Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/770467-Tapped
Rated: 18+ · Short Story · Drama · #770467
"Here are your pictures,ma'am."
         "Pictures are ready for Davena Rabowski."

         What on Earth? I haven't dropped off any film here in several months. I just stopped in for some chocolate and to give my friend Annette some company while she bought out the store. With all the people in here, I'd be surprised if we actually found each other again. For that matter, I'm surprised I heard the announcement over the dull roar of the shopping crowd. Wait a minute. What? I grabbed four Hershey bars and made my way over to the photo department.

         "Hello," I murmured to the gentleman at the photo counter.

         "Davena Rabowski," was his questioning reply.


         The clerk handed me the envelopes, and I opened the envelopes to see what these pictures were.

         "Will that be all?" he asked.

         "I'd like to look at these pictures first," I told him.

         I removed the pictures from the envelopes and began to examine them. What I saw at first baffled me. There were women with their chests airbrushed with varieties of designs, men nearly collapsing from the tons of Mardi Gras type beads draped around their necks, and inebriated teens stripping in front of the Key West crowd. I did not recognize the area or situation at all. As I continued to look over the pictures, though, I began to recognize faces. I saw my ex boyfriend, his now ex girlfriend, my former band director, and scads of other people I had met throughout my life. What really disturbed me was the fact that they were like the other partiers in the crowd: half naked, spray painted, and wasted beyond belief.

         Towards the end, there was a picture of me holding a Colt .45 to Dan, a former saxophone player dressed in nothing but a leopard print thong. I was a about 6' 6", which is a foot more than I actually am, and my chestnut brown hair was dyed blue black. I wore a shirt that read Proud Member of the National Homophobics Association, baggy dark blue Jnco jeans, and Army grade combat boots. Following that picture was another picture of me with the gun, but this time, I was kissing it while an attractive man (6' 3", dark brown hair, stocky, had a goatee) who appeared to be my lover looked on lustfully. The very last picture was of someone holding up a white poster board with the sentence "Death to Davena Rabowski, the world's most insensitive gay basher!" written in blood. I was aghast at the sight of these pictures. Where had they come from? Who brought them in? How could these have been created?

         "Sir," I asked the clerk, "do you remember who brought these in?"

         "It was a man, about six foot, blond crew cut, late twenties," the clerk said.

         As he gave the description, I began to flip through the pictures, wondering if he was in them. However, I didn't find anyone that matched the description the clerk gave me. I had a hard time figuring out where these pictures came from.

         "These aren't my pictures," I told the clerk.

         "Hmmm," he mumbled. "I asked him if it was under Rabowski, and he said yes."

         When the clerk told me this, I began a slow burn. I felt the ache well up in my temples and drift into my sinuses. The origin of these pictures lost some of its urgency, as now someone seems to have used my name without my permission. I was numb from shock infused anger. I could not believe that someone had stolen my identity, if only for a moment.

         "May I see a manager?" I asked.

         A few minutes later, one of the managers finally showed up at the photo department.

         "May I help you?" he asked.

         I glanced up at the lanky gentleman. "Y...esss," I said. "Did you happen to see a man in his late twenties, about your height, blond crew cut?"

         "I can't say I have, but that doesn't mean anything. If you'd like, I'll check the surveillance tapes. It will take some time, though."

         "I'd appreciate it," I told him, and he returned to the office.

         Annette found me, and for about a half hour, we waited for the manager to return. By this time, we already purchased what we needed along with two sodas. I nibbled on one of my nut and chocolate bars, afraid to tell Annette why we were waiting. I had seen her in the pictures with her chest painted with a cat face dancing in with another girl. Almost every minute I checked my watch. With each glance at the white analog face, I began to sweat. I downed my soda and proceeded to buy three more before the manager finally returned.

         "A man fitting that description was in the store today," the manager told me. "It looks like one of our pharmacy techs, Ryan, has spoken with him."

         "Thank you, " I said. "Is Ryan still here?"

         "Yes, he is."

         "Thank you."

         With that, I handed Annette some cash so she could buy all seven sets of photos while I paid Ryan a visit.

         I reached the pharmacy drop off window, by now shivering after a profuse sweat that clung to my skin. I was greeted by a man who looked my lover from the pictures. In spite of my panicky state, I blushed upon spotting the tech. He was dressed in all black except for his stark white lab coat, which I found rather intrguing.

         "May I help you, ma'am?" he asked.

         "Are you Ryan?" I asked.

