Pickles

You hate sorting the mail. A hardcore Generation Z, you’re of the steadfast belief that the Internet is the absolute truth, so you’ve never understood why some people still cling to the old and archaic way of writing and posting letters. Hello! Heard of e-mail yet? Unfortunately, it’s part of your designated house chores; Maggie, as usual, got the fun chores, like mowing the lawn.

As you sullenly poke through the stack, a certain letter catches your attention. It’s just a piece of honey colored cotton paper folded in two, but filigree adorns the edges, and as you fish it out, you see that the flowing cursive writing on the front addresses it to you. The sender’s name is absent, though, which piques your curiosity further, because you’re pretty sure no one you know will be caught dead sending old-fashioned mail. You open it and skip right to the bottom, and your heart skips a beat. From Tim!

Timothy Harris, the wide receiver on the school team. Tall, lithe, with his green eyes, tousled gold hair, and dimpled smile. His slightly chipped front tooth just makes him cuter. You’ve had so many fantasies about the two of you, but unfortunately you’re not one of the popular girls, so they’ve had to stay that way. As fantasies.

Then last week, fate had finally smiled on you when, like in the movies, you bumped into him at the top of the stairs near the library and your stack of books had scattered. You both had knelt in tandem to pick them while gushing apologies, your heads had bumped and your effusions had morphed into awkward laughter at the realization of how cliché it was. When he’d plopped down at your table at lunch, you nearly had a stroke.

And since that day, you both have been pretty inseparable. Turns out, he isn’t your standard jock; his parents are stoic Catholics, so he’s not allowed to date until eighteen. He’s also good at geography and literature, the evidence of which you now hold in your hand. You tuck the letter in your pocket as Mom comes down the hall, hurriedly sort the mail and then fly upstairs into your room. Then, on your bed, with the door closed, you slowly open it. The message inside reads:

Your hair is midnight fire

Like a moth pulled to a flame

My heart wants to burn

Your heart palpitates; you’ve never been one for poetry, and maybe you’re just being biased because it’s from the love of your life, but it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever read. You read it over and over again, all the while toying with your dark tresses while imagining that it’s Timothy’s hand.

You want to call him, but Tasha has been giving you relationship advice, and one of her lessons is to avoid immediate replies. Makes you appear desperate, she says, so you decide to wait for him to call first and ask if you saw it. You try to continue with your novel, but after you read the same line six times or so without registering even a single word, you give up and sit with your phone in front of you. Minutes crawl by while you stare at the screen with your fingers itching like crazy.

When the phone finally rings, the form with which you pounce on it will make any lynx jealous. However, you compose yourself; it’s no use waiting for him to call first if you answer on the first ring. You count silently to five, then pick it with what you hope is a suave “Hey!”

“Hey, babe,” Tim says, and goose bumps invade your skin at the sound of his voice. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” you say, adopting a languid tone. “A little bored, but then it’s a weekend.”

You both make small talk about how your respective days went, but there’s a faux quality to it because the elephant in the room was trumpeting loudly and crapping all over the place, yet no one seemed ready to address it. Finally, you run out of things to dance around with, and after a beat of awkward silence, you decide to grab the bull by the tusks.

“So,” you say slowly as you pick up the letter. “I got what you sent me.”

“Oh!” He replies, like he’s already forgotten he sent it. “So what do you think about it?” He asks absently.

“Well, it was…” you begin to reply, but then you pause as you stare at the poem. It’s passionate and emotional, completely at odds with how he’s behaving. Something isn’t adding up, and on a whim, you decide to drop the pretense.

“It’s amazing,” you breathe.

Tim sighs with what sounds like relief. “Thank God! It’s my first try at a haiku, and when you didn’t say anything, I thought you didn’t like it.”

“Are you kidding? It almost made me melt,” you gush. “I wanted to call you immediately, but I didn’t want to appear too eager, so I sat in front of my phone for the past hour waiting for you to call first and I’m so sorry I didn’t call you…”

Tim interrupts your babbling with a laugh. “Hey, babe!”

“Yes?” You ask breathlessly.

“It’s okay.”

“You’re sure?”

“Of course.”

“Thanks,” you say, trying to calm your racing heart.

“So,” he says smugly. “It’s that good?”

You laugh at his tone. “It nearly swept me off my feet.”

“Nearly?” He asks with mock seriousness.

“Nearly.”

“Oh really?” He says slowly. “Well, I have another surprise that might just do the trick. Look outside your window.”

