"Annie Had Always Been a Storyteller"

Annie had always been a storyteller, though she didn’t always tell the stories out loud, and the rapist had always been a rapist even though he didn’t attack a woman until he was sixteen. Annie began telling stories to almost everyone when she was seventeen, by which time she had decided difficulty distinguishing between dreams and reality. The rapist killed his first woman the day he turned twenty-one, quite by accident; his hand over her mouth to quiet her terror lingered a tad too long.

The rapist lived five houses down from Annie, but he didn’t know her. He saw her, though, off and on for some years. When she took to coming home late at night, strolling or scurrying or sauntering along the streetlit walk, he would squint blackbrown eyes through the parting of his yellowed curtains and narrow the very sight of her.

Oblivious to window-eyes, Annie fought and won battles in the twilight hours.

“I felt like God was in the top of that tree,” Annie told her doctor.

“And what made you think that?”

“I guess it was the moon, sort of stabbed on a branch, you know, and I thought it was God.”

“Actually Annie, you know it probably wasn’t God, don’t you? And that the moon wasn’t really stabbed?”

“But it’s a lovely image, isn’t it? Stabbing the moon, impaling God on a tree in the dark of night. Beautiful.”

“Yes, it’s lovely. You should write, Annie, as I’ve told you before.”

“No. Stop saying that. I shouldn’t write. People might find it. Keep it.”

“And then what would happen?”

“Oh, terrible things.”

“Like what?”

“You know. Things. Then I couldn’t change the ending.”

The rapist knew he would get Annie; he liked the eventuality of it. He knew he could take this one anytime and liked the surety of it. This one was in reserve, on store, a cache, a hidden goodie for when his cabinet was bare. He thought, hell, maybe he wouldn’t ever need to do it again, because look at his restraint. Wasn’t he saving her daily, when she could be dead? He was, really, her savior, all things considered. He granted her life on a daily basis. Virtue as well, come to think of it. He gave it to her, or granted it, at least. “I grant you virtue,” he whispered from his window and thought she heard him. At least she stopped still and stared at the streetlight.

“There’s a cross in my belly, “ Annie said, “and don’t write that down. You know you’re not supposed to write any of this down.”

“I wasn’t. I was noting the date and time. That’s all.”

“Even that may be dangerous.”

“I always do it.”

“Then maybe that’s why I‘m not better. Maybe that’s why I have this pain.”

“Where’s the pain, Annie?”

“Here.”

She drew one finger from the area of her navel to her groin and then across.

“Like how a samurai does hara-kiri, only it’s really this cross in there. I’m not mixing my stories. I can feel it. And it hurts.”

“We could schedule a series of tests. X-rays.”

“No, thank you.”

“You want that cross to be in there, don’t you”

“No! But it won't show up on any x-ray.”

“And why not?”

“You think he’d admit to doing any such thing?”

“You’re referring to God?”

“Yes. He does that, you know. Makes things and keeps them secret.”

“How did he put it in there, Annie?”

“From the streetlight. I saw this light-cross and when it moved, I stepped back but it just shot down right into my belly.”

“Have you been going to the movies, Annie?”

“You told me not to.”

“I know.”

“I just learn from real life.”

The rapist took much delight in appearing on the walk when Annie was out roaming. She was the homeliest of creatures. Did she know to what value he had raised her? He skin was acne-scarred, her dirty blonde hair thin and limp. She had a touch of a moustache, her eyes too close together. Ugly. To rape her would be a favor to her; to spare her was a tribute to the unworthy.

“Hello,” he said once as he passed her and she hunched to the edge of the sidewalk.

He could feel her pale blue eyes on his back. Such gratitude. If he shoved her face into the ground she might respond better next time.

“He’s afraid of me,” Annie whispered.

“God?”

She nodded. “He’s got someone watching me all the time.”

“Why?”

“Don’t know. Does he have to have a reason? He’s God. Maybe it’s the cross.”

“Do you still have that pain?”

“I’m used to it. I hug it. That’ll teach him. Curse me and I’ll love it. Love it to bits.”

“How do you know someone’s watching you?

“I’ve seen him. He wants me to see him. He’s teasing me.”

“Where have you seen him?”

“At night, wherever I go. He likes to surprise my eyeballs. He steps out real quick-like.”

“What does he look like? This agent of God?”

“Good-looking. Tall. And he’s going to hurt me.”

“How do you know?”

“When doesn’t he? You know history as well as I do. Probably better. You write everything down when I leave, don’t you?”

“Has someone really been watching you, Annie? Really?”

