The Passenger
June 6th, 1996 by Jim Clark
This one was really distinct.
Most often, the images were cloudy and abstract, the colors faded, the shapes distorted. It was if he was seeing everything through a warped dome of smoked glass, the light refracting around the edges. But not this time.
The girl was lying in bed with her covers pulled up to her chin, trying to hide her body beneath the thick blankets. She was curled up in the foetal position, as if to keep herself warm or safe. Her eyes were open wide, never blinking. The soft shine of sweat was visible on her cheeks.
The girl was observing herself through his eyes.
In the doorway stood the large man. Quickly studying the face, he could see that the similarities between the man and the girl… the same high brow, the same pointed jaw, and their eyes were identical, except the eyes of the large man were not blazing with fear like the eyes of the small girl.
A father and his daughter.
But it was easy to see that there was something amiss in the thread. The look the father gave to his daughter was not loving or kind. It was angry. And it was hungry.
He hated this already. He knew what this was about to become, and he stood there helplessly, watching the father step into the room and close the door behind him. The light from the hallway was immediately stifled and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim moonlight and focus on the silhouette of the advancing father.
As the silhouette passed, he could smell the mixture of cologne and alcohol. He was amazed at how clear the smells were, burning his nostrils and making him want to choke. It was hardly ever this pronounced. The only time there was ever this much detail was when the events had happened before, perhaps several times.
This was more than a mere nightmare.
This was the past presenting itself anew.
Just like the dream, her thoughts were his. He shared her terror. It coursed through him like blood.
The full force of her anguish was upon him now.
Silently, he watched.
Almost instantly the sheets were torn from the bed, exposing the small child and presenting her soft legs up to the man. He grabbed her shoulders and held her down. A quick glance of warning was enough to silence the scream building up within her throat. Bringing his left knee forward, he spread her thin legs apart and pushed his body down between them. He tightened the grip on her shoulder with his left hand and unzipped his pants with his right, harshly removing his stiff member and forcing it towards her.
“You remembered not to wear them panties,” he panted into her face. “That’s good, jes like I told ye.”
Silently, she sobbed.
God almighty, how much longer would he have to endure this? It was excruciating, being trapped there, feeling her fear and her pain, unable to help or assist in any way. He knew nothing could happen if he put forth the effort. Nightmares were shorter and more bearable when he tried not to resist them.
And he could tell this one would be over soon.
With each pulsation of the father’s pelvis, the room seemed to shake with a violent shock, as if a small grenade had gone off nearby. His groans grew louder and louder; not because he was raising his voice, but as if the sound was being amplified and echoed throughout a tiny canyon.
A final grunt, a hurried shudder, and he was finished.
He stood up from the bed, zipped his pants, and surveyed the damage. The small girl was motionless except for the tears which slowly made their trek down the sides of her face. Sperm and blood oozed from between her legs and onto the sheets beneath her. She lay there, sprawled out as if she had just been hit by a large truck.
Which is more or less what had happened, but much worse.
Just as the man turned his large frame toward the door, there was a sudden jolt and a tearing sound as everything pulled itself inward. The colors and shapes swirled and danced and disappeared, as if being rapidly sucked down an enormous drain.
And with a loud crack, it was all gone.
