Breaking the Cycle

Quietly closing the car door, Stanley stepped onto the tidy porch and twisted the shiny brass doorknob.

It turned.

Stealthily, he entered the house. The sounds of Luther Vandross immediately filled his ears, just as they’d muffled his entrance. He let his primitive eyes scan the spacious room. Unframed Black art and African masks hung on nearly every wall. Low-seated oak tables supported sculpted figures of ebony natives, meshed and locked in passionate positions. Soft, buttery leather furniture gave the room a comfortable feel.

When a quick search of the ground floor proved fruitless, Stanley scratched his head. Where could she be? Should he try upstairs, or should he go down? Since the music flowed up from the basement, Stanley headed in that direction. Tiptoeing like a church mouse, he started down the narrow stairwell.

Shadows cloaked the dim, unfinished basement, and a light shone from a room off to his right. With his back against the wall, Stanley sidestepped gracefully until he reached the lit room.

He peered around the corner.

The lady was bent over a large stack of art paper attempting to free a sheet from the bottom of the heap. Why’ont she jes grab one from de top? Stanley pondered before filling the room with his presence. He swung his mallet of a fist in a perfect uppercut, catching the lady flat in the face, the force of his blow lifting her tiny body backwards and into the air.

She hit the floor and before she could open her mouth to scream, Stanley seized her throat and flung the tiny creature across the small room. Her head slammed into an oversized wooden easel and she crumpled to the ground in a silent heap.

There! She lay quiet in a disheveled pile. Tame and cooperative. Just how he liked them.

And now, Stanley’s large hands stroked the soft hollow of the lady’s throat as he imagined how far he could thrust himself down there. He was willing to bet she could hold a lot more of him than that cock-teasing teenaged niece of Mr. Lambert’s did.

He looked at the lady. It was time for her to wake up and get to working on his small problem that was actually quite large indeed. Stanley bent over her still form and proceeded to awaken her.

Pain exploded in Paris’s left thumb. From a great distance, her brain managed to register the agony and nudge her body into action. Instinctively her thumb sought refuge in her open mouth, but then an identical fire attacked her right thumb.

Paris shrieked, closing both hands into fists, her blazing thumbs tucked inside. It took her a moment to realize what he’d done. To realize that the stranger had used the jagged tips of his own nails to pierce the tender flesh beneath her thumbnails, digging deep enough to draw blood and restore her to consciousness. This was an old trick someone had once told her would work well, if you needed to rouse a wino.

It worked well for her.

Paris’s face felt like

a disfigured mask of agony. The slightest movement caused nearly intolerable waves of pain. Stunned, she realized that she’d somehow lost control of her bladder and soaked through her pants.

From the swollen slits of her eyes, her gaze traveled the length of the man sitting before her. He was roughly the size of a well-fed giant.

“You reddy now, Baby?” he asked with a sickening grin. “You gon ack right?”

Act right? Was he crazy?

Using his thick knees as leverage, Paris attempted to push herself away, trying in vain to scoot backwards and away from the half-naked stranger.

“Come back heah, Bitch!” he exploded, snatching his switchblade with one hand and yanking her hair with the other. Paris heard the switchblade click open, its cool metal glinting dangerously in the partial shadows, and she peed again.

Fear paralyzed her. Her breath clawed from her throat in short, harsh pellets as the stranger forced her to kneel between his massive thighs. With the knife blade pressed at her throat, he jammed her face into his foul-smelling groin.

“Pretend lak it’s a Popsicle.” The stranger giggled, slapping his dripping, monstrous erection against Paris’s ear and then guiding it toward her mouth. “A sweet an’ juicy red, white, an’ blue, Bomb Pop!”

Paris closed her eyes. Her stomach clenched and twisted at the smell coming from him. When was the last time this fool had washed his ass?

Stanley repositioned his weapon. The edge of the knife bit against her windpipe and immediately a small band of blood appeared and white-hot pain encircled her neck.

Her back stiffened and her eyes flew open.

As her face loomed closer to the strange man’s dick, waves of acrid bile rose in her throat and threatened to drown her. Paris fought the dizzying sensation, swallowing and gasping around her terror until she feared she’d explode. A fat drop of semen seeped from his dick and Paris found herself engulfed in a boiling rage.

Hell, no! It was Tuesday, goddammit! It was her motherfucking day!

For the first time in her life Paris felt pure hatred.

Hatred that made her much stronger than her ever-present fear.