Violation                                                                                               Joshua Castro

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You are all grown up. Independent, mature even, but not an old fart. Living alone is great. The space, the freedom, the lifestyle. No more parents. You call the shots. You can be that dude who walks around his apartment naked all day, if you want. You can even invite a guest over well past curfew.

You go online one night to find yourself a hot girl. You're not normally the type to do so, but you're single and it's convenient. You're entitled to a good lay. You message her, she messages back. She's DTF and willing to travel. A sexy piece of ass delivered right to your door in thirty minutes or less. You know she's a total stranger, but you text her anyway. It's after midnight, but she's local and you're horny. You don't think twice about giving her your home address. She's at your front door before you know it. You invite her in for a drink. She hardly resembles the photos that she sent you. Now that you think of it, most of them were taken at angles. But you already had a few beers before she got there, and you don't really care. You've got a hard-on. Soon enough she follows you into the bedroom.

This average, busty girl is all up on you. She's not bad looking. And her double D's do much to help her case. Not that any of it matters. The lights will soon be off. Everybody feels good in the dark. "You're so handsome," she tells you. You take off her shirt and her bra. "It's like we were meant to meet tonight," she says. She puts her arms around you. You pull down her sweatpants and underwear. You're already fully naked. You think of all the past girls you've hooked up with before you became an adult: the sneaking in through the backdoor of your parent's house, the tiptoeing down the hall, past your parent's bedroom, dead silent as you led them to your room. Those girls were fun, but the thrill was contained. Her moaning silenced by your hand over her mouth. Rushing her out of your house after you were done with her. It stopped being fun, and became more of a headache. But not anymore. You're the boss now. You can make all the noise you want. You can bring over whoever you want, whenever you want.

The action is a bit rushed. You haven't jacked off at all today and you're not exactly concerned with foreplay. You're pretty buzzed, but functional. She feels good. Wait, what was her name? Did she even tell you? Did you even ask? You can't remember. You don't really care. You're ready. You tell her you don't remember if you have any condoms left. "I don't mind," she tells you. "I think I'm ready to become a mother." Red flag. You know she's probably joking, but you can't help but feel awkward. You pull open your nightstand drawer and excavate through all the junk you've thrown in there. You find a condom. Thank the gods.

She's trying to go down on you. But you make her wait until you slip on the rubber. You're no fool. You can't trust anybody these days. You don't know what she might have or how many other guys she's already been with before you. Contrary to popular belief, oral still feels good wrapped up. Not great, but still good. You relieve her of duty and pull her back up. You make out with her for a little while. She's not that great of a kisser, so you move on. It's time to do what you brought her here to do. It's time to get down to it. You go on top of her and she welcomes you willingly. You're not here to impress, so you don't put too much effort into it. You employ your go-to one, two, thrust and you're done.

It all happened in what feels like a blur. You roll over onto your back and let out a heavy sigh. She wraps an arm around your chest and clings to your side. "That was beautiful. You make love to me really well." You're not really listening. You slip off the glove and tie the end to avoid any leakage. You dangle it in front of your face for a moment, a little proud of the load you've amassed. "Maybe next time your seed will be in me," she says. Creepy. You toss it to the floor. You're ready for sleep, but she's still there, and wide awake. Yes, you have your own apartment now. But...you still want her to get the fuck out. Force of habit. Suddenly you remember a million things that you have to do very early tomorrow morning, and you hope that she understands, because you'd really like her to stay, but, you know. Responsibilities. It's okay, she assures you. She can get up right when you have to and leave when you do. She's making this difficult. You smile at her and kiss her cheek and neck and persuade her that she's better off going home so you can get a good night's rest. She agrees. She gets up, gets dressed, and asks you to walk her to her car. Hell, no. You walk her to the door, and after prying her off you, no longer interested in her kisses, you close the door behind her. You lock it. You turn off all the lights and head back to your room. You sit on your bed and remember to throw away the condom. You feel around in the dark, your hand reaching the spot on the floor where it should have been. You feel nothing. Wait, did you already throw it away and forget? Maybe she threw it away for you to be helpful? Whatever. You lay back, roll over on your side, and knock out.

II

The next morning, your alarm rings out a song and you wake up, a bit exhausted. Drinking and sex and little sleep will do that to you. There's a text message awaiting you, sent an hour ago. You didn't bother to input a name last night, but you figure it's from her. You ignore it and rise from bed.