         "Yes, I am," he replied.

         "You are exactly the person I'm looking for. I understand you spoke with a man today who's about six foot, blond crew cut, late twenties."


         "What did he say to you?"

         Ryan leaned on the edge of the counter. "Much. He spoke a lot about an experimental procedure he was testing on mind reading. He said he had developed a way to not so subtlely awaken a person's conscience by tapping into their brains and exploring their negative traits."

         Annette had come over with my photos just as Ryan revealed this idea to me. I shook now from not only the lingering chill of the coolers but also from the almost crack science into which I seemed to have been roped. Had I been tapped?

         "Did he say how he'd awaken a person's conscience?"

         "No, but I noticed he had some rolls of film in a baggie, and he called Infone right before he approached the area where you're standing right now."

         "Did he give you a name?"

         Ryan nodded and told me, "Marcus Tarrington."


         I went home later that night to inspect the pictures and find out more about the mysterious mind explorer. It turns out Marcus Tarrington was a famed Miami area fashion photographer, yet I was all the way up in Melbourne. This made no sense at all. Why would he be developing film under my name so far away from home?

         As I flipped through the photos, I began to notice some patterns. First, I grew, both heightwise and in build. I became unnaturally muscular as the pictures progressed. Second, there were many signs, but one sign for a certain bar kept appearing. Throughout the pictures, though, the letters in the sign changed colors, covering the rainbow in reverse order (purple to red). The final thing I noticed the people I recognized became more sexual in their behavior as the pictures went along. One picture of my former band director fisting another man was particularly unsettling, and I felt my stomach lurch, red fluid streaming out of my mouth. When I stopped, the pictures had moved, spelling the word TRAITOR on my coffee table. What did that mean?

         The next morning, I got a call from Walgreen's saying my prescriptions were ready. Though not keen on returning to the store where I picked up the nightmare photos the day before, I returned to pick up my Lexapro and AciPhex. When I went to pick them up, I saw Ryan again. He wore black like that last time, but he added a silver tie with the letters NHA embroidered in the material.

         "Davena Rabowski," he said as he handed me the bag containing my medications. "That will be two hundred eighty dollars and seventy four cents."

         I got out my checkbook and signed the first available blank check. As I did so, I felt eyes on me, watching as I went about my everyday life. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a blonde guy wearing white pants and a deep pink polo walk by me, and I shuddered like a roof shingle barely attached to the roof during a hurricane.I heard what sounded like a camera, but I thought nothing of it and handed Ryan my check. As he put it through the reader, I watched him. Making an appraisal of the tech, I remembered why I was a frequent Walgreen's customer. It was him. He had always intrigued me, but I didn't really pay all that much attention to those feelings. I had seen him before yesterday maybe once, and that's all it took for him to become imbedded in my subconscious. Taking a closer look at him, I saw his tie again, and those three letters beckoned me. What did they mean?

         "Nice tie," I said. "What do the letters stand for?"

         "They stand for National Homophobics Association," Ryan told me. "I've been a member for five years."

         I stood there in awe, amazed that such an organization existed. I've always been afraid of gay people, and the existence of this group showed me I wasn't alone. Maybe they could help me figure this out.

         "That's interesting," I said, and I heard again the sound of a camera.

         "Wanna join," he asked.

         "Maybe. Perhaps you could tell me more about it."

         "Sure. Meet me at Chili's tonight around seven thirty then."

         I smiled as he handed me my receipt.

         "I'll be there."


         My day passed quickly even thought nothing out of the ordinary permeated my work routine. As I sat in the editing room finishing a commercial for Bugeez Pest Control, I swayed between excitement over my upcoming dinner with Ryan and the lingering memories of the pictures. What puzzled me the most was why, and how, they had arranged themselves to spell the word TRAITOR on my coffee table. I hadn't moved them since the night before, so that baffling word was still spelled out on the table. How was I a traitor?

         I fought my boss to get out at seven that night. Having succeeded, I found I had a half hour to go home, change, and get to Chili's. Driving like I had put crystal meth in my gas tank, I made it home only to find several messages on my answering machine and the pictures rearranged. I pressed the play button on the machine as I rushed about trying to get ready. One message was from Annette, asking me if I wanted to join her for drinks that evening. Shit! Time to cook up a bullshit excuse.

