12: Addison

Addison

 

          Coils of snakes curled in her stomach, wrenching and squeezing her guts. She felt cold, even in the afternoon heat. Her eyes were irritated and puffy. Salty moisture still clung to the rims of her eyelids. Nausea wormed behind her ribs and into her throat. She wanted to cry, but no more tears would come. She hadn’t moved in several hours, lying on her side with her legs pulled close to her chest. The asphalt wasn’t comfortable but she didn’t care; the spot she had found was somewhat secluded. Few people bothered her, everyone else had their own problems to attend to and a crying young girl was far from an unusual sight in the parking lot turned prison.

          She rubbed absently at her cheek, removing the grit that had been plastered along the sticky trails the tears had left behind. Hunger was growing but subdued by the nausea and her fierce desire not to move. Even small motions would reawaken the dull pain in her arms, her neck, her back, and between her legs. Bluish splotches were darkening on her lightly tanned skin. The fingermarks on her arms were the most visible, but beneath her stretched and torn clothing were more signs of abuse. Along the right side of her lower lip was a small split that was swollen and crusted in dried blood.

          Sleep refused to venture anywhere near her, spooked away by the threat of nightmares. Nightmares that were so very real.

          “Hey,” a voice said, and a hand gingerly touched her shoulder. Addison jumped, spinning around and smacking the hand away as hard as she could. “Don’t f*****g touch me!” she screamed, pushing herself backwards along the pavement. Her eyes were wide and wild, and her hair lay in loose strands over her face. Her thin body was shaking.

          Standing stunned across from her was a boy who was maybe ten or eleven. His hair was long and raised in the front by a natural cowlick. In his hand he held a water bottle. “I just,” he stammered, confused by the feral look of the girl he touched. “I just wanted to see if you were thirsty.”

          She eyed him. Her cheeks became flushed. “I’m not,” she said harshly, though she was very thirsty.

          The little boy looked on the verge of tears, but said nothing. He stooped, set the water bottle on the ground, and walked away. Addison felt a surge of guilt and shame boil from within her and push fresh tears into the corners of her eyes. She wanted to scream out as loud as she could. All that little boy wanted to do was help, and he remained the only person who had made an attempt.

          And she had pushed him away.

          “Hey, kid,” she said, her voice barely more than a watery squeak. “Come back.” The tears began to push forward, stinging her exhausted eyes. “Please come back.”

          The little boy was gone.

          Trembling, Addison leaned forward and reached for the water. Her bruises were throbbing from her spastic burst of motion, and she felt a warm trickle moving slowly across her upper thigh. She grabbed the water bottle and set it beside her. Hesitantly she touched her fingers to the dark patch forming on the crotch of her jeans. A mixture of orange and red smears came off on her fingers. She was bleeding again, though not as heavily as it had been last night.

          She would kill for a shower, Something to wash away the dirt and the blood and any reminders of the way she was ravaged. Part of her hoped it would wash away the feeling of humiliation and impurity that were omnipresent and made her feel sick.

          With shaking fingers she attempted to unscrew the plastic cap of the bottle. She tilted the mouth of it to her lips, but most of the water spilled out over her chin. Addison steadied herself, took a deep breath, then slowly sipped from the bottle. It wasn’t until the warm liquid flushed through her mouth that she realized how dry it had been. After she’d downed a quarter of it, she capped it and set it down. Impatiently she wiped at her eyes.

          Lying back onto the asphalt, she wondered how Jenna was doing. She could only vaguely remember being half-dragged, half-carried back through the gate. She had been in too much pain to really look around to the woman who had been with her. If she thought too much about it, she could still hear Jenna’s screams and it sent shivers through her body. Addison had only managed one good look at her before they were released. Jenna’s face was bruised and bleeding from the temple, her hair was splayed in every direction and her clothes were tousled and filthy. That was the last she had seen, because once she had felt the hands release her, Addison had run to the far end of the confinement and collapsed, curling into a tight ball and crying. It was there she had stayed, and Jenna had not followed. Perhaps she had done the same, or maybe she had gone back to that elderly couple she was with before. Addison supposed it didn’t matter. If she looked at Jenna she’d probably start crying again anyway.

          She faced A1A, the main road running the length of Cocoa Beach. Through the crossed iron of the fence, she could see all the activity along the road of what was once a tourist’s paradise. It mostly seemed like they were moving equipment or setting up antennas. In the free parking lot next to Ron Jon’s, a tank with a bulldozer shovel affixed to the front of it was clearing parked vehicles. They crunched and screeched with the occasional burst of glass as they were pushed aside. It also seemed like there was more variation to the uniforms she saw, though maybe she just wasn’t paying attention before.