You piss in the bathroom, the toilet fills with foamy urine. Flush. You wash your hands, then head to the living room. You open the blinds to let the morning light inside. Your laptop is still on the sofa. You sit down and open it up. You have new emails. It's all spam, except for one. The one from her. You delete it. You open up your Facebook tab and find one new friend request notification. Your stomach clenches. You click the icon and see her picture and the name Marisa. You momentarily feel bad for not remembering her name when suddenly your phone shouts from the bedroom. You get up and follow the sound to your nightstand, where the continuous vibration rattles the wood. It's the same number as before. You stare at it as it rings the full six times, then again as it rings another six times. You see the New Voicemail box pop up on the screen. You wait until it's safe and then turn it off. You swear to yourself that you won't bring strange girls over anymore.

You change into your jogging clothes and head out for a run. You decide to leave your phone at home. You walk the few blocks down to Moor Field. The perimeter of the area includes a football and soccer field, a distance track, and a baseball diamond. You run around the place five times. It occurs to you after the first lap that you forgot to bring a water bottle. You push on anyway. Your legs feel fatigued by the last lap. Your throat is dry, your forehead trickling with sweat in the midday sun. You reach the finish line and stop. You stoop over, hands on your knees, taking in heavy breaths. Once you've collected yourself you begin the walk back home. You feel completely wiped out, yet somehow rejuvenated. Exercise is funny that way, you think. You enjoy running because it helps to clear your brain. You cherish the clarity of mind for a moment longer until you suddenly notice her car parked right outside of your apartment village. You know it's her car because she's outside sitting against the hood. She sees you and her eyes light up. She waves and walks towards you. You reluctantly hug her. You've already forgotten her name.

"I wanted to see if you were okay," she says. "I called, but your phone kept going straight to voicemail." You're fine, you assure her. Your battery died and you left it at home to charge. This reassures her. She reaches into her car and pulls out a drink from Jamba Juice. "I saw an empty cup on your coffee table last night, so I knew you liked to go there," she says with a smile. You take the cup and thank her. She wants you to know that last night was so fun. You nod your head. Did you read her email yet? You shake your head. Did you get her friend request? Are you hungry? Do you want to go eat? Shake. Shake. Shake. Are you busy today? Nod. How about later tonight? You shrug your shoulders. Maybe. That satisfies her. She asks you to call her later. You say whatever it takes to get her to leave. You head inside and lock your door. You turn your phone back on and witness a barrage of missed calls and texts. You block her number. You grab your laptop and block her email. You deny her friend request. You sigh with relief. You hope she'll take the hint. She's a nice girl, but you're not into her.

You head to your hall closet to grab a clean towel. You pull the hanging string to turn on the light bulb, walk in, and reach for a folded white one on the top shelf above the hanging clothes. You notice the grey spider that has taken residence there. It's up on the ceiling, camped quite comfortably on the small attic opening. You had removed the board the very first time you moved in because you thought there might be extra storage space up there. But when you popped your head in all you got was a mouth full of dust, and a view of a small cramped room with layers of dirt covering the floor. There's a small clump of webbing with little black dots hanging next to the spider. She's given birth. One arachnid is bad enough. You don't want a whole family of them. You climb up and try to swat Charlotte, but she escapes through a small crack into the attic. You'll get her next time. You grab the little web puff with your hand and head to the bathroom where you flush it down the hole. You close the door and take a shower.

An hour later, you change into some comfortable gym shorts and plop back onto the sofa. There's still a few more hours until you have to leave for work. You click the remote to turn on the TV. You're pissed. The cable box has been acting up recently. It sometimes freezes or won't let you scroll through your DVR list. You know it's still on the fritz because it always used to start on the on-demand menu, but lately it just shows the last thing you watched on pause. The night before you had been watching Breaking Bad. So now there was Walt, frozen in mid-scowl, revealing to Skyler that he was the danger.

III

It's a month later, and you wake up with the same persistent headache. You haven't been sleeping too well for the past two weeks. Each morning you experience strange symptoms of fatigue and nausea. The first couple of days after it started you laughed it off with your friends, who said you needed to lay off the weed for a while. But as the week wore on, your condition unchanged, you really did stop smoking until you could figure out what was wrong with you. But it didn't help. You began to suspect the worst. Cancer? Disease? Tumor? You scheduled an appointment to see your doctor the following week. But for the time being you take lots of Tylenol.