         After changing into a gray satin dress shirt, a black velvet skirt, and black leather boots, I picked up the phone. Only then did I notice how the pictures were rearranged. Several had been cut to create a scene where various half naked partiers were calling for my death. My former band director and my ex boyfriend were holding up the sign I had seen towards the end of the packs, while many females I had known (donning painted busts) crowded around them. Many strangers surrounded them, and Dan was holding the Colt .45. The other pictures were around this scene in a semi-circle, but they were tinted red from my blood. Were my friends really going to turn on me and ask for my head on a stick? Trying to shake the thought from my mind, I grabbed the phone and called Annette.

         " 'lo."

         "Annette, it's Davena. Listen, I can't go out for drinks."

         "Okay. Why not? Working late?" my nosy friend asked

         I adjusted the wristband on my watch. "Nah. I have plans."

         "What kind of plans?"

         "Plans. Dinner plans. You don't know who I'm meeting."

         "Fine, leave me out of it. I see I'm not appreciated."

         I sighed and held back an eye roll. "I'd tell ya more about it, but I'm about to be seriously late."

         "Okay. See ya."


         To my surprise, I made it to Chili's at seven thirty on the nose. Ryan already had a seat in the bar area, so I wandered over to where he was perched.

         "Hey, Davena," he greeted me in an almost soothing manner. "You okay?"

         "Yeah," I huffed out. "Why do you ask?"

         "You're shaking."

         "I am?"

         "You sure are. Are you cold?"

         Shrugging, I told him "No, not really."

         "Well, put this on, anyway."

         With that, he handed me his jacket, which I draped over my shoulders. I sat down next to him in the booth, and the waitress came over.

         "Can I get you anything to drink?"

         "Dirty Absolut gibson, up, please," I said.

         "I'll have a Bud draft," Ryan told the waitress, and she trotted to the bar.

         "So," I said. "Tell me about the National Homophobics Association."

         "It's a support group, basically, kind of like Alcoholics Anonymous," he said.

         "But you told me you've been a member for five years."

         "The objective isn't recovery. It's strength in numbers. We meet because most people don't understand what it's like to be truly phobic. It's tough to cope in a world that wants tolerance yet is quick to ostracize you."

         "Oh," I hum. "That makes sense. So what do you guys do in the association?"

         "We meet on Friday evenings once every two weeks. We discuss the effects of homosexuality in society. There have been many discussion topics lately, especially with what we call TV's coming out."

         "Shit like Queer Eye for the Straight Guy."

         "Exactly. Many members used to watch Bravo but have since boycotted the channel because of that show."

         "Really. Well, I'll be damned."

         "We also establish grass roots efforts to limit homosexual influence in our society," Ryan continued. "For example, several NHA groups in the DC area organized a demonstration on Capitol Hill a few years ago when President Clinton was considering allowing gay marriages to become permissiable by law. There were similar demonstrations in Hawaii and Vermont, but they weren't the most successful. That said, many NHA members in those states moved out and are now living in places like California and New York, preparing a nuclear arsenal of efforts to lessen the effects of homosexuality on our culture."

         "That's quite ambitious, Ryan. How long has the NHA been in existence?"

         "It was started in the mid seventies when the AIDS crisis was still a little vague, but some information had been leaked about the government performing tests on gays using the HIV virus."

         "How did that get the NHA going?" I asked.

         "Nelson Taravella, the founder of the NHA, was angry that the government performed these experiments on people they should have known could not be easily confined. So, in a way, the NHA is both anti-homosexual and anti-US government. It kept on even though the information had been found out to be merely a rumor."

         The waitress arrived with our drinks, and I downed an enormous swig of my gibson. As I consumed my drink, I heard Ryan place an order for an appetizer sampler. Intermingled with his soft, almost velvety voice was the faint sound of a camera yet again. Was I being spied on? Whatever it was, I wanted nothing more than to put an end to it. I put down my drink for a second and scanned the ceiling for any signs of spying. Not seeing any mirrors, lenses, or microphones in plain sight, I sat down to continue the discussion. Ryan, though, seemed to have other plans.

         "Davena, are you okay," he asked. "You looked spooked."

         I looked at him and said,"I thought I heard a camera."

         "You're still freaked out about yesterday," he muttered.

         I faced the tech, surprised at his attention to my moods. "Yeah," I told him. "Things have gotten worse."

         "How so?"

