You Only Die Twice Read Free

so well.   Like her, he was a reader.   Like her, Fitzgerald was his favorite
auth or.   Like her, he thought that Kerouac was
full of shit and overrated.   They
disagreed when it came to “Ulysses,” which he admired but which she thought was
over-written tripe, but that he had his own point of view just made him more
interesting to her.
    Before
he raped her and cut her throat and left her to die behind Diane’s apartment
complex, where a neighbor heard their struggle and was smart enough to question
it, she found herself enjoying his company and his charm.  
    She
flirted with him.   He flirted with
her.   They stole a kiss outside
Diane’s bathroom.   He pressed close
to her and she could feel him against her leg.   She wasn’t about to have sex with him,
but making out was an option.   When
they left the party an hour later, each was a little drunk on beer and more
than a little high on their mutual attraction.
    “I want
to fuck you,” he said when they stepped outside.
    He said
it so directly, it made her laugh.  
    “Kidding,”
he said.  
    “You’re
hilarious.”
    “But I
do find you attractive.”
    She
smiled.
    “And I’d
love it if you gave me a blow job.”
    She
didn’t answer because she wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol talking or his
attempt at humor.   She just went
with it and pretended she didn’t hear him.   Boys and their blow jobs.   She liked him, but she had strict rules when it came to sleeping with
someone, and she never broke them.   They’d make out.   That’s as
far as it would go.   If they decided
they’d like to see each other again, they’d take it from there.  
    Maybe
after the fifth date, if there is one.
    Diane’s
apartment house was on a quiet street that backed up against woods.   It was the beginning of autumn and it
still was reasonably warm.   It was
dark, so they went just inside the woods and found a tall pine tree to lean
against.  
    At
first, he was gentle.   He cupped her
face in his hands and kissed her lightly on the mouth.   He whispered in her ear, told her how
beautiful she was, and she began to enjoy herself.   It was awhile before he put his tongue
in her mouth, but the way he did it was so sexy, she decided she didn’t mind
and leaned into it, kissing him back hard.
    It was a
mistake.
    His hand
dropped between her legs and he started to feel her.   She nudged his hand aside and said in
his ear, “Just this.   This is nice.   Just this.   OK?”
    “What
about this?”   He took her hand and
placed it on his erection.   “What
about that?   You can’t ignore it
now.   You made that happen.”   She could smell the wine on his
breath.   It hadn’t bothered her
before, but now it smelled rotten, probably because of the edge in his voice.
    “Mark,” she
said.   “Come on.   We’re just getting to know―”
    She
could recall the first blow that struck the side of her head, but when the
second came, there was nothing but blackness.   In retrospect, she liked to think that
her body protected her from remembering the violence of what happened
next.  
    Three
days later, in her private room at Eastern Maine Medical Center, she woke from
her coma.   Two days later, she was
told that she had died from a severe loss of blood.   Her doctor said that she had been raped,
her throat cut.   The police wanted
to talk to her, but the doctor held them off for another day so she could
continue to regain her strength.  
    When
they did come, they let her know that Mark Rand was in jail and that the judge
had refused bail.   Because she was
ruled dead for those two minutes before they were able to revive her, Rand was
being held for second-degree murder, rape, and a host of other charges.
    When she
left the hospital, she dropped out of school and went to live with her parents.
    Six
weeks later, she learned she was pregnant with his child.
    An
abortion was scheduled for the following week.   But it didn’t happen.   Whether it