Assault
an excerpt

Prologue

Scene [1]
Rush to Forever

1995/04/07 15:00-16:00
4th floor apartment, 765 Tremont St., Boston, MA

Renee’s eyes close, her fingers relax and the straw slips away to the floor. The last line was a reflection of her tendency to indulge.
The feeling in her chest mimics the recovery of an arm lain on too long. Numb, but tingling. It spreads slowly up her neck and down her arms and legs until her whole body is immersed. Her thoughts are in that Neverland between sleep and arousal; friends, family and loves float through her reverie.
The sensations reach toward crescendo as a mouthful of horseradish.
Horseradish? ‘I wanted to try some.’
But Daddy said, ‘Just a little, not so much.’
He had a whole spoonful on his hotdog. So why shouldn’t I put a whole one on mine too. ‘I want more.’
Oh, my gosh. I thought the top of my head was coming off.
She takes a long slow deliberate breath. ‘Swish.’
This isn’t any weird kind of horseradish. Nooo, ha.
Unable to move, in the midst of a pleasant nightmare, she can’t decide whether to fight or accept the rush. But, it’s not a bad feeling. Even sex never felt as good as this.
Ah, sex, yes. Poor Billy. Usually done too soon. Sometimes, though, he could wait. That’s why I liked him. He’d try to wait.
But this, no waiting required.
Awareness of the rhythms of her body overtakes her attention. Thumpa... thumpa... thumpa... from her heart and the gentle swish of her breath. An almond aftertaste dominates her mouth.
Being a girl sucks. Guys can just enjoy their bodies. Breathing, smelling, tasting. They don’t have to put up with the monthly stuff. Midol answers part. Nothing fixes the angst. Why can’t it be just a plumbing problem?
Adrenalin surges and she begins the panic of an elevator ride. Down, down, down, until her rhythms begin to change. The drug interferes with her body’s ability to produce the adrenalin, so the beat loses strength, slowing, thumpa... thumpa..... thumpa........ thumpa........... The swish hesitates, then stops. The beat stutters... held in a vice.
Confusion invades. Her sense of time shifts. Its order falters.
’I’m moving out. We’re not right for each other.’
‘But Billy...’
‘Why, Mommy?’
’Because a girl sits with her knees together...’
’Keep three seconds from the car in front of you.’
How do you know how far three seconds is?...
A broken newsreel of voices, faces and events replays in her mind. The vice tightens.
’Happy birthday to...’
’Class, we’ll be reading JD Salinger this term...’
’Because a girl sits...’
In a VW bus, ‘That hurt, Billy...’
’Happy birthday to...’
’Happy birthday to...’
Falling emotions shift to a sense of detachment. She feels her body drifting away from her ‘self.’ Even though her eyes are closed, a cozy glow begins to surround her accompanied by the faint sound of rain. The glow brightens to white heat, but there is no warmth. The vice squeezes hard.
Endorphins flood her brain. They supplant the false chemicals from the drug.
Her high passes the crest and begins a rapid decent.
‘Because a girl sits...’
’Happy birthday to...’
The bright starts to fade...
Only whispers now... the rain becomes the echo of an off-station radio...
Feelings leak away to numb... but the vice is locked.
‘Mommy!’ can’t come out.
Light fading...
Rain weakens... and ceases...
Darkness....

Scene [2]
The EMTs

1995/04/07 16:19-16:39
765 Tremont St., 4th floor, Boston, MA.
Push... push... push... Captain Larry Sullivan, of Boston Fire Rescue Number 20, leans heavy massage into the young girl’s chest. He pinches her nose and puffs into her limp mouth.
Push... push... push... again. “Get the Ambu bag on her.”
Fireman Frank James drops the kit next to the bed. Opens it. Pulls out the resuscitator device and looks at the girl. “Jeezze, she could be my girlfriend’s little sister.”
Sullivan gives her another puff, then continues heart massage. “You know her?” Push... push... push...
“No, Janet doesn’t have a sister. She just looks like her.”
James places the mask over the girl’s face and attaches the strap tightly around her head. He begins squeezing the blue bag forcing air into her lungs. The flapper valve burps as the air exhales.
Sullivan says, “Check for a pulse,” and he suspends the massages while James feels for a pulse.
“Nope.”
Push... push... push...
A pair of EMTs from BCH(2) Ambulance Number 15 come up the stairs with a gurney.
Push... push... push...
Squeeze... burp.
The EMT transport team maneuvers the gurney next to the bed, but has to shove the night stand out of the way, several empty glassine bags fall to the floor.
Push... push... push...
“Hold up on the resuscitator for a second, let me intubate her,” says EMT #1.
James pulls the mask off the girl and the EMT carefully slides a plastic tube into the girl’s throat.
“Take over James,” Sullivan says.
Push... push... push... from the younger fireman.
“What’d she snort?” Sullivan shouts to an Asian man cowering in the corner.
“I don’t know,” his voice cracks. “I took her to Lynn last night. She didn’t say what she got.”
EMT #1 pulls the mask off the end of the resuscitator hose and snaps the hose directly onto the plastic tube. Sullivan gives the bag a squeeze... burp.
Push... push... push...
“Probably heroin,” a detective entering the room says. He points to the bags on the floor.
Push... push... push...
James stops briefly again while the EMTs pick the girl up and put her on the gurney.
“Well, Boyle, we meet again,” Sullivan says and gives the Ambu bag a squeeze... burp.
“What is it? Second time this week?” Boyle asks.
Push... push... push...
“Does Sunday morning count? That’d make it three,” Sullivan says.
“I’ll take that,” EMT #1 says.
Sullivan hands him the resuscitator bag.
Squeeze... burp.
They check for a pulse again... none.
Push... push... push...
The transport team wheels the girl out the door, James continues massage as they descend three flights of stairs.
Push... push... push...
Squeeze... burp.
Sullivan taps his watch, scribbles on a form, and moves towards the door to follow. “Mind if I call you for the particulars, Boyle? Gotta run.”
“Sure, I’ll be here for a while. Use channel two.”
Detective Lance Boyle stands in front of the Asian man, “You make the call young man?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, son,” Boyle holds one of the bags up to the window to examine the white powder residue, “let’s start at the beginning.”