“Wha…” You stammer as you fly to the window and peer outside, and your heart just about stops when you see him waving at you from across the street. “What are you doing here?” You shriek silently. Your parents are strict, and they would breathe fire and fart brimstone if they find out you have a boyfriend.

“Your surprise,” he replies cheerfully. “Come on; let’s go for a walk.”

“Are we going casket shopping?” You ask testily. “Because you want to get me killed.”

He snorts. “Come on, don’t be a pussy. I’m waiting for you.”

Getting out of the house turns out to be surprisingly easy; you’re the model child, so when you tell them you’re going to Sharon’s for an assignment, they don’t question you. The date is fantastic, from the arcade, to the lunch at the Burger Place and the walk in the park; it is all you’ve ever dreamed of and more.

It all culminates to a movie at Tim’s home; his parents are out for some church conference that’s bound to take ages, so you have the entire house to yourselves. As you snuggle closer to him on the couch, you can barely suppress a sigh of contentment. Your parents must be heartless monsters, you conclude, if they can sleep comfortably at night while refusing you such bliss.

Halfway into the rom-com, Tim politely excuses himself and returns shortly with his hand behind him. “I’ve got something for you,” he says.

“Really?” You ask, your eyebrows shooting up. “You’re starting to make me feel inadequate.”

“No, no!” He waves his other hand frantically. “It’s not… it’s just… I’ve wanted to give you for a while, but…” He trails off awkwardly.

“A while?” You ask in confusion. “But we just started talking last...” You also trail off as, slowly, a realization dawns on you. “Hold on! Did you also have a crush on me?”

He shrugs, toying with your hair. “Didn’t you think our meeting was a little too cliché? I overhead Sharon telling Dave that you had a crush on me, so I decided since the feeling is mutual, I’d better act on it.”

Wow! Just… wow! You have no words, so you just lean into his caress. “So what do you have for me?” You ask softly.

“Close your eyes.”

Your heart starts doing push-ups, but you obey. You feel him move behind you and push your hair aside, then something cool comes to rest between your breasts as his warm hands fiddles behind your neck. He turns you around, and you open your eyes to see that it is a gold necklace set with a purple stone on the pendant and intricate inscriptions all around the setting. For the second time in the space of a minute, you’re at a loss of words.

“The stone is amethyst,” he says. “A precious stone, just like you.”

“Wow!” You finally breathe. “I had no idea I’m a stone.”

“I didn’t mean…”

“Oh, I’m just teasing you,” you chuckle, lifting it for a closer look. “It’s beautiful. Where did you get it?”

He’s also looking at it, and you know he has an unobstructed view down the valley of your tank top, but for some reason you don’t seem to mind. The stone has you hypnotized.

“My grandmother gave it to me before she died,” he replies. “Said to give it to my special person.”

You look up in surprise to protest, but his lips silence you. Unconsciously, you open your mouth to the kiss, and when you feel his tongue slip into your mouth, you moan. Then his hands start creeping up until they’re rubbing the underside of your breasts. A voice of caution screams somewhere in your head, but the passion grabs it in a chokehold and strangles it.

Taking your lack of no for a yes, the hand comes up further to cup the entire breast. You freeze for a second, but then it feels so good that you decide not to stop him. He lifts you to sit on the couch’s headrest and continues for a minute or so, and a geyser starts preparing to erupt between your legs. Then his hands start pulling at the hem of your tank top, and the voice of reason wins free of the passion’s headlock and emerges quite breathless but shrieking with all it can muster. You push him away.

“What… why?” He looks surprised and is breathing heavily, and there’s a tent in front of his pants. The passion wants to raise your curiosity as an ally, but the caution smacks them both upside the head, takes them straight to Suplex City and pins them.

“I’ve never… I’ve never done this before,” you pant.

“Neither have I, but it’ll be fun. Come on!” He tries to pull you close, but you push him away. You’re fairly certain he’s lying with that first statement; his hands are too sure for a novice’s.

“What I meant to say,” you say slowly. “Is that I’m not ready.”

He looks at you like you’ve just announced that you’ve got balls. “What do you mean, babe? No one is ever ready; you just have to take the leap.”

You shake your head. “Not today, Tim.”

His expression changes to something almost ugly. “So now what? You go on being the only virgin left in the entire fucking school?”

“Is that a crime?” You retort. “And how can you possibly be sure that I’m the only one left?”

He sighs. “It was a figure of speech. Now come on, babe, don’t leave me hanging like this.”

“I’m sorry, Tim. But I really can’t do this.”

