Bad things happen to me when I walk around naked. The doorbell rings and the knob rattles and a key is loud in the lock and I have just enough time to wonder how the rapist got a key to my apartment and then my body takes over and I scream. It's a good scream, too, hearty, but hordes of good-samiaritaning neighbors noticeably fail to rush to my rescue.
The rapist is Maintenance, and apologizes through the door. I find my robe and let him in and he retrieves the flashlight he left under my sink when he fixed it yesterday. Still apologizing, he leaves. My heart is a separate creature, panicking to get out. I can't stop shaking for twenty minutes.
On the way to work the car in front of me goes crazy and stops for no reason. Five lanes of fast traffic. I've never had to hit my brakes that hard and my breathing stops itself in a gasp. My car is inches away from that car and I hear squealing behind me and I want to just close my eyes and just wait for it to happen but I can't, I can't stop looking at their license tag which is slowly moving away now and I realize I need to move my car too, and I also need to start breathing again, so I do both.
At least it's Wednesday, I think. Wednesdays are good because Ann comes over and does Youth Group for my kids. Youth Group amounts to too many kids crammed into a room which is small and hot and private and wonderful. It's always too loud and I love it. Five minutes into my workday, cunt Heather informs me that I won't be going to Youth Group, I'll be manning the boring shitty old front desk. Fine.
Three minutes later I am taking roll and there is an arm around my neck which I assume belongs to Adrian, so I make fake choking noises. The arm jerks tighter and I bite my tongue and there are tears spilling out of my eyes and as it turns out, real choking sounds pretty much like fake choking. I can't see who is being allowes to get away with this in front of 50 people who don't even look alarmed. I drop my roll sheet and claw the arm away and I'm dizzy and coughing too much to talk. It's Michael H who I fucking could never stand and now I will never stop hating him. He is nonreformable and I have always been waiting for the day years from now when someone says Remember Michael H from your old job? Well he killed a guy and fucked him and ate him with cheese.
Michael is cruel every day and I guess today was my turn to get it. I feel weak and useless and bad because I would rather avoid him than punish him and he knows it. He's bigger than me and all muscle but he is still a kid and I am technically in charge of him and I should do something but I don't. He knows he hurt me and he smiles. He goes on with his day and I go on with mine.
My day starts changing when I see Patrick H. He's my best Patrick. My real boss recues me from the front desk, 'cause she's a good lady and she knows I hate it. Ann taped and brought last week's X-Files because it had to do with the Church and can therefore be passed off as "religious viewing," teehee. I get to sit between Megan and Robin. I watch Scully's mouth and Mulder's hands moving in wonderful ways. Then Bedknobs and Broomsticks, which I haven't seen since I was about 14. Will S wants to yap bitterly about every continuity error and every example of shitty 1971 stop-motion special effects. It's his excuse to whisper wetly into my ear. I tell him to shut up, and he does.
Heather makes a brief appearance, scowls at me and separates Ian and Victoria, snuggling on a couch out of my line of vision. She glares at me again and leaves. I can't help noticing she didn't do anything about the entwinement of Stephanie and Bets, about whom I have my suspicions. I don't think Catholic school believes in lesbians, but I do, and I let them sit on the couch however they like.
Michael H goes home early and all is well.