You're at the end of the second week since it all started, lying on your sofa, watching Game of Thrones, but not really listening. You're worried. Not about the illness, but something more troubling. There's something you've been too afraid of to tell anyone about. But you can't sit on it anymore. You instruct Siri to "call Mom." She answers after a few rings. When she hears your voice she immediately senses something is wrong. You're too quiet. "Talk to me, mijo," she says. She knows you've been feeling sick, but doesn't know what you're about to tell her. You hadn't told her about the nightmares. You start out slow, but your voice begins to quaver as you get more in depth. The images resurface as you tell her how every morning you wake up feeling drained, but each night you experience a reoccurring dream. It's always the same. In it your chest always feels tight, like a great weight is on you, like something is sitting on you. You feel like you can't breathe. You want to yell, to move, but you never can. It prevents you. Tis...this thing that holds you down, keeps you from freeing yourself. It's always indistinguishable, blurry, this creature, this being. And it whispers to you. It's always just whispering to you. I'm staying. You're going to love me.

Your mother begins to worry and you instantly regret telling her. You know she's a very spiritual person, but you needed to confide in her. She tells you that you need to go back to God. She says that it sounds like an evil spirit is attacking your soul. You try to ignore her, but things are so bad that you're almost starting to believe her. You thank her and quickly hang up the phone.

You drift quietly into the kitchen and pour yourself some milk and cereal. The spoon is guided into your mouth, and as you swallow, your face sours. It's the milk. It's off, and has been for a while. At first you thought it was expired, but you checked the expiration date and it's fine. Besides, it's not necessarily a rotting taste. The milk is never clumpy. It's just...off. But so is the orange juice, and the gallon of water. You decide it's you, not the beverages. It's because you've been feeling sick that everything tastes funny.

Later that afternoon you meet up with a close friend for a late lunch. You've known each other since high school. Nothing romantic ever developed between the two of you. Your relationship has always been strictly platonic. She's good to you and has weathered the years while so many other people have faded. You respect her enough to never try to play her. And she respects herself enough to never allow any guy to, either. She's worried about you. She notices a change in your demeanor. You seem sluggish, she says. You open up to her about the nightmares. You tell her your mom thinks you're being plagued by demons. Your friend listens to you, never once laughs at you. When she finally speaks, she sounds calm and rational. She tells you that your mother might not be too far off. You wince. She asks if you've ever heard of "night terrors." You're not sure. She explains that sometimes people have been known to suffer from a sleep disorder in which they are only half asleep. The person is semi-conscious, but cannot move or control their body, she says.

She uses her phone to YouTube it and you watch the video together. You hear the haunting melody of an organ playing and you recognize it as the theme song to the Haunted Mansion ride at Disneyland. There is a slideshow of illustrated images featuring horrific demons, ferocious monsters, and grotesque witches all straddling terrified looking people who are asleep in bed. You agree with your friend that the condition is strikingly reminiscent of what you've been experiencing. You ask her how it's cured, these night terrors; she admits that she doesn't know. She asks you if you've seen a doctor yet. You tell her that you have, but that you showed no visible symptoms of a viral or bacterial infection. You relate to her the uneasiness you felt when the doctor assigned you for blood and urine tests; the embarrassment you felt when he asked you if you were "sexually promiscuous," or if you engaged in unprotected sex with other men. Your friend, supportive and sympathetic up until now, cannot contain the laughter which blurts from her mouth. Unamused, you change the subject and ask her what time she'll be coming over tonight; her apartment is being fumigated and you've agreed to let her crash at your place for the weekend. Once her laughter subsides she informs you that her shift at the nursing home won't release her until after eleven, so not 'til late. You let her know that in case you're not still up, you'll leave the key under the mat.

