This writing was accepted for publication in the 84 page perfect-bound issue... Down in the Dirt magazine (v115) (the February 2013 Issue) You can also order this 5.5" x 8.5" issue as an ISSN# paperback book:

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The Victim

Jon Brunette

    I walk down the hall—tap, tap, tap—and find my door. It doesn’t take a lot of effort to put the key into the lock; I’ve done it thousands of times. I like the sound of the key inside the lock; the rhythmic metal-on-metal eases me. It reminds me of safety, as though no one can touch me after I go inside my apartment. It has a kitchen, a living room, a bedroom, and a phone that rings a little too loudly, although it doesn’t have to ring loudly at all, and a radio. I have no TV; I cannot watch the picture anyway.
    I love the sound of the radio, especially those old-time plays that have live actors who tell stories that I cannot see. I see no point in a TV, but a lot of people tell me that it seems strange to have no TV; it unnerves some people a little bit. Everyone has a TV, unless one is blind.
    I step into the living room, go into the kitchen, and put a coffeepot on the stove. Then, I walk towards the bedroom. Some people think that blind people move slowly because they cannot see, but inside my own apartment, I usually move around quite quickly, because I know the layout and the surroundings, but, now, I move slowly because of my age. I have just turned fifty, and people my age never move fast.
    In the bedroom, I hear the sound of wind hissing through the window; it comes slowly and steadily, like the pot I have just put on the stove. It’s also rhythmic, as continual as the beat of my heart, or the breath that comes out of my lungs. The room feels crowded suddenly, and I cannot put my finger on the reasons why. I move around the bedroom, hanging my coat on a rack, my shirt on top of a nearby table, and my shoes below the bed. The hiss continues, like the beat of my heart, the breath in my lungs—the wind through the window.
    I check the window, and to my surprise, it isn’t open. It doesn’t budge although I pull the handle hard. I flip the lock, and it slides slowly, like the sill has to be oiled. Only, now, the window doesn’t make the same hiss as before; it sounds like a steady flap, like the clothes around me as I walk, the wash on the line outside, or the air hitting a body, at least mine.
    And I realize that the body the wind is hitting doesn’t just belong to me. I figure it out by the sound of the wind that flaps, doesn’t flap, and, then, flaps some more. Only, I am not moving around—someone else is!
    I wonder if he wants money or my body, as his lumpy hand touches my mouth and nose. I can’t breathe, yet even if I could, I still wouldn’t be able to. My mouth feels dry; my heart skips a beat, like the rhythmic hiss that isn’t really the wind. The wind flaps loudly through the window. And the hiss stops, and, then, starts once more. My brazier falls off and a chilly breeze hits my breasts like ice water. I feel goose bumps down my spine; I realize that despite my fifty years, he has come for my body. I don’t want to give it to him.
    I have no choice. No one does, which is why rape is a crime. It is a crime that no one can stop; if they could, it would never happen. Now, it will happen to me. I can’t prevent it, however much money I try to offer. Money cannot stop rape; nothing can.
    I block out the hiss of his breath, the beat of my heart, and the wind flapping through the window that hits his body louder than mine. I will never feel emptier, yet, still, I must look beautiful to him. No one would rape an ugly woman.
    Surely, I must look beautiful.
    Yet, I have to wonder quietly: will I still look as lovely afterwards?

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