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SHANGHAIED HEART
Chapter 1
Curled into a
tight fetal ball, Rachael lay on the disheveled bed and
sobbed. Her monsoon of tears was not for what she still
felt, although the pain was bad enough to make the
strongest of women weep. No--these tears were for her
soul--drowned by a flood of disgust. Only sheer
determination kept her half-digested breakfast down. She
mustered her remaining strength and again rolled to her
other side. The sobs she held back for that fraction of
a second erupted once more.
From the instant
she heard the cabin's front door slap shut as her rapist
left, she had struggled to quiet her sobs and quell the
mind-numbing fear.
She glanced at
the wind-up Westclox, ticking away on the apple box next
to the bed. 11 a.m. No matter how badly her torn
insides ached, she must do something. Her father would
arrive home for lunch in less than an hour, and she
dared not let him see her like this!
The Mexican's
numbing slaps to her face would surely mature into
bruises and wherever he'd manhandled her, his vise-like
grip would show on her arms.
She tried to
open her jaw. It popped with excruciating pain, and she
hoped that meant it had only been dislocated, not
broken. But the damage her father would never see caused
the worst pain of all. The ruin of her stolen virginity
burned inside her, along with fear so intense she quaked
each time she relived what he had said.
"Bitch, you
scream even once, and I'll slit your worthless black
throat." He said as he lunged at her through the shack's
front door.
His knock had
provided no warning; it sounded no different from one
announcing the rare visit from a neighbor. But the
switchblade in his hand cemented credibility to his
threat.
He grabbed her
by an arm as she spun and attempted flee to the back
room. "Come here! You give me what I want and I just
might just let you live." Once he got a solid hold, he
pulled her up tight against his chest and with his other
hand, he pressed the knife blade against the delicate
skin quivering at her throat.
She could do
little but gasp in panic as he wrestled her through the
door and into the room she had just sought as refuge. He
forced her toward the bed, his knife tight against her
throat, its razor edge scraping her skin every time the
motions of their bodies differed. He kicked the door
shut and threw her onto the bed.
"Get your
clothes off!"
She scrambled to
the farthest end of the bed and gathered herself
together--as far away from him as possible. A drop of
blood swelled from the most severe scrape on her neck
and began its slow trickle to her collarbone.
"You hear me?
Take 'em off . . . or I'll cut 'em off!"
Still, she did
not comply. Instead, she brought her elbows tight
against her sides, her fists together under her chin,
and her knees scrunched tight against her chest and
forearms. Her eyes locked on his, and she shook with
fear, oblivious to the blood oozing onto her knuckles.
After a moment she looked away, unable to face the
dominance in his eyes and the mocking smile at the
corners of his mouth.
He came at her
from the foot of the bed. She scrambled to one side, but
he caught her by an ankle and dragged her back toward
the center. With each grab he ripped away more of her
thread-bare clothing until nothing remained except her
shredded panties low on one thigh. After that, it didn't
take him long to accomplish the purpose of his visit.
Just that quickly, she discovered what
overpowered meant.
Once released,
she scurried away from him and again cowered at the head
of the bed. She shuddered in terror and disbelief.
He stood,
glaring at her, and then pulled up his jeans and
buttoned them. "All right, Bitch, you just had the best
man you'll ever have." His laugh matched his garish
smile. "In fact, you were better than I thought a Jig
would be. Maybe I should take you with me. You could be
my regular punch, until I get tired of you, anyway."
"No, please!"
she whimpered.
He started
toward her, but then halted--why she could only guess.
She could have done little to stop him. He had already
proven that. Perhaps her fear masked something he took
as a warning. Thank God, he stopped!
He reached into
his pocket, and in a flash his right hand again held his
open knife. Surely he would now slit her throat and that
would end everything.
But instead he
said, "You tell anybody, and I'll come back and make you
wish you didn't." He made a quick slashing, then
stabbing motion in the air. "And if anybody comes after
me, I'll kill 'em. Even your old man, big as he is, I'll
kill him. Then I'll come back, we'll do this again, and
afterwards I'll slit your ungrateful Black-bitch
throat." He paused a moment to observe the effect of his
threat. "So you're gonna' be smart, aren't you, ya
little slut?"
Her nod wasn't
agreement. She would have said or done anything at this
point.
"Remember, no
cops. You call them and I'll get even with you! It's a
long way from here to the Sheriff's Office, especially
for someone like you."
She nodded
again, too frightened to cry.
He must have
again recognized whatever had raised his caution before.
He folded his switchblade with menacing ceremony,
slipped it into his pocket, and with a few steps across
the adjacent room, he was gone. She didn't move until
the shack's front door had clattered shut. Then her
terror turned to tears, and their flood had raged for
the next hour.
But Rachael
dared weep no longer. What she faced was worse: the
realization she must somehow prevent what would
certainly happen if her father learned what the Mexican
had done to her. If her father discovered what had
happened, either the young Mexican would kill her father
or her father would kill him. If the Mexican lost, her
father would spend the rest of his life in prison. Or
more likely, he'd be executed for it.
Although barely
fifteen, she knew the realities. If her father killed
the young Mexican, that would be
murder--premeditated--first degree. Her rape would not
change that. Not here, not in 1962. But if the thug
bested her father, he would surely follow up his threat
to 'get even with her.' She was only a 'Jig.' A Mexican
was 'almost White.' That's how it was. Either way, she
lost her father, and if the rapist won, she'd likely
suffer rape again, and when he was through, he'd surely
kill her.
Rachael wiped
her reddened eyes and sat, huddled, on her feet and
haunches in the middle of the bloodied bed. In less than
an hour, her father would return home for lunch. She had
that long to straighten up the shack, clean herself up
as best she could, and concoct a story to answer the
questions he would surely ask.
She was lucky he
came home late for lunch that day.
Shanghaied
Heart
by Chuck Lyons
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