          She rolled onto her back and stared into the bold depths of the nearly cloudless sky. It used to be that on days like this you could hear the cries of gulls and the roar of the ocean. Now it was the cries of the weary and the roar of tanks.

          That’s where she pretended she was. No longer was she Addison Rodriguez who lay battered and terrified on the asphalt. She was a happy young girl listening to the voice of the ocean and enjoying the Floridian sun, still warm even in November. This young girl had no worries, wasn’t covered in bruises, and knew where her family was. That left her nothing to do but bask in the warmth with a clear mind. Pretending to be this girl, Addison finally fell into a deep sleep.

          She stirred after several hours and winced. Her neck and shoulders felt like they were held together with taut rubber bands that were liable to snap. Slowly she pushed herself into a seated position. Everything ached. She looked at her arms. The discolored patches had deepened into a purple and grey. She pulled out her shirt and looked down the collar. Similar bruises went down her collarbone and over her small breasts. She stifled a small cry and let her shirt fall back into place. She needed to pee, the urge was growing, but she had avoided it. She was terrified what she would find if she took off her pants, but there couldn’t be much more evasion.

          Reluctantly, very reluctantly, she eased herself up onto her feet. Sharp pain shot up through her pelvis while dull aches echoed everywhere else. For a moment she thought she may become so lightheaded she’d collapse, but she held her footing. With small steps she made her way to the line of port-o-potties that had been set up for the captives.

          How considerate, she thought darkly.

          Addison stumbled as one of her legs partially gave out and she fell forward onto one knee. “F**k!” she cried out, feeling tiny rocks digging through her pants and into her flesh. She stuck out both her hands and braced them against the ground. For a few moments she paused to recompose herself, then pushed herself back up and kept walking.

          The air near the portable toilets had a heavy stench that corrupted the air around them. It was pungent and heavy with ammonia. Addison wrinkled her nose and tried to block it out. She knocked on the green plastic door of the far left stall. There was no response, but to be safe she knocked again before opening it. Sharpie graffiti adorned the interior walls. A lot of it was random nonsense or elementary depictions of naked women, but there was one entry that actually made her let out a small laugh.

 

And now you find me broken hearted,

          I meant to s**t but only farted

So later on I took a chance,

          And went to fart and s**t my pants

 

         “What a poet,” she said with the faintest hint of a grin. It was a momentary respite from reality, but a welcomed one. However, the brutal realities flowed back as soon as she unbuttoned her jeans. She began to shake again and couldn’t get it under control. Her fingers fought against unzipping, scared about what it would reveal. As gently as she could manage, she slid her jeans to her ankles, then her bloody underwear. Her flesh was raw and tender, but no longer bleeding. She whimpered softly.

          She sat down and relieved her bladder, but the shaking didn’t subside. She hated all of this. Hated being in this reeking and claustrophobic port-o-potty. Hated that her family was separated and she could do nothing about it. Hated that strange men with their vehicles of war were outside.

          But most of all she hated that in the midst of this colossal event, she was just a defenseless little girl.

          She had learned just how little she was. Men could take her and do whatever they wanted; she couldn’t fight it, and no one strong would defend her. She was on her own, and couldn’t even protect herself. Her stomach clenched and she fought back the familiar stinging in her eyes. She was sick of crying. She wanted to just rip her eyes out so they couldn’t leak anymore.

          When she finished, she cleaned the blood from her legs and crotch before pulling her clothes back up. She used her shoe to push open the door and stepped back out where the air was fresher.

          The day was growing late and the sun was dipping behind thick clouds in the west. By the gate a crowd a grown to receive the stacks of cardboard boxes stuffed with food that soldiers were carrying in. The crowd was kept orderly, at least for the most part, by the presence of heavily armed troops that stood by the growing pile of boxes. Once the last box had been placed, all the soldiers left and the gate was shut once more, allowing the prisoners to go at it. Addison had no interest in joining the raucous group that was tearing into the boxes. Thirst she couldn’t keep away, but hunger was something she did not feel in the slightest.

          Something caught her eye next to her water bottle. Curiously, she stumbled over to it. It was a pair of granola bars. “Who?” but she realized she already knew. “Thanks,” she said, even though that little boy was nowhere around.

          Addison sat watching the sky darken. Occasionally she would take unenthused nibbles from one of the granola bars.

          Michael was dead. Maybe the others too. Her parents were gone, maybe taken somewhere similar to where she was.

          She watched as soldiers went about their tasks. She would never know which ones had hit her parents, or shot Michael, or took her virginity in a violent assault. But that didn’t matter.

          She wanted to watch them die.