         "The pictures keep rearranging themselves on my coffee table," I muttered. "Last night, after I vomited blood upon seeing a picture of my former band director, the pictures arranged themselves to form the word traitor on the table. When I got home from work, some of them were cut and formed into a scene of a crowd that wanted me executed. Many people I have known throughout my life seemed to clamor for my death, and this one guy I haven't seen since middle school was going to kill me with my own Colt .45 I got for Christmas last year. The rest of the pictures were placed around this scene, and they were tinted red from the blood I vomitted last night."

         Ryan's brow furrowed, revealing a puzzlement mirroring mine. For a moment, he just sat there, alternating between swigging of his beer and rubbing his temples. I looked on, trying to figure out what he was doing.

         "How many envelopes of pictures did you have," he asked me after a while.

         "Seven," I whispered before polishing off my gibson.

         "Shit. That's how many rolls of film Marcus had."

         Ryan pounded his fist on the table and had begun to smack his head against the wall when our appetizer sampler arrived. I pointed to my empty glass, asking for a second gibson without uttering a word. Turning to Ryan, I decided to change the direction of this discussion.

         "Ryan," I asked, "how do you join the NHA?"


         A few months passed in what felt like a few seconds after I had received those pictures. During this time, I had joined the NHA and was working on drafting some guidelines for spotting homosexual teachers. Not long after I joined the group, there had been an intense discussion about the number of homosexual teachers in the state of Florida. Many members of my group, the Mel-Ledge Coalition, had children in the Florida school system, so this was not just activism for them. It was personal.

          Ryan and I spent most of our free time together, and I began to see Annette a lot less. When we did talk, she yakked incessantly about her girls' nights out, pleading for me to join her at some point. I shrugged it off, telling her I had a lot going on in my life, which was true. However, I never told her what I was really up to, as I had begun to suspect her "girls' nights out" were actually lesbian get togethers.

         It was some time in April when the call came. I was at work, mulling over a commercial for a local clothing boutique (with pictures done by Tarrington) when my boss told me I had a phone call. I picked up the phone, only to hear Ryan's panicked voice. He told me Tarrington was back, and there were seven more rolls of film in my name at their one hour lab. I asked him to pick them up and meet me at my apartment. There wass no way Marcus would follow me there.

         Ryan came over to my apartment that evening with the new pictures. By now, the old ones were warped from the blood, humidity, cutting, and bending, thus barely intact. These new pictures, though, were much worse than the first. There were pictures of the new friends I had made in the NHA, showing them raped, strangled, being abused by homosexuals, and being leered at by politicians. I then saw Annette having sex with other girls, Dan shoving my gun up another guy's ass, and my ex's ex girlfriend painting a naked woman on Ellen DeGeneres' stomach using edible body paint.

         Later, Ryan and I found pictures of ourselves being beaten by an angry mob of homosexuals. We soon identified some of the previously unknown people as band members we had met during middle and high school. I got out my yearbooks from all those years and began to flip through them. Together, Ryan and I browsed the pages, finding friendly, supportive comments from many of the people we spotted in the pictures. It then occured to me that these people had once been my friends.What happened, I wondered.

         "I used to be friends with these people," I told Ryan.

         "Times change, and so do people," he replied.

         "But why do these same people seem to be mocking me?"

         "Maybe they're not the traitorous ones. Maybe it's you."

         "How could that be?"

         "You see them so sexually free, but you are a workaholic, denying your sexual desires. Perhaps this freedom caused them to realize they didn't like life on the straight and narrow. Your joining the NHA could be seen as a betrayal to them."

         "These are people I haven't seen since I graduated! That was eight years ago, Ryan!"

         "But aren''t they all from band?"

         I simply nodded in response.

         "You know as well as I do that band is more than an organization; it's a brethren, kind of like the NHA. Band people support each other through thick and thin, no matter the circumstances. If one person becomes a dissenter in any way, that person is seen as a traitor."

         "But all this shit about homosexuality-"

         "Perhaps this is how you betrayed them."

         "But how would they know?"

         "Annette? Isn't she still friends with a lot of band people from your high school days?"

         "Yeah. She's the assistant band director at Mel-High. She's considering taking a job as an assistant at St. Bernadette, where my former high school director is now working."

         "So perhaps they talk fairly frequently. You have told Annette you joined the NHA."

         I nodded, wondering why the hell I did that.

         "There you go. You trusted Annette, which means you inadvertently betrayed her and your entire band brethren."

         "But I left them years ago!"

         "Davena, listen to me. These pictures are showing your weakness in dealing with people. You are afraid. So am I. Your fear, though, is gonna get you killed because you're proud of your status as a homophobic."

