Nothing, Really by Makayla Carmichael

Publisher Note: This story contains a graphic depiction of rape.

He couldn’t even remember who’d started it. But his thoughts were consumed with it as he waited in his parked car for her plane to land, waited for the discomfort that would follow, seeing her again after a week as she would climb into his car, the awkward embarrassment and anxious excitement. He could feel the heat between his legs, the subtle stiffness, and no, he wouldn’t go there, wouldn’t imagine. It just wouldn’t happen again is all. He was determined. Hell, he hadn’t even drunk that much that night. It had been lust, pure and simple. He was a fuckin’ bad boy, always had been. And he’d been without it for so long, his wife sick and well, just not interested anymore. Maybe in time she would be again when she was feeling better. He was stuck. But he loved his wife, he really did. There was just no way he’d ever leave her, never. 

And he’d innocently, generously really, offered to drive her cousin back and forth to the airport because it was hell to park there, to just leave a car, hell and so much shit to maneuver, if not familiar, so it was settled then, his wife insisting to her that it was not a problem or inconvenience for him to provide transportation both ways. She’d arrived at their house the day before her flight out and he could never stop himself from comparing the two since they were just a year apart, their appearance. And she was beautiful as was his wife, both with beautiful faces, rotund in body though his wife had become and disinterested in sex anymore. Her cousin was beautiful, he’d often acknowledged only silently to himself as he’d looked at her face over the years, her profile as she ate at the big Thanksgiving table, eyes moving down her smaller frame. Still, there had been nothing there, nothing between them. He’d never said it until that night she’d arrived and after drinks and dinner out and more drinks back at home when he’d just blurted out, you’re gorgeous, his wife gone to bed already, the two of them left on the couch together. And at some point she’d said it, maybe asked him, to touch her down there, with his hands, just finger her and he had, he goddamn had, been without for so long, he’d done it and it had been so fucking sweet, touching her like that, in and out, he’d wanted more, she said no, it was ok, it was enough just to touch it like that, warm and moist on his fingers, tight too, he’d liked it, imagined more. She’d gotten up off the couch and he’d followed her like a puppy dog on her heels, wanting to be touched too, holding himself in his hands for her to take, but she wouldn’t so he’d been confused. Women. They want it and they don’t want it and he was supposed to figure it all out. So, they went from the couch to the bedroom and bath and back again, her telling him to touch it and then telling him to stop until he’d said, “Get on your knees.”

“No,” she’d answered insistently. It was ok. It was enough poking in and out like that, touching her. It was enough, had been so long. Then he’d bent her over or she’d bent over the guest bed and he’d done it without asking, just put himself quickly in and out of her, his thing all hot and stiff. It had been quick, but she’d said, stop, it hurts and he had, but it had been too late, he’d been inside her. He wasn’t big, maybe she’d hadn’t even felt it much, except there was a little blood, he’d noticed afterward, next day, making up the bed again. It was his chore after guests stayed. The drive to the airport, an uncomfortable trip between the two of them, friendly, they’d talked of his wife, smart and ambitious, how hard she worked, blah blah and no mention of the night before. But she’d hugged him goodbye at least as she’d exited his car. He had felt good, her body close to him again just briefly. It was all okay. It was all cool, just something that had happened. 

Anyway, it was done and now he sat waiting for her after her week away, remembering and thinking he must make it clear to her on the way back to the house that neither of them could ever tell anyone what had happened. He was sure she would agree, as they were family and all and had more Thanksgivings to share, no, it would never be told. He was consumed by thought, by longing, by denial. Crazily he wondered if he’d found love again. He didn’t even hear or see the emergency vehicles until they were almost upon him, where his car sat, just a short distance from the airport. He’d left early so as to be on time and he’d felt strangely excited with a stomach of butterflies, fearful but anticipating of her return, their drive back together to the house. While she’d been gone, he and his wife had discussed her one evening, having drinks on the back porch, his wife telling him she loved her, that she was her favorite cousin even, no trace of knowledge of anything that had transpired the night before she’d gone. 

Now there were ambulances, police cars, EMS, all with sirens blazing, racing past him and why? Suddenly he saw smoke rising over the airport, past his line of vision which was obstructed by the terminal. People seemed to be stopped in their movements, amassing in areas, trying to get out of the way of the rush of emergency vehicles, the officers and paramedics running inside toward something going on in the back of the terminal. And he’d lost track of time, she was supposed to text him when she landed, but it was way past he suddenly noticed. He exited his car. In this mess no one was going to ticket or tow him, he figured. “An explosion,” someone said to a person near him and it was chaos really, suddenly no one seemed to know what direction they should be headed, away from or to and they just were scattering and gathering to ponder, to be thankful it wasn’t them because people had been hurt, bad, people might have died. He felt his insides drop and he thought he might need to use the bathroom suddenly. He stood still, listening to the conversations, the screams too.

“…a bomb…”

“…near the luggage carousel.”

“…body parts on the floor and so much smoke…”

“…blood everywhere,” they said. He couldn’t move forward, couldn’t see it, he just stood listening and visualizing it in his head, creating that horror scene, finding her beautiful face, her broken body on the hard floor. 

And within hours it was confirmed, she was dead. His wife had the information already from the news, all over the internet and wasn’t it just awful, losing a cousin like that, losing a virtual sister almost. He would return home without her, his car, passenger-less and him just in a fog. Maybe he was relieved or disappointed or just empty, just something he’d never felt before, something he couldn’t share with his wife, would never share with anyone else. It was just there inside him now, making him breathless. He drove home. Later that night, both of them sitting on their back porch again, a sleeping dog at their feet and his wife saying, “I can’t believe she’s gone. I just can’t believe it. Hold me.” And he had, silently, stunned as she continued. “I mean, I, well, I can’t believe she was just here a week ago in our house and now she’s gone. Such a waste, so pretty and all. Fuckin’ terrorists. Fuckin’ sons of bitches. Dammit,” cuddling up closer under his outstretched arm. He brought his beer to his mouth and swallowed large, still silent. There was just nothing else to say is all.  

Makayla Carmichael spent most of her life as an accountant. Retired now, she is seeking to reclaim her soul through her writing which was suppressed for many years. She has had stories published in several obscure online literary journals that she hopes will haunt her readers for the rest of their lives. 

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