Chapter 2 of The 3 Little Piggies

Chapter Two

The house on Ravenstone Drive looked empty.  It was an old house – one would think it was a double story abode but looks can be deceiving.  Half wood and half brick, it presented itself as many other older, uncared for homes on Ravenstone Drive.  But it had a secret place beneath its visible facade.  Tattered curtains hung, unwillingly hiding its secret.

And inside – inside was where you didn’t want to be.

Inside was where Jaqui Lomax was.

Inside it stank – a dark, dead stink.  The walls oozed fear and Jaqui could feel those walls closing in on her.  She huddled in the gloom.  A constant, shivering whine coming from her soul.  The man wasn’t in the room with her.  She knew he wasn’t because when he was, everything inside the house changed.  The walls stood back, the carpet cringed where he walked and the wooden floorboards groaned in agony above her as he stalked about the place.  Jaquis’ head hurt profusely. She tried to recall what had actually happened.  How the hell she’d ended up here in this dungeon.

She’d been standing outside the Seven Eleven on the main drag.  This real spunky guy had pulled up and asked her how to get to Ravenstone Drive.  She’d started giving directions and he had apologised, explaining that he was dyslexic – huh.  Anyway, she told him it wasn’t too far – which it wasn’t.  He asked her if she’d mind hopping in to show him the way and then he’d drop her right back here.  Yeah sure, she thought, looking back on her foolishness.  It’s a good day to die – what the hell was she thinking?  What was wrong with this picture?  She should’ve been a man and then she’d have a penis to blame all of this on.  What the hell was she thinking climbing into a car with a total stranger – a peculiar weird stranger?

At least she was still alive …  What did he want?  To repeatedly rape her?  Shit, she had been willing; he would’ve only had to ask.  Maybe that was his problem – she was too easy.  If only she’d listened to her mother – “Men don’t like women who are too easy, darling.  Give them something to fight for.”

But the ubiquitous “they” said that was misconstrued – rape is for control, not to get your rocks off – well, the control is the key to getting rid of the rocks, not tenderness or sexiness.  Perhaps rape had nothing to do with control, and the arse hole just wanted to take what he wanted, when he wanted it.  That was more likely the story.  She felt angry and exploited purely for being a woman.  We are just giving the rapists an excuse to need so-called help.  Jacqui felt that she could help him permanently if someone would just give her a gun.  Surely no one believed that they could be rehabilitated – when did you ever find or read about a rehabilitated rapist?  Jacqui believed there was as much chance of rehabilitating a rapist as there was of rehabilitating a paedophile.  It was a joke.  Raping or having sex with a child was a preference, she knew that no matter how many counselling sessions she would be forced to go to, it would never change her sexual preference of wanting to sleep with men – so what hope in hell did rehabilitation have for these monsters?  She tried hard not to cry as these thoughts swirled inside her already shocked and startled brain.  Burying her head in the sand and pretending this was not happening to her was not something Jacqui was familiar with.  But this unfamiliar distancing felt safer than the reality she really faced.  She had to keep focused – she had to be realistic and objective if she wanted to survive this.  She was angry at herself, she who was street smart and knew stuff managed to get sucker punched – what a dumb bitch!

The very thought of letting him touch her made her cringe – every fibre of her being recoiled from the idea.  She could feel those cold, damp hands on her – she had come around with him looking hard at her as though willing her to wake up.  She’d woken with a start, trying to flail her arms and legs to scrabble away from him.  No chance, she was trussed up like a turkey for Thanksgiving – giving thanks.  Thanks for what?  If only she knew that she would be very thankful if he would kill her quickly, which was highly unlikely because he just wasn’t that kind of guy.

© Kait King, 2015

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