Why couldn’t he realize I was utterly damaged? I was broken beyond repair. His warm hazel gaze, like melting caramel, needed to fixate on somebody else. Someone who could appreciate it.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” he replied. I shrugged him off, pushing the bar doors wide open. Oh I was going to do something stupid. I was going to do something
really
stupid.

Back to where it all began: the campaign office. Banners hung on the walls that said “Morris: More to Hope For” in red, white, and blue. Cardboard boxes filled with buttons and pens to giveaway were stacked haphazardly. Fingering the cool plastic surfaces of the buttons, I remembered my first day like it was yesterday.

“This will be your cubicle. You share it with two other interns,”
some no-name staff coordinator had said, pointing to a depressing looking box. At the time it could have been Oz’s Royal Palace, I was that enamored. The coordinator went over sexual harassment (HA!) and a few other rudimentary things before giving me my task. I was to stamp and mail flyers to campaign supporters.

The day flew by quickly. I felt like a member of the team. Becca Riley, Morris’s campaign manager and resident rattlesnake, stopped by the desk to wish me luck on my first day. I nearly fainted. Then, as if the day couldn’t get any better for naive me, Morris himself walked in.

Mitch Morris was an icon. With perfectly maintained dyed blond hair, blue eyes, and an Abercrombie jaw, he was the epitome of the all-American boy. When I thought back on the time, I was sickened by myself. Sickened, because I knew if he’d just asked me to sleep with him, I would have said yes. Instead he’d decided to force it.

Over the months, I’d felt myself change. I used to be so hopeful and naive. I thought the world could be a better place. I thought we were all working toward the same goal: a better tomorrow. I was an idiot, I guess. Now, I’m was still working toward that goal, but I now know you can’t fight evil with good, you have to fight evil with evil.

I walked along the empty cubicles and desks, the dark night illuminating the surfaces in gray. The lonesome office was such a stark contrast to the day. During the daylight hours the office was a mess of phone calls, yelling, and paper shuffling. Everyone had a job to do; most had multiple jobs to do. It felt like I was walking through a ghost town.

I had a job to do, even now: take down Senator Mitch Morris. Fight evil with evil. My plan was to get him indicted on some other charge, even if it was phony. If I couldn’t prove he was an evil, raping bastard, I was going to get him into jail somehow.

To start, I needed access to his computer and a few aids’ computers. It was going to be a long process. I’d need access to his home, his office, and maybe even a few others’ computers. It would be worth it, though, if it got rid of Morris—at least, that’s what I was telling the gnawing in my gut. That’s what I was telling the icky sliding feeling that made me feel like I was losing myself completely.

I was dressed in all black, wearing a black shirt, black leggings, and gloves. Maybe it was cliche, but I hadn’t exactly had cat burglar training. I had taken Anthropology instead of Intro to Framing in college. I was going off whatever I had seen on TV and read in books. They taught me: wear all black and bring a knife.

I left my gun in the car.
Only bring what you can comfortably run with
. I didn’t know where to stash my gun since I was wearing all tight clothing. Also, I was trying to be inconspicuous. I figured dressed in black with a noticeable gun bulge sort of screams “I’m up to no good.”

As I looked through files on the computer, I heard a sound. I ejected my USB and ducked down, out of sight, my breathing hitched. I hadn’t expected anyone to be at the office, and perhaps that assumption would be my undoing.

I waited for what felt like hours, but when I checked my phone it had only been minutes. I decided to wait for a few more before getting up. For all I knew the sound had been in my head. As I got ready to stand I heard the sound again, this time much clearer: “No, Senator Morris!” 

My gut turned to ice. I knew that sound. I had made that sound. I ran to the location of the voice, no longer caring whether or not I drew attention.

I ran into the alley after hearing the sound of distress, but when I burst forth it was silent. The silence was a haunting yet brutally magnifying force. It magnified the crush of my shoes against the snow and made my breathing nearly deafening. Even though it was the dead of night, the white snow lit up the night. I could see everything.

There’s something inherently eerie about night. Call it biology or call it mumbo jumbo, but my senses are always on high alert when the moon comes out. Outside in the alley, a light breeze was blowing that gave me goose bumps. The breeze carried the smell of a nearby Chinese restaurant and the night air became an amalgam of fried egg rolls and that dark earthy smell that seems to only come on Halloween night. Lucky me, it was the middle of December and it smelled like creepy ass Halloween.