He sneers. “Can’t? Or won’t?” Your heart just about stops at his expression; it’s definitely ugly now, a look you never could have associated with him. The voice of caution starts screaming for you to get out of there as fast as possible; the stupid passion and curiosity were the first to take that advice.

“It’s getting late,” you say. “I need to be on my way.”

Then you make a mistake. You turn your back on him.

He grabs you from behind and throws you on the couch, and his palm covers your mouth with a grip like steel’s distant cousin. “I don’t think so, babe,” he breathes, emphasizing the last word. “At least, not without a little extra bounce to your steps.”

Shit, you think. Shit! Shit! Shit!

Something pokes your thigh, and it feels really enormous. You draw a breath, and unleash the loudest scream your larynx has and will ever produce. Banshees would pay through their noses to learn the technique. But against his palm, it sounds like any other scream would; muffled. He reaches for the shoulder of your tank top and yanks down savagely, exposing your pale blue bra. Then he reaches for that too, and when the top has been vanquished, who is the bra to resist?

“Oooooh!” He breathes in your ear as he bares your breasts and squeezes. “How long I’ve waited to see these, and I beat the others to the punch. Lucky me.”

“You can’t do this!” You cry. “Everyone at school will know. You’ll go to jail!”

“And who do you think is gonna believe that I raped a nobody like you?”

“But…”

“Oh, you think because we’ve been hanging out?” He scoffs. “The official story is that you’re assisting me with some calculus; if anything, they’re gonna believe you threw yourself at me.”

That is when the true enormity of the situation hits you. You’re about to be raped. Panic rushes in, and you began trashing around in an attempt to escape him, but he grabs one of your nipples and squeezes, hard.

Pain sears a red hot line through your chest and straight to your head, but it also forges a path through the fog of panic, and some semblance of clarity sets in. Stories flood your mind of rape victims who’re wounded, sometimes fatally, to ensure their cooperation. So you go limp, and began sobbing.

“Shhh!” He whispers. “Don’t cry now, babe. I’m sorry if I hurt you.”

You sniff and hiccup. “But I’m… I’m scared.”

“Don’t be, babe,” he coos, rubbing your nipples. “It only hurts at first, then it feels good. I promise.”

You pretend to bawl for a little while, though the terror is not hard to feign. Then, “Can… Can I please see it?”

“See what?”

“Your…” You blush. “Your penis.”

He frowns at you suspiciously, but you must be very convincing, because the lust wins over the caution. “Okay, but you must promise not to scream or try to run. The doors are locked, and no one will be able to hear you over all these.” He waves a hand to indicate the rom-com that, ironically, was still playing.

You nod, he releases you to undo his belt buckle, and you need no pretense to gasp when his pants drop. It looks like he’d managed to somehow sew a turgid, one-eyed, reptile to his crotch. Girls love this… this monster? How would it even fit down there? It’d better involve opening a new orifice.

“Touch it.”

It seems the only thing you’d use to willingly touch it is a rake. But as a painful necessity, you reach out and grab it lightly. It’s both hard and soft at the same time, and hot to the feel. It nods, seeming to salute your touch, and your hand slips along its length.

“Ohhh!” He moans, closing his eyes. “Your hands are so soft. Keep doing that, babe.”

Like hell you would. Steeling all your nerves, most importantly your gag reflex, you grasp more of it including his balls for a firmer grip, and yank with all your might.

Timothy’s eyes fly open and his mouth follows in a silent scream, or maybe at a frequency too high for the human ear to register as he folds like paper, sinking to his knees. Not wanting to take any chances, you reach for the first thing your hand reaches, a pickle jar, and smack him on the side of the head. He falls backwards and hits his head on the edge of the table going down.

You’re rearranging yourself with tears streaming down your face when you notice the pool of blood spreading outward from his head, and for a moment, you feel actual ice strutting beside the blood in your veins. Slowly, you bend to feel for his pulse, like they taught you in First Aid class. Nothing. Maybe you’ve forgotten your lessons, you decide, so you feel every surface on his arm from palm to elbow and even bicep, but no flutter. You roll him over and listen for a heartbeat. Nothing.

Shit! Shit! Shit!

Okay, no need to panic yet. No one knows you’re here, so if you can just find the keys and let yourself out, no one would be the wiser. You search his pockets, the keys are there, and the hope that you can make it out of this with nothing more than a death on your conscience is just starting to bud when you hear the front door open.

His parents are back. And your bag, which you’d needed to carry for your pretend assignment at Sharon’s, is hanging on a hook in the hallway.

Shit! Shit! Shit!