Page 8 of Jessica, Not Her Real Name
There was a dull crack, the sound of metal hitting bone, then a loud thud. The trailer quaked beneath her feet.
Her eyes flew open to find Floyd out cold on the vinyl floor. The other guy stood over him, the pistol he’d just used as a club still outstretched in his right hand.
Julia took a shaky step to one side. The guy jerked the gun in her direction.
Instinctively, she raised her hands. “Please,” she whispered.
Then everything went black.
* * *
Her limbs felt wrong. Heavy. Disconnected.
Sheets rasped against her skin—cheap, scratchy fabric—but she couldn’t remember lying down. There was a bitter taste in her mouth, like stale liquor and something metallic.
Her head throbbed. Somewhere nearby, a bass line pounded. No, maybe that was her pulse.
She kept her eyes shut. The dark behind her eyelids felt safer than what might be waiting when she opened them.
A whiff of something chemical drifted past—cleaning product? Cologne?
Her stomach turned.
This wasn’t her bed.
This wasn’t her room.
She forced herself to open her eyes. The blur slowly hardened into shapes. A bed. A narrow room. Daylight leaking through the slats of a grimy window
None of it felt familiar.
She pushed herself up onto her elbows. Her head felt as light as a balloon. Then it exploded in pain, like someone had driven a metal spike into her skull. She squeezed her temples between her finger and thumb, feeling a vein pulsing thickly under the skin. Her mouth was tacky, and she had a desperate thirst.
Peering around, she saw she was in a cramped trailer, on a double bed that occupied the entire width of one end. Small windows ran down the right wall, curtained with faded yellow fabric strung on a plastic cord. There was a kitchenette down the far end—a sink, a tiny bar fridge, and a trestle table. Cupboards lined the other wall. Hanging above the door was the Mexican tricolor.
She tried to remember what had happened last night. In her mind, images flickered like a faulty fluorescent tube. The club downtown. The party in the house. The DJ, Finn. No, Floyd.
Then, with a jolt that felt like being zapped with a cattle prod, she remembered how he’d pushed her up against that cupboard over there. How he’d put his hand up her dress. How he’d almost…
Then, with an even bigger jolt, she remembered what had happened next.
There’d been another man. With a soft, sinister voice. And a gun.
After that, the memories flickered and died out.
She covered her eyes with one hand. God, she felt so stupid. How many times had she heard about girls getting wasted and waking up with no memory and no underwear? How many times had she told herself that would never be her?
Pushing back the covers, she was relieved to find her underwear was still accounted for. In fact, she was wearing more clothing than she’d had on last night. Over her dress was a black hoodie. It had white writing running down the sleeves, which were so long they hung off her hands. She lifted one and sniffed the fabric at her wrist. It smelled of gasoline and smoke. Underlying those scents was another. The faint whiff of cheap cologne.
She looked around the trailer again. It was empty. Whoever the man with the gun was, he was gone now.
Near the bed, a beer crate served as an improvised nightstand. On it was a glass of clear liquid. She picked it up and gave it a cautious sniff. Discovering it was just water, she gulped it down.
The moment it hit her stomach, it tried to come back up again. She gripped the edge of the mattress, willing herself not to be sick. Slowly, the nausea passed, and she felt strong enough to stand up, bracing one hand against a cupboard to ward off a wave of vertigo.
The exertion made her head pound. It also drew her attention to another source of pain: her neck. She pressed a damp hand to it. It felt tender to the touch. She had a vivid memory of Floyd’s tight grip around her windpipe, and of the white spots dancing across her vision.
Lowering her hand, she discovered her necklace was missing. It must have broken off during the attack.
