The Beginning of the End, Part 22

Shelley tried to talk to me about Kevin but I shut her down completely. “He changed his mind, and I don’t want to talk about it,” I informed her. And I took a long chug from my beer.

The party was loud and the room was electric. I moved from person to person, socializing more with my coworkers in that one night than I had since my first day on the job. I forgot about Kevin, and concentrated on me. I was wearing my light blue jeans (with a belt holding them up since I had lost so much weight) and a soft pink fuzzy sweater that whose V went just low enough to suggest, but not low enough to broadcast. I had my hair down from the usual ponytail I wore at work, and had put on just enough makeup to hide the shadows under my eyes and add some healthy color. The beer was buzzing in my head as I laughed and flirted and thoroughly enjoyed myself.

“Dasi, come on, I’ll take you home,” Shelley urged as I grabbed another beer.

“No,” I said firmly. “I’m having fun. Screw Kevin, I don’t need him. Leave if you want, but I’m staying.”

“Hey, Dasi, don’t leave yet! It’s early!” One of the hosts from the restaurant, Jesus, put his arm around me with a laugh.

“See, Shelley, I’ll be fine. Jesus will take care of me,” I slurred, feeling the beer more and more every minute. I wasn’t used to drinking so much, but I also didn’t want to stop. It was making the painful memories of Kevin’s apathy blur around the edges. If he didn’t care, then neither did I. I could have fun without him. I didn’t need him.

Shelley sighed, then gave me a hug. “Just be careful. And slow down with the drinking. You’ll regret it in the morning,” she warned.

I just laughed. I didn’t care anymore, didn’t care, didn’t care. I watched her leave, and turned around to mingle some more. As I did, I lost my balance and stumbled.

“Whoa!” Jesus said as he grabbed my arm to catch me. “Are you ok?”

I straightened up and blinked. The room suddenly seemed too crowded, too loud. My head was spinning and I was having a hard time focusing. “I think so,” I said. “Maybe I’ll just sit down for a minute.”

I weaved over to one of the long tables that was unoccupied, and collapsed into a folding chair. I laid my head in my arms on the table and took several long, deep breaths. “Hey, Dasi, you look a little green – you ok?”

I looked up. It was Angelo, the infamous singing waiter. I was actually beginning to feel a little less queasy, and I smiled at him valiantly. “Just taking a little break,” I informed him. “Can you get me another beer?”

Angelo laughed and obliged. Two minutes later, I was nursing yet another malt beverage, determined to keep having fun and show Kevin once and for all. A few more people came over and talked to me, but I was beginning to fade. It was like I was there, but I wasn’t – the faces and the voices and the music all blended together and started spinning in my head until I couldn’t even focus. I started to stand up, to excuse myself, and found Jesus helping me.

“Come on, Dasi, some friends and I are going to leave. We’re gonna get some shit and have a real party. You wanna come?” he said, already steering me toward the door.

“Yeah,” I mumbled. “Yeah. Let’s party. Maybe that will help…”

The thought of doing a hit caused my heart to start beating a little faster. I convinced myself that if I could just get one good hit, the spinning and the nausea and the confusion would stop. My body wasn’t used to the alcohol overload, and I was sure some coke would put me on an even keel. And I still didn’t want to go home to Kevin, especially not like this. One hit, just one, and I would straighten myself out and be able to go home and show Kevin how much fun I had without him.

Jesus had managed to get me my coat and put it over my shoulders. He walked me outside, where we were joined by a group of his friends. They all were speaking in Spanish, and I had no idea what they were saying.

“You wanna get high?” one of them said in accented English.

I nodded my head, barely able to keep my eyes open as Jesus held me up. “Yeah, just one, though, I need to go home.”

I heard laughter and got confused. What was so funny? I tried to focus, but allowed myself to be led by whoever it was that was now holding my arm. We walked in the cold for what seemed like forever, at one point crouching low next to a van. “Stay down! We gonna get something for you!” I did as I was told, but felt as though the whole experience was something I was watching rather than living. Finally, I was led up a flight of stairs and into an apartment.

