The Drunk and the Bouncer

       She sits at the bar—alone.  He’s late.  He’s always late.  There was a time that he would arrive early.  But then everything changed.  He became her nightmare.  He’s always late. 
       ‘Better late than early,’ she thinks, taking a sip of her scotch.
       The bar tender smiles at her.  He winks, too.  She looks at her glass and feels her hands tremble.  This stranger is smiling at her.  What if he walks in and sees this guy smiling at her.  What if he walks and sees her not moving away?  She doesn’t even want to think about that situation—once was bad enough.
       “Top it off?”  The bar tender is right in front of her, smiling.
       She shakes her head and takes her half empty glass.  She slips off the bar stool and finds an empty booth in the darkest corner of the room.  Maybe, with any luck, he won’t show up.  Maybe he’ll have found someone else to sleep with tonight.  Maybe he’s already drunk and sleeping it off somewhere.  Maybe he did something—hit a cop—and is now locked away in a cell somewhere.
       Don’t think that! she tells herself, staring into her drink.  You know what happened last time he was arrested.  You don’t want him mad about that.   Remember your ribs?  Remember what he did after he beat you?  Pray that he’s just late again.
       The bar door swings open.  She recognizes the dark silhouette.  His broad shoulders, the scruffy hair, the general incoherence of his movements.  She sighs and slumps in her seat a little.  She waves her hand toward him.  He sees and strides over.
       She watches him.  A waitress walks by him and grabs her ass.  He grins and guffaws.  She sighs and feels her stomach do a back flip as the waitress hits him across the face.
       “Asshole!” she shouts, shoving him a little.
       He’s drunk.  It’s only seven o’clock in the evening and he’s already drunk.  She feels her breath catch as panic settles in for the night.
       He stumbles into the booth and sits beside her.  He wreaks of cheap cigars, rye, beer, and gin.  She sees his eyes—they’re heavy and bloodshot.  He’s been shooting.  And she knows what’s about to happen.
       “Give me your arm,” he growls, pulling something from his jacket pocket.
       She doesn’t move.
       “Give me your arm,” he repeats, his voice stronger and more slurred.
       She still doesn’t move.  She doesn’t want this.  It’s one thing to kick the shit out of her.  It’s one thing to rape her and call it sex.  It’s another to do what he’s about to do.
       He loses his patience and pulls her arm away from her body, pinning it to his leg out of the sight of the people filtering into the dark and dank place.
       She bites her lips and looks away, refusing to let him see her tears.  She feels his hand yanking her sleeve up past her elbow.  She feels the elastic wrap around her arm—the circulation of blood to her fingers begins to slow.  And then she feels that small prick against her skin.  The next instant, it feels as though someone’s pinching her—hard.  
       He laughs a little.  “Not so bad, is it?”  He looks at her, brandishing the empty syringe before her eyes and holding a dirty cotton ball to the small spot of blood at the crook of her elbow.
       She can feel tears slipping along her cheeks.  She hates how he can do this to.  She hates how he so easily injects the heroine into her body.  But, she despises herself for enjoying the drug so much—for needing it so badly.  
       “Don’t cry, baby,” he whispers, his voice thick and slurred.  He takes her chin in his hands, snaps her head so she’s facing him, and kisses her.
       The feel of his lips against hers sends a flood of nausea through her body.  She tries to distance herself from him.  Tries to ignore him as he presses into her body, his fingers digging harshly into her breasts.  
       “Ahem.”
       He moves away and almost growls.  She looks up at a stranger.  The man stands with both arms folded over his chest.  His shirt reads ‘Security’ in big bold letters—white on black.  The shirt sticks to his body—his musculature almost daring anyone to confront him.
       “What the fuck do you want baldy?”  The man beside her slurs even more now—the alcohol and the heroine are working together now.
       The bouncer looks at her.  “Are you all right, Miss?”
       She nods her head and looks down at the table.
       “She’s fine!” snaps the Drunk beside her.  “Get the fuck out of here.”
       The bouncer doesn’t move.  “Miss, are you sure you’re okay?  I can have this gentleman removed if you like.”
       She shakes her head and mumbles an incoherent, “I’m fine.”
       “There!” snarls the Drunk.  “Now get the fuck out of here!”
       The bouncer slowly moves away—though not before cracking the knuckles on his left hand and looking down at the Drunk.
       Once the bouncer is out of sight, she looks back up and stares at a point just above the back wall of the room.  She stares and she bites the inside of her cheek—hard enough that she feels the skin break and tastes the familiarity of thick iron in her mouth.  
       All her thoughts are focussed on the iron filling her mouth, coating her tongue.  She tries desperately to shut away the feel of the Drunk’s harsh and merciless hands on her body.  His fingernails scratch and pierce her body as he fumbles his hands under her shirt.  
       He stands and takes her by the wrist, dragging her away.  
       The bouncer watches them leave the bar.  The Drunk didn’t even pay for his drinks.  The bouncer doesn’t know that.  He’s watching her, with tears falling along her face.  She knows what’s about to happen.  The Drunk’s going to force her to get into his car.  He’s going to drive home.  And then he’ll hit and rape her.  It’s always the same.
       Once upon a time, the heroine dulled her senses enough that she didn’t remember anything.  Now it doesn’t do anything.  She needs more and more of it to get that dulling rush.  Now she remembers everything with the greatest precision.  Now she knows exactly what will happen because she always remembers it.  Every night it’s the same thing.  Every single night.