“Really.”

“Because if that’s true, you should tell the police.”

“That’s funny.”

“I mean it. You should give them a description. You can describe him, can’t you?”

“Yeah. Looks like Jesus. Long brown hair. Thin. Tall. Got these awful eyes, like he hurts everywhere, hurts even worse than I do.”

The rapist couldn’t bear it that she wouldn’t look grateful, servile, frightened. She mocked him, that’s what she did. Whenever she saw him, she smiled, dipped stupid awkward curtsies, ran her fat pink tongue over her hairy lip. So would he grace her with his presence? With the sign of his being? No. Let her wonder where he was., where he had gone to. Silently he would come, like a thief in the night, and then? Oh, she would repent. She would repent all right. He had so many ways to bring her to her knees.

“He wants me to be afraid,” Annie said. “He’s hiding in black like a shadow so I won’t know it’s him.”

“The man who’s following you?”

“Yes. He wants to rape me and make another baby Jesus.”

“If a man is really following you, Annie, you must report it. I’ll report it if you like.”

“No. This is my story. Don’t you tell any of it.”

“Why would God want to make another Jesus?”

“Because the first time didn’t work, silly. That’s why he put the cross in my belly. He’s getting ready.”

“Ready?”

“To plant his little seed of sacrifice again. It’s okay with me.”

“You don’t mean that. You don’t want to be raped, do you? Not really.”

“No woman has ever wanted to be raped, Doctor.”

“You’re being evasive. You haven’t actually answered my question.”

“Oh, but I think I have.”

The rapist wished he could fly. He wanted to stand on the height of a building and swoop down on the ugly troll of a woman, pummel her into the ground with the point of his very self. And then dance a tribal, Lord of the Flies’ dance of victory and vigor and vengeance.

He settled for a cape and practiced fluttering the black satin with slight, eloquent movements of his arms. Then he swept down the stairs, along the street. Ah, this was grand; just listen to that rustle of evil, the whisper of justice. He stopped beyond the buzzing of the streetlight, beneath drooping tree branches, and breathed the thick scent of leaves and pain. He was so pleased that she came as he knew she would, so delighted to watch the determined plodding of the girl. Oh come to daddy, sweet ugly one; choirs of angels await you. She seemed to pause when she reached the edge of dark, so he knew then she was waiting for him, and he ran forward and jerked her up into the shadows while moonlight dripped white on her grotesque face. Grunting noises, she made, hideous sounds. At the moment of sweet release he felt the hot surprise of pain and realized the grunting noises were coming from him. He didn’t know how he ended up lying on the ground, her squatting next to him, crooning a wordless lullaby.

“That was God in the tree, and he died. I was right all along. And that’s funny.”

“What makes you think it was God after all?”

“Because the other one died, too.”

“The man who looked like Jesus?”

“That’s the one.”

“How did he die?”

“On the cross.”

“The one inside you?”

“Yes.” Annie placed both hands on her stomach. “Right here.”

“How could it kill him?”

“It didn’t. That’s just where he died.”

“What did kill him?”

“Silver. A pretty shiny piece of silver.”

“I don’t understand, Annie.”

“Oh you never understand anything, Doctor.”

“Are you telling me a story, Annie?”

“Yes.”

“Are you making it up?”

“No. He made it up. He kissed my palm. I put my hand over his moan and he kissed my palm. I liked that. I liked that very much. Then the moon cut us into a thousand pieces, and he ran red on all the shadows.”

“Annie, you had a knife, didn’t you? Was that the piece of silver? Did someone try to rape you and you killed him?”

“Can God be killed?”

“Not God in the immortal sense of an immortal being.”

“Then I didn’t kill God.”

“Annie, why are you holding your hands on your stomach?”

“I’m certainly not going to tell you.”

“I’m thinking I understand anyway. I hope not, but I suspect I do.”

“That’s funny.” Annie stood up and leaned over the desk. She took the pad of paper and the ballpoint pen, and then returned to her chair. Her whiteblue eyes had a different cast, lustrous, alive. She closed them and leaned back in her chair with a little satisfied smile on her face.

“Annie, tell me what you’re thinking. We have to work together if you are going to get well.”

Annie didn’t answer him. She was listening to the most wondrous story, a perfect one, a circle one like the world was a circle. A circle one like that creepy snake eating its own tail was a circle. It would go on forever and ever and she could change it if she wanted because it was all her story. In the beginning there was no word and no word was God. In the beginning was Annie, and Annie was the alpha and the omega, the beginning and the end..

Amen.