         "Aren't you?"

         "I am, but I have learned that your pride must be expressed as little as possible. We homophobics aren't well tolerated in this increasingly liberal society. You've been in the NHA long enough to know that. I think you're subconsciously afraid that you're gonna get killed for your beliefs, and I know you have no interest in being a martyr."

         I sat there, burying my head between my knees as I tried to fight off the dizzy spells. There was no way out of this whirl of anger and disbelief at myself and those who aimed to wrong me. My emotions weren't directed at Ryan but at Marcus, who had sent these pictures, causing me nightmares for weeks. If it hadn't been for work and my NHA project, I would have been up all night, screaming and tearing my hair out over these nightmares. However, I would make myself so exhausted that by the time I went to bed, I'd be guaranteed to sleep the whole night. I wondered how I even found the time to subconsciously leak this information. Then it hit me.

         The project!

         "Shit!" I shrieked, lifting my head up to face Ryan.

         "What, Davena? What is it?"

         "I'm about to derail the careers of two friends! I am a traitor! Fuck! I'm gonna kill that god-be-damned Tarrington!"

         I collapsed into sobs, my head hitting the coffee table. Several of the new pictures fell, and I could feel blood running from my forehead. Ryan scooped me up and sat me on his lap as he consoled me and worked to staunch the bleeding.

         "Calm down, Davena. Take it easy."

         "I don't want to be alone," I sobbed. "I don't want to be alone."

         "Do you want me to stay," Ryan asked.


         I woke up the next morning only to find myself completely naked. My state of undress confused me, and then I looked over at the other side of the bed. There was Ryan, dozing peacefully, and then I realized what had happened. Damn. I really did have sex with him. I half smiled and began to rub my neck. I felt it burn in a couple spots. Uh oh. He must have marked me. I slipped out of bed to take a look.

         After discovering two giant maroon hickeys on either side of my neck, I decided to make myself some tea. When I walked into my living room, though, I saw one picture had been propped up, a picture I must not have seen the previous night. This picture was exceptionally graphic in nature, showing Ryan and me post coitus with our heads cracked open. The word TRAITORS was scribbled in blood at the bottom. The blood from my cut...


         I ran back into my bedroom, panicked and still nude. By now, Ryan was awake and sitting up in my bed.

         "What is it, Davena?"

         "A picture. Of us. In the living room," I stuttered, my nudity now rendering me chilled due to the air conditioner.

         Ryan was now out of bed and putting some of his clothes back on. He walked over to my closet and handed me a dark blue robe, which I managed to put on in spite of my trembling. Together, we walked to the living room where the picture still stood, an advertisement of murder and debauchery.

         "Oh my God," he whispered. "They really do move on their own. But how..."

         "Why don't we ask that nut job Tarrington," I suggested.

         Ryan shuddered.

         "That man scares me. He's more flammable than a blow torch. But what really freaks me out is that he has a way to read minds. These pictures are probably how he's been working to awaken your brain in every frame of consciousness," he said.

         "I'm going to confront him, anyway," I said. "This shit has the potential to ruin people. It can't go on."


         For nearly a month, I tried to contact Marcus Tarrington. I had searched state records to find his Miami address, phone number, and businesses. I discovered this man was more than a kooky photographer. It turns out he also conducted some studies for the psychology, medical, and education departments at the University of Miami. The mind tapping he did to me, in fact, was a test of a new system he was developing for school administrators to alert them of potential problem students. However, many professors in many departments questioned the validity and ethics of such a system, and some had even tried to prevent the tests from occurring. They were too late, and I found I had to go to Miami to tell them the bad news.

         Ryan and I finally were able to make it to Miami in early June. We got to meet with Tarrington thanks to Professor Raymond Serling from the psychology department. Professor Serling was one of five professors assigned to monitoring Tarrington's project and admitted to me that he had been looking for a way to stop the project from continuing. Though upset that I had to suffer as I did, it relieved him somewhat when I came forward. Now there would be proof that Tarrington's mind tapping experiments were unethical and very harmful.

         We arrived at the university's psychology department in the late afternoon. Professor Serling guided us to a conference room, where Tarrington waited. As we walked in, Ryan held me, and I could feel the soft quiver of his biceps the whole time. I was frightened, too, and I had to concentrate on making myself walk properly and keep from dropping the envelopes of pictures the man had created in my name.