IV

You are not awake later that night when your friend arrives. You are not able to answer the door for her because you never hear her repeated knocks or the buzz of the doorbell. When she retrieves the key from under the mat and opens the locks, you do not feel her frustration when the security chain prevents her from entering. You do not hear her call out to you from the small crack in the doorway, or see her as she struggles to reach through the opening to unfasten the latch. When the door suddenly SLAMS SHUT, barely missing her hand, and she screams from surprise and nearly falls backward, you don't hear it. You cannot see her standing out on your front steps, alone in the dark and trembling slightly. You are unable to applaud her courage as she once again undoes the locks out of concern for you and then pushes all her weight against the chain with unrealized strength, again and again until it finally snaps and the door flings open. You cannot appreciate her bravery as she walks slowly into the living room and calls out for you. The room is dark save for the glow from the TV, which is on and paused on Twilight. She knows you hate that movie. She walks into the small kitchenette on her right and turns on the small overhead light. She sees the open gallons of milk and water on the small table, next to them a small bottle of medicine. She inspects it. They're penis erectile pills. She notices a few split capsules on the table, emptied of their contents. She hears a noise from the unlit hallway and drops the bottle, spilling the rest of the pills onto the floor.

She places her bag on the table and searches inside for her phone and pepper spray. The hallway light switch is at the far end of the hall, near the entrance to your room, where the door is shut. Your friend's heart is beating rapidly, her adrenaline is running and she can feel herself sweating. She calls out your name. When there is no response, she turns on her phone's flashlight and aims it into the darkness. She proceeds towards your room. There is no more daring a girl in all the world than your friend. She walks cautiously, aware of each step, attuned to any sudden noise that should erupt. She first passes the bathroom door, which is wide open. She reaches in and quickly turns on the light. The small bathroom is empty. She quickly faces down the hall again, flashlight scanning the area ahead and pepper spray extended, at the ready. When she reaches the hallway closet she finds that it has no door, and so she reaches in carefully to pull the light bulb string, but it's dead. She scans the closet instead with her flashlight, but it appears to be empty. However, she looks up at the ceiling and sees a small attic opening with the board removed. There is a grey spider crawling along the edges.

She exits the closet and, being near the end of the hallway, switches on the light. She stares at your closed bedroom door. She calls out your name one last time. When there is still no response, she tentatively places her hand on the doorknob and opens the door, stepping slightly back as she does so. The light from the hallway does not help much to illuminate your room, so she reaches her hand through the doorframe and feels along the wall for the next switch, which she finds. When she sees your naked body lying on your bed, arms and legs strapped to the bed post, she cries out. Your friend is startled to see your semi-erect penis. She briefly hesitates, but then rushes over to your side, covering your erection with some of the blanket. She yells at you to wake up. But you do not respond. She grabs your shoulders and shakes you, but you do not react. She pats your face quickly, softly at first, then roughly. But you remain unconscious. She puts her can of pepper spray on the nightstand and notices a small rag already there. She picks it up and it reeks of a strong odor, almost like bleach, but not quite. She tosses it aside and uses her phone to call the police. The battery is at 1%. The flashlight drained what little charge was still left. She dials anyway, but before it even rings a second time, the phone dies. In her frantic fumbling with the phone, your friend fails to notice when first the kitchen light, and then the hallway light are turned off. Not until the bedroom light, too, is suddenly switched off does she realize she is also in danger.

"He's mine! He's mine!" is all she hears before she is tackled by an unseen aggressor and thrown backwards onto the nightstand, where then she and the other body fall onto the hardwood floor. Your friend screams in terror as something heavier than she claws and slaps at her face and attempts to strangle her in the dark. Yet you lie still on your bed. She is still clutching the useless phone in her hand as she yells behind muffled lips for you to help her.

V

It is many hours later when you do finally wake up, again with the same persistent headache. It is already noon. You rise from bed and head to the bathroom where you throw up. Afterwards, you check the living room for your friend, but she is not there. She must have already left for work. You call her cell, but it goes straight to voicemail. You decide to take a shower to try and make yourself feel better. You head to your hallway closet to get some fresh clothes. You pull the string, but the bulb is dead. You head to the kitchen and search the cabinets for a new one. You go back to your closet and change the bulb. You turn on the light and see Charlotte up on the ceiling again. She's resting again on the small attic opening where the board is placed. You wonder if she is worth the effort of killing. You leave her be. Let her crawl back into the attic and live her life of darkness.

When you step into the shower the warm water hits your face and trickles down your body. You start to soap up, lathering your chest, then your stomach, then your crotch. You feel that little twinge of desire resurface. How long has it been since you last... You know it's messed up, but you remember that one chick. You get ready to jerk it in the shower, but you wonder if she's still DTF. Instead, you step out of the shower to get your phone, unblock the girl's number and shoot her a text.