"Help."
She could barely breathe the word; why should anyone hear it?
But the footsteps slowed, stopped, and after she counted many shallow
breaths, came gingerly down the alley, cautiously as any city dweller
would. As she should have --
"Oh my god!" He definitely saw her. She too saw him, though
he was blurry in her vision masked by the red haze. He looked a little
scary, but then he was young and that was the style after all. And he
looked much less so as he turned hastily and vomited roughly on the
garbage cans next to the dumpster. Hurry, she couldn't help thinking,
hurry, I don't know how much longer I can keep this up.
"Oh god," he blinked at her, wiping his mouth with the back of
his hand while his gaze moved helplessly over her body. "Oh my
god!"
"Ambulance?" She formed the word but knew it didn't come out
right. But it worked. He nodded quickly, several times, and made a
couple of ineffectual grunts before reaching down to pat her foot. But
his hand stopped just shy of contact and he smiled awkwardly toward
her without meeting her gaze, turned and ran back down the alley.
Please call, she prayed to this unknown young man, please get me
an ambulance. How long already had she lain here, watching the pool
of her blood widen and feeling, oddly enough, too hot for the cool
October night. Ten minutes? Thirty? Oh god, I'm dying, she thought
and immediately choked back an involuntary laugh. Godspell, wasn't
it? How could she be remembering lyrics from a musical she had seen
twenty years ago. That night, all those years ago; how could she have
known that now she'd be lying in a filthy alley, victim of the latest
self-elected Jack the Ripper. How much could she have enjoyed the play
then?
Ellen, Ellen, get a grip on yourself. Hang in there. But unbidden
another lyric came to mind, this time from her daughter's favorite
singer. Well, Tori, I have seen Barbados, but I do need to get out of
this too, so maybe I will think of Venice. Venice, never been to
Venice; the gondoliers, George Sand, romance, Waugh, what else?
Somehow none of them would really become the vivid picture on
which to fix her mind.
How could she have been so stupid! So vain! Because he was
nice, because he was an academic in a tweed jacket, because she
addressed him with a respectful "Professor" and he had smiled warmly,
held her hand in both of his, and said "Call me Jack." A lifetime ago,
was it? Or only three days--what did it matter, they were the same.
Why, why why? Because I'm that certain age, she answered herself
bitterly, where responses are few and far between; because I should
have given up a long time ago, I'm too old; because I should have been
more careful, I knew nothing about him. It was no doubt the long-lost
eleventh commandment: Trust no one. Especially men who flatter
women on the wrong side of middle age. Be fair, she sighed, feeling
the wave of dizziness her anger had raised. The why is because he is a
crazy bastard who enjoys killing women and I am winning because I
am still alive, alive, alive. But how much longer?
There was blood everywhere. It ran under the dumpster and
formed a pool in the darkness. It hardened on her outstretched arms.
No doubt the same was happening on her legs too. As for her
midsection, well, Ellen decided not to think about that. There were
way too many openings there; she remembered seeing her skin flap out
as she fell, thinking "this cannot be happening" and wondering how she
could have been so wrong about Jack. Jack! Professor Harrison had
seemed like such a wonderful gentleman--intelligent, witty--he had so
many things to say about Eco's lecture which, she had to admit, had
flown frequently above her night school training.
A smile rose to her lips. I bet he didn't even know what the man
was talking about, I bet everything about him is a fraud. Professor,
indeed! And I will make sure that everyone knows it too, I will make
sure that everything he has ever done will come to light, all the way
back to his childhood, where I'm sure he spent his time teasing dogs
and pulling the wings off flies. Everyone will know what he has done
to me -- he has no doubt done it to other women. But he made a
mistake this time, thought Ellen, oh yes, a big mistake. Older women
are like chickens, we just get tougher with age. She choked on her
laugh and felt blood bubble out the side of her mouth. Not good, not
good at all. But in the distance too she could hear the thin wail of a
siren. It was far, not close, but coming this way, surely coming this
way. I will survive, Ellen promised herself, I will. And surely too
those were the footsteps of that young man returning? She would ask
him to talk to her, to keep her holding on till they got here, to bundle
her up and take her off to the shining hospital where they would put her
back together again, stitch her up, and send her home.
Yes, the siren was closer now, the steps not far. I will survive, I
will.