         "Mister Tarrington," Professor Serling grumbled, "I'd like you to meet two people. One has had her life all but taken from her due to your photos, and the other is the man who has done what he can to help her through this."

         "I'm Ryan Danko," Ryan said, "and with me is the girl who you have used."

         "Davena Rabowski," I hissed, and when Marcus offered his hand for a handshake, I only offered him a piercing glare.

         "Why all the hostility," Marcus asked me.

         "This," I growled.

         With that, I took the pictures and dumped them on the table.

         "Why the fuck did you do this?"

         "It's all a mistake, Miss Rabowski," Marcus said, trying to assuage me. "I meant no harm in it."

         "Then why such graphic pictures," Ryan asked, prominently displaying a picture of an old enemy of mine sucking another woman's breast.

         "I was just shooting what I saw," Marcus said. "It's not my fault that Davena hates the finer way of life."

         "The finer way of life???!!!" I yelled. "How in the world can you justify debauchery like that as the finer way of life? Have you no dignity? No morals? No shame? This is decadence at its worst! It needs to be annihilated!"

         "And how did you get the pictures to move on their own," Ryan asked.

         Marcus smirked. "That's my little secret," he cooed at Ryan.

         "He uses a modified C-41 film," Professor Serling broke in. "It contains nearly 75 trillion electrons, electrons that are programmed upon the creation of prints to rearrange aspects of each print based on the material caught on the film. Before development, Marcus writes on each canister what he perceives to be the dominating theme of each roll of film. This theme is transferred to the film upon processing of the negatives."

         Marcus shot Professor Serling a razor sharp glare before turning to me. "Anything else, Davena," he asked.

         "Yeah," I whispered, trying to hold my voice steady. "Why me?"

         "Simply put, you were far away from here and an alumnus of this fine university," he replied. "When I read some archived issues of the literary magazine, I began to wonder what inspired your rants about homosexuality. Your fear was very obvious, so I figured I'd do some digging. I see now that you harbor more than fear of homosexuals. You downright hate them, want every last one of them dead. However, if you got what you wanted, you'd lose every friend you ever had...except for Ryan. It made you an attractive test subject, if I do say so myself."

         I sat there trying to digest Marcus' statement. Damn him! The scumbag had me figured out to a T. It startled me how accurate of a picture he painted of my inner self, a self that had been well hidden for years because of my love of music. It was true that my hatred of homosexuals would make me a traitor. It was true that if my homophobia was ever revealed to my friends, someone would end up dead: myself or them. The hatred would be too much to try to suppress.

         "No," I whispered. "No."

         I sprang out of my chair and dashed out of the room. Running past the elevator, I headed for the stairwell. I scaled each flight of stairs, all the while hearing a camera over my shoulder. Then, someone seemed to whisper stop, but I kept running. I made it to the roof and looked over the edge. Stumbling a little, I climbed onto an edge, but I felt myself begin to fall without a chance to stop the momentum.


         Every day I wake up now, I'm just glad to be alive. A lot has happened since my failed, delirious suicide attempt. My actions resulted in Tarrington's project being rejected by the University of Miami, and all the materials and data involved in the project (even my pictures) were destroyed. Tarrington is in civil court, as my parents have filed a three million dollar lawsuit against him for invasion of privacy, mental abuse, and psychological damage. Annette has confessed to being bisexual, and our friendship hasn't quite been the same. Still, she respects the fact that I don't agree with her preferences and has been less adamant about me joining her for Girls' Night Out.

         I wouldn't go out for Girls' Night Out, anyway. I'm still a member of the NHA, but these days, they've been letting me do light duty, like organize multi-group rallies. The first one I organized was held in Okeechobee and was very well received. In fact, so many people loved it I've been elected as the Head of the Rallies. It's a lot of fun, and considering I'm now the chief editor at work, it takes a lot of pressure off of me.

         Finally, there's Ryan. What can I say about him, really, other than he saved my life? Had it not been for him, the pictures would've caused me to attempt suicide much earlier than I had. He lead me to the one who was responsible for my pain, and he was the one who convinced my parents to file charges against Tarrington. I owe him so much, and I am incredibly thankful to have found him.

         For the next couple months, I don't have to go to work. Instead, I can enjoy some peace and quiet for the first time in nearly a year. Every once in a while, Ryan will call to see if I'm okay. Sometimes I'll ask him to bring something home, but most of the time, I tell him his unborn child and I are doing just fine.
© Copyright 2003 Elisa the Bunny Stik (soledad_moon at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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