911 Emergency
by Lisa Kwan
Written for: The Writer's Tower
Theme: Paradox (July)
911
911!!!!
‘Sup
babe?
I need help! It’s
an emergency!!! Get over here, STAT!!!!!
Ok. On
my way.
I
wanted to take my time, going over to Christy’s place. She tends to be…overly dramatic,
sometimes. But then again, I didn’t want to be responsible if it were really
some emergency. Granted, it probably wouldn’t be her house burning down, or an
axe murderer breaking down her front door, but…you can never be sure with
Christy.
I
sped through a yellow light, hastily overtook a white Peugeot whose driver
actually rolled down the window to angrily wave a bright yellow steering lock
at me, and finally arrived in front of Christy’s small single-storey terrace in
record time, accidentally knocking over a trash bin, spilling its contents—last
night’s dinner debris and, oddly, a deflated football.
Half-running,
half-jogging, I went up to her door and rang the doorbell.
Christy
appeared at the door, her hair disheveled, her eyes sunken, her lipstick
smudged, and the shoulder of her blouse had slipped, revealing her smooth cream-coloured
skin. My heart sank to the floor. Had
something happened?
She
pulled me in after her and shut the door, leaving me confused. Her house was in
darkness, even though it was mid-afternoon. When my eyes had adjusted to the
dim lighting, I noticed her living room looked like she had been robbed. It was
a complete mess! Broken glass, things tossed and thrown around. An uneasy
feeling settled on my chest.
Christy
was mumbling to herself, ambling towards the back of the house, almost as if
she had forgotten I was here. I was frankly freaked out. What the hell happened in here? I
grabbed her hand and swung her to face me. “Christy, talk to me babe! Are you
alright? Are you hurt? Did somebody hurt you?” My voice was rising in panic.
Her
eyes were empty, almost unseeing. As I watched, her eyes seemed to clear and
she finally looked at me. Really
looked at me. “Kel,” she whispered.
“Yes,
babe, I’m here.” I pulled her into a tight embrace, gripping her hunched
shoulders. I felt a tiny sigh escape her lips, warming a small part of my neck.
She’s going to be alright, I think.
I
hold her so she is staring right at me, and I made sure she saw me when I said,
“Tell me what happened. Everything.”
She
silently nodded, but slowly turned around and wandered towards her room. Not
knowing what to do, I silently followed.
I
found Christy slumped over, sitting on the edge of her bed, which was also
strewn with clothes, her bedroom in various disarray; and my head ran through
every possible worst case scenario. She
was robbed. She was blackmailed. It was the mafia.
“His
eyes reminded me of melted chocolate, the kind you’d dip into and savour as you
lick it off, you know?” she said.
She was raped.
“He
enrolled into my class only this semester, a late-entry student. He was
handsome, oh so handsome. All the
girls were talking about him, wondering if he was attached, searching his hands
for a ring or, even a trace of a ring. But there was none.” Here, she paused,
and looked upwards at the ceiling, smiling. Was
that a tear in her eye?
Honestly,
she was scaring me more and more by the minute, these crazy mood swings. “Uh-huh,”
I said, inching slowly towards her door, ready to bolt at a moment’s notice.
Well,
she didn’t notice.
“Out
of all the girls in our class,
including Mindy, this long-legged skinny bitch, he picked me. I can’t understand why.” Her eyes found mine, shining with obvious tears.
“We
weren’t even in the same group for the assignment, but he walked up to us, in
the midst of discussion, and, with everyone watching—especially that cow, Mindy—he asked me out. For coffee. On
Saturday. Me.”
When
she crouched over once more and dissolved into hysterical sobs, I braced myself
for the worst. Oh no. The jerk. What had
he done?
There
were so many questions running through my head. When? How? Why? But, did it matter now? Did it matter at all?
I
tentatively maneuvered my way through the mess of clothes on the floor and sat beside her,
the bed creaking a little as I did so. Christy sobbed even louder, if that were
possible. Watching her brokenness, I vowed I would be the best friend a friend
could ever have.
I
remembered reading: 60% of rape cases in
the last five years were never reported. Even when it is reported, it is
unlikely to lead to arrest and prosecution. Only 3% of rapists ever serve a day
in prison.
I’ll
help her get through this. I’ll get her the legal aid she needed, the money. We’ll
prosecute the hell outta that son of a bitch. We’ll make sure he rots in jail.
He’ll never see the light of day again.
My
mind was whirling with the enormity of what was to come, a fight that was only
just beginning. How do we even begin? Who should we talk to? Where do we go?
“I
don’t know what to do,” Christy said, hiccupping, her tears streaming down her
face. Me neither, I thought. But I
realized that, from this point onward, I had to be her female knight in shining
armour. I had to put on a brave face, so that she would have the courage to
stand up. To fight. To win.
I
clasped her hands in mine, took a deep breath. “You’re going to be fine,” I
said to her, but it seemed more to myself.
We
sat in silence for a while, except for Christy’s subdued hiccups.
“Um,
I hate to rush you, Kel," she hiccuped, "but I’m meeting him in like, an hour.”
I
turned to look at her then, almost in slow motion. “What?” I spluttered.
“Yeah,
so, I need your help to choose what to wear.”
It
took me several seconds to acknowledge what she was saying. What to wear. I need your help to choose
what to wear.
I
looked around me once more, at the messy bedroom, the variety of clothes chucked
all over, the chaos outside in the living room. And it dawned on me what the
true emergency was.
“I
have nothing to wear!” Christy wailed.
I
glared murderously at her.
I
thought about who would call 911 emergency now.
THE END
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