No Longer the Victim

No Longer the Victim Debra Monroe-Lax Chapter 1 Accelerating through traffic while passing seedy hotels and strip joints along the way, I arrived at my destination, Club Sheiks. It’s the beginning of the year, the first Saturday in January, and by all accounts, I envision this night going splendidly. After parking in the rear of the windowless single-level purplish building, I disappeared inside. The club’s a monstrosity, concrete flooring, wall-to-wall mirrors, colorful florescent lighting and blaring music. On stage, exotic dancers perform inside barred cages, like wild animals in heat. Waitresses fill orders and fantasies, while sashaying around wearing scanty lingerie and platform heels. Club Sheiks is ideal for one reason; it’s a strip joint evolving into the latest gay hangout. Not a soul here is a judge of character, and even so—who cares? This fact in and of itself makes the hellhole worth my time—that, and the fulfillment of knowing the end results of my brief visits here. I took a seat at the bar, observing intended targets amongst the crowd before honing in on an attractive brunette as she staggered to a nearby table. She wore a form-fitting red sweaterdress with knee-high black stiletto boots. “Bartender? A scotch whiskey, make it neat.” “You want to start a tab?” asked the tanned effeminate male as he dispensed a jigger of scotch into a double old-fashioned glass. “No, thanks.” I tossed a ten-dollar bill on the counter. “Change is yours.” I guzzled the caramel scented drink in one swig before approaching the brunette’s table. “I couldn’t help but notice you from the bar. Are you okay?” I asked. “I will be,” she said. “Is there something I can do?” I counted four empty cocktail glasses on the table in front of her. “Nope. No one can fix it—but me,” she slurred. “And I don’t want to.” “It’s the beginning of the New Year. How bad could it really be?” I smiled. “Mind if I sit?” “Help yourself.” She motioned in a welcome gesture and I sat next to her. “I’m Chris. And you are?” I extended a hand. “Jody,” she greeted. “So Jody, what’s troubling you? I’m known to be a great listener, and an even better problem solver.” “You can’t help me. Besides you’re a stranger. What do you care?” “Try me. Even if I can’t help you, you’ll feel better having talked about it.” She smiled and sighed. “I just came from visiting my mom. She just never knows when to butt the hell out of my life. She still hasn’t accepted the fact that I’ll never be the daughter she expects me to be. Anyway, one argument led to another, and as she spoke ill of my lifestyle yet again, I left. Instead of going home to be with my partner, Susan, and friends we invited to our place, I came here to clear my head.” She lifted one of the empty cocktail glasses in the air. “Hey, you are who you are, and nothing can change that. I’m sure she’ll come around.” “Fortunately, you don’t know my mom. You’d think now that I’m a twenty-two-year-old college grad and have some sense of what I want out of life, she’d be happy for me. But hardly. It’s all or nothing for her.” She began eyeing the increasingly growing crowd of partygoers. “I need another drink. Where are the waitresses when you really need them?” “Chances are better getting it from the bar. I’ll fight through the crowd for you—but on one condition.” “Yeah?” “I choose the drink.” “And what might that be?” “Be right back, and I promise you won’t be disappointed.” I made my way to the bar and returned shortly with a Cosmo in hand. “Good choice.” “I aim to please.” I placed the cocktail next to the empty glasses. “So what time are you expecting friends at your place?” “Thanks. About now.” She took a sip of the drink. “But I’m not going, Susan can entertain them.” “You know, I was invited to a party myself. Would you like to join me? It’ll take your mind off your troubles, at least for a while.” “Now, why would I do that? I don’t know you or your last name, as far as that goes.” “It’s Hays, and if you go, you can get to know me.” “I did mention that I was involved, right? If not, let me clear it up again.” “You did, but I don’t think there’s any harm in us becoming friends, do you?” “Friends?” “Yeah, I mean unless—” “No, it could never be anything else.” “Then friends it is. So what do you say? Party with me for a while?” “I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this,” she said while pointing an index finger in my face. “Okay, I’ll go, but not for long.” “You won’t regret it. Now drink up and let’s get out of here.” She tossed down the cocktail. “Where, exactly, is this party?” “Downtown. Are we ready?” She stood up and without warning, missed a step and collapsed back into the chair. “I got you.” I took her by the hand and escorted her out of the club. “I’m parked in the rear of the lot. Only a short ways to go.” “But my car is right here. I’ll just follow you.” She pulled away while pointing toward a white Nissan Altima. “Since it appears you’ve had one drink too many, I thought I’d drive, and bring you back when you’re ready. It’ll give us a chance to talk a bit more—and you a chance to sober up.” “When I’m ready and not a second longer,” she said. “Scout’s honor.” I held up three fingers. Once inside my G35, we drove a short distance west on Brooks Road before merging onto I-55 north toward downtown. Minutes later, we exited right onto Virginia Avenue in a neighborhood slightly east of the Mississippi River, and pulled into the driveway of my two-story, sky-gray stucco home. “So where are the guests? And why are you pulling in the garage? Who lives here?” she asked. “There’s no party, is there? I think it’s best if I just go back to the club.” “Relax, Jody, I live here. I’m just going to grab a bottle of bubbly to take with us. Do you mind?” “No. Sorry. I really didn’t mean to freak-out on you. But—” “Think nothing of it. Let’s go in.” “So, why two cars?” she asked while walking past the covered vehicle parked in the garage. “That one doesn’t work,” I lied while smiling inwardly. This will be your means of transportation from here—though you won’t know it. We entered the house through the galley-style kitchen. I knelt in front of the built-in under-counter Wine Captain and pulled out a bottle of Moet. “Give me a sec to check my phone messages and we’re out of here. You can have a look around the place, if you’d like.” “Okay. By the way, nice place you have here,” she said while turning to leave the room. I watched as she walked into the living area admiring my modest décor. No pictures, books, or artwork of any sort. An oversized sage green sofa, an oblong cherry wood coffee table, and a wall mounted plasma television completed the space. Out of view, I hung up the phone and strolled down the hallway, passing two unfurnished bedrooms as I made my way to the third, which was sparsely furnished. I flicked the light on. Eyes intently focused on the cord that draped over the headboard of the wrought iron-framed bed. Yes, there’s going to be a party, and you, my dear Jody, are the guest of honor. “Chris, where are you?” she called from the hallway. “In here.” I grabbed the cord, turned out the lights, and stood quietly against the wall. “Are you about ready?” “Not quite.” As she entered the room, I shoved her onto the bed. With one knee planted firmly into the small of her back, I twisted the cord around my palms and tightened it as it made contact with her throat. “No! Stop—please!” She tried desperately to free the cord from her neck with virtually no chances of doing so. “Help me—somebody, please!” Her wailing and thrashing about amplified as she tried to loosen my grip. Her attempt was in vain. Every muscle in my upper body was concentrated on ending her existence. There was no stopping—not now. Not ever. “Why—why me?” she wept while gasping heavily for air. “To protect and punish,” I simply replied as she took her last breath.