I trailed my hands against the cool brick exterior, feeling the grooves and loose grains against my gloved finger. The breeze was chilly and smooth on my arm, like an unwanted lover. Even though everything appeared fine, something stuck in my gut like a twisted knife. Something still wasn’t right.

Still trailing my hands on the brick, I turned the alley corner so that I was no longer on the side of the building but at its back. I peered up at the moon. It was copper colored, like blood, supposedly a rare occurrence. People called it beautiful, but I knew better. Nothing that beautiful could come without strings.

The alley was illuminated only by the moon, but the bright white snow meant I could see everything clearly. Too clearly. I saw
him
. Senator Mitch Morris had a girl pinned against the wall, his hand down her skirt. Her face was frozen in terror and his hand was over her mouth.

No. No. No. No.

The memories threatened to crash back like a tsunami destroying an island. I fell against the wall, trying to catch my breath. I could have turned back and never seen it. I could have continued with my plan and never been in the situation. I still could…

The girl let out another pleading cry and Morris shoved his hand harder against her mouth. Her eyes watered in pain.

Dammit. I had to do something.

I shoved my own memories back until I was completely, utterly numb. If you had pierced me with a needle I would have felt nothing. Walking slowly up to Morris, I prepared to make my move. I sidled up behind him until I was so close I could smell the sickeningly sweet aroma of his aftershave—an expensive cologne, probably. A rose by any other name would smell as sweet, and a raping monster with any other scent is still as evil.

Morris didn’t notice me. He was too busy being a lecher. The girl he was assaulting, however, did. Her eyes widened, threatening to pop out. I wished I could have given her some hint that I was her friend, but in order to do what I was about to do, I had to go completely numb. I couldn’t feel anything. Compassion was gone.

The only weapon on my body was the knife and my knife training consisted of cutting up tomatoes. Somehow, I thought Morris would be a little more difficult than the occasional slippery tomato. I was only about a foot away from him. My gut clenched.

I could leave. I could turn around and run away and he would never know. I could still get out.

But I didn’t.

Because that girl was me once, and everyone had turned and run away from me.

I swallowed and turned off my brain. Thoughts would only hurt. Getting ready to use my knife, I elbowed Morris in the neck. He coughed and sputtered, taken off guard. Using that to my advantage, I pressed him against the wall, knife to neck.

Morris wasn’t a big man. He was maybe only an inch or two taller than my 5’7” self, but his presence was imposing. As I shoved him against the brick wall, I had to keep reminding myself that
I
was the one with the knife.

Finally
I had evidence. Finally a witness to take down Morris. I wouldn’t need to frame him. It was one thing if one intern called him a rapist. You could call one intern a liar and a whore, but when
two
interns come out of the woodwork…and what if—now I was just dreaming here—but what if when me and the new girl came out, more of his victims surfaced?

I was starting to get giddy. I
finally
fucking had the guy. I turned my head to tell the girl to call the police, my mouth already forming the words, but she was gone. I saw her bare feet disappear around the ally. My heart sank. I knew she was terrified. I’d been there before. Still, when I’d signed up for saving her, I hadn’t known I was signing up for being alone with Morris. For
it
all over again.

Maybe she saw me as a vigilante. Vigilantes didn’t need help, after all. I mean, when was the last time a citizen stuck around to help a superhero? Check: never. I wasn’t a vigilante though. I was terrified. Literally quaking in my boots. I had a knife up to my demon, the thing that had haunted me for months.

Now what?

“My name is Nami DeGrace. I was your intern.” I gripped the knife’s handle, trying to be tough. If any crack in my foundation was exposed, Morris would use that to gut me open. 

Instinctively I shoved the knife harder against his throat. A small slice of satisfaction hit me when a tiny bit of red blood popped out, like sprigs of Christmas holly decorating his neck. His eyes widened, but to his credit he still acted calm. I wasn’t sure if that was bravery or idiocy.

Probably a little bit of both.

I nearly pressed the knife harder when he didn’t speak. I had said my name and told him who I was, but he didn’t acknowledge me. Could he really have forgotten me? Could he have forgotten what he had done to me?