Rachel

David gazed at Rachel with oily eyes, a mix of surprise and complete absence of fear and shame, as if he were not caught red-handed with his young mistress, a thin girl who appeared so to Rachel at the time. There was no remorse or regret in his gaze, which hurt the woman standing in the doorway, waiting for that absurd justification, confession, revelation. But there was nothing but silence and occasional sobs from that wretched whore, who had shattered the already cracked vessel of their marital happiness.

Perhaps in such situations, something rude and filthy should be said, like everything she had just witnessed, but Rachel had always been reticent since childhood: in school and later in college, she tried not to stand out, sitting quietly in the background, staying silent. Perhaps if things had continued that way until the end of her studies, she would have remained a virgin.

However, Mr. Challenger, the French language teacher, who must be credited as a very perceptive person with the appearance of an elderly English gentleman, noticed this and soon decided for himself that Rachel would never tell anyone anything. And she truly never told anyone anything.

And now she didn't want to speak at all, although she couldn't cry either. There was such a dark and profound emptiness inside her, as if a grave was being dug in her body, but it turned into a karst sinkhole, and the bottom of the sinkhole was somewhere far away. Rachel was falling for so long that at some point, she believed she could fly.

Meanwhile, David continued to stare at her, and there was nothing left in his gaze that would make the woman regret what had happened. At that moment, she glanced one last time around their small room on the second floor of the rented apartment in Festerville, with its beautiful view of the forest and the sports field where frightened deer would often rush out at night, startled by the crackling branches. She realized that out of all the objects in the room, the only thing she would miss was the broken wooden comb brought from Puerto Rico, and nothing else.

As she left, and she already knew that she would never set foot in the threshold of that dwelling again, even under the threat of death, she took only a light denim jacket and some crumpled cash, small bills piled up in the dark hallway. She noted to herself that their apartment number was... no, not anymore, no more pronouns: theirs. From this moment on, there were only hers and for her. And the number, blackened in a small oval frame, was 16.

The residents of the building had gathered outside, a small group of six housewives, two of whom had young children. A four-year-old boy tugged on the wide skirt of a hefty woman with an inflamed face, endlessly asking her something, which greatly irritated the parent. They were from Eastern Europe and spoke a completely unintelligible language to Rachel, filled with endless hissing and buzzing, as if deranged snakes had attacked a massive beehive. However, there was one word she did understand, which, like in English, meant "mom." The second word, Rachel tried to mentally reproduce as she walked towards the car parked around the corner of the house, and it resembled the English word "stow." There was also a third word that sounded as if someone was trying to speak through clenched teeth, and all that lingered in her memory was the letter "S" at the end of the word.

A white Dodge Ram with its engine running stood on the road, its partially opened door indicating that the driver was in a great hurry. And indeed, there was no time to spare. Rachel was rushing home to confirm her righteousness. Just like some people rush to a first date, while others, disillusioned with life, hurry to bid it farewell. Both lose their minds. Both believe that they desire it with all their soul.

If Rachel had lingered just a couple more minutes, Sheriff Andrew MacDougall would have surely issued her a parking ticket for improper parking. He might have even asked why she had abandoned her car on the opposite lane of traffic. However, Andrew MacDougall couldn't do that because he had returned home several times. The first time was because he had forgotten his work documents on the edge of the table, next to an open jar of sweet pickles. The second time was because he had received a short message from his wife with the following content: "If you don't come back and kiss me, you won't be getting any sex for a week." Only his superiors could eloquently explain the essence of the most important matter in a single sentence using the word "sex," but it was likely a figure of speech in that context.

Undoubtedly, everything that happened to Rachel throughout that day was caused by the circumstances of the lunchtime rush. At the 7-Eleven gas station located at the intersection of Street Road and Windsor Drive, Rachel was so absorbed in her thoughts that she didn't even pay for her purchase at the cashier. She simply walked past with a furious look, creating a trail of cold, disapproving glances. A bewildered elderly Indian man momentarily paused his service to customers as he watched her for a few seconds.

An hour later, in the parking lot of the Brit-Atin Cathedral, Rachel met up with a recent acquaintance named Stefan. He was either Ukrainian or Russian, but definitely Jewish, and she knew that the man's name sounded slightly different in his native language, but she didn't make an effort to remember it.

The only thing that caught her interest during this second and final meeting was how he asked her a question several times in the same language that a child would ask while tugging at his mother's skirt.

She silently got into his car, a long and spacious Mercedes Sprinter that felt like a ship, where the man had a makeshift bed, and she asked him to translate the question he had greeted her with. Stefan smiled, revealing yellowed and slightly uneven teeth, and said that in English it would mean: "What happened?"

And this is what happened: while Rachel was waiting for lunch, her neighbor from the stairwell called and said she had seen David with some woman and that they were currently at their home. She didn't provide any details because she was taking her son to school and was running very late.

Rachel, without a word to her colleagues at work, quickly grabbed the car keys, phone, and rushed out onto the street.

As she climbed the stairs to the second floor, a woman with two children was descending towards her. There was a smell of tobacco smoke, and also a whore perfume that Rachel sensed for the first time in this place.

She carefully opened the door, like a skilled thief.

Just as she now extracted Stefan's blood-filled member from his tight pants.

In the hallway, the scent of perfume only intensified, making her feel nauseous, and then voices, or rather sounds, similar to the ones Rachel made when David took her from behind, still not fully aroused. He took her roughly, painfully, and vulgarly, like how prostitutes from Kensington Avenue are fucked, but who don't feel pain because they're under the influence of heroin.

Just as Mr. Challenger took her with her silent consent, exactly when Rachel turned 16, he congratulated her on her birthday. And just like the Russian Jew Stefan was now hurrying, pushing the head of his penis into the dry and withered vagina of the woman, afraid of missing the moment of copulation.

The revolver lay in its usual place. Her finger found the trigger, like a bowstring. She didn't think about anything in that moment, just as Sheriff Andrew McDougal would record word for word in his report. And Rachel would leave the weapon next to a wooden comb and never tell anyone about it. But then again, she didn't need to, because you already know everything.

June 16, 2023, Philadelphia