Jesus helped me with my coat and sat me down in a chair. “Are you ok, Dasi?” he asked, this time with genuine concern.

I tried to focus on him as best I could and answered, “Sure,” with a weak smile.

The truth was, I felt sick to my stomach, dizzy, and confused. I wasn’t sure where I even was, and had no idea who any of Jesus’ friends were. I no longer even wanted to party, I just wanted to go home to Kevin, home to my bed. I had been stupid to act the way I did, overindulging to prove a point. To prove what? I thought to myself. That you can get drunk by yourself? Bravo.

I stood up on shaky legs and took a deep breath. “Thanks, Jesus, and thank your friends, but I really think I should go home now. I don’t feel so well.” I looked around. “Could you find my coat, please?”

Jesus nodded and walked away. I held onto the chair for support and tried to regain my composure. Loud Mexican music played in the apartment and assaulted my ears. The other men were speaking in Spanish and looking at me with lecherous grins, and I tried to smile and act nonchalant while I waited for Jesus to return.

One of the men came up to me and put his arm around my waist. He was taller than I was and had a menacing look in his eyes. “Hey, mamacita, come on and join us. Have a drink, loosen up.”

I tried to politely decline, explaining that Jesus was just getting me my coat and I really needed to get home.

“But you say you want to party,” he replied, tightening his grip. “We want to party, too.”

He turned to the others and rapidly said something in Spanish. One of the men got up and brought over a can of beer.

“Here, mamacita,” he said, holding out the can. “You need to relax. Have a drink. Have a big drink.”

I shook my head. “No, thank you,” I said nervously. “Really, I don’t want any more to drink, I just want to go home.”

I scanned the room for Jesus, but he was nowhere in sight. The beer can was thrust up to my mouth, and I could feel the liquid splashing my lips. I involuntarily drank from the can, opening my throat to what I thought was beer. But the beer had been emptied and replaced with tequila. I heard laughter as I felt the alcohol making its way back up my throat, and the strong arms that held me whisked me off to a bathroom. I retched and gagged and threw up over and over, while a strange man held my hair back and whispered in Spanish. When I had emptied my body of all that had been left in it, I felt weak and scared, and felt a tear making a path down my cheek.

“I want to go home,” I moaned.

“No, mamacita, you want to party. Remember? And it’s party time…”

He roughly dragged me into a dark room, and threw me on the floor. I could hear the music and the people outside the room talking and laughing, and I started to cry for real. “NO!” I yelled, as he came at me in the dark.

“Shut up, bitch,” he snarled, slapping me hard across the face.

I whimpered in pain, and struggled as hard as my weakened body would allow. I felt him pulling at my sweater, felt his hot breath on my skin, heard him muttering in Spanish. “No, no, no, no…” I sobbed, shaking my head from side to side. He ignored me.

I felt his hands moving down to my belt, and became more hysterical. “NO! STOP! HELP ME!” I screamed. He used his knees to pin my arms to the ground and hit me in the face over and over. “Shut up, bitch! Shut up, bitch! Shut up, bitch!”

I felt as though I was losing consciousness as he ripped open my jeans. I could taste blood in my mouth, and wasn’t sure where it was coming from. Crazily, I bucked and cried and tried to stop what I knew I couldn’t.

Just as he hit me another time, the door opened. I arched my neck and tried to see behind me as I screamed. There, in the glow of the open doorway, stood Jesus. I was crying uncontrollably and yelled, “JESUS! HELP ME! PLEASE!” Jesus stood frozen. He made no move in any direction. “Please, Jesus! He’s hurting me!” I begged.

The man yelled something in Spanish, and I watched in shock as Jesus took a step backwards out of the room and closed the door. I wanted to vomit as I realized that my only hope of escape had just literally shut the door on my pleas. My head pounded from fear and intoxication and the beating I had taken and I squeezed my eyes shut as tightly as I could and willed the nightmare to end. Jesus, I thought despondently, how could you just leave like that? I felt as though I was actually listening to the blood rushing in my head, and tried to concentrate on that rather on the unthinkable violation that I was unable to stop. And it was at that point, mercifully, that I blacked out.