A Wolf Among Lilacs
Trigger Warning: Sexual Assault (Off-Screen)
The chill in the late afternoon air bites at the exposed skin of my face, staining my cheeks and nose a bitter red. The grey of the clouds is barely visible, blending in with the dull blue of the winter sky, signaling the inevitability of snow. It seems fitting that the weather should match what I’m feeling inside. An all-encompassing cold that keeps my mind and body numb to anything else but that singular, sharp sting of an emptiness that permeates the smallest crevices internally and externally.
I can’t even feel the worn wooden bench I’m sitting on, my attention and focus on the house across the way. Just like it has been every day for a time that is currently incalculable to my mind.
I see him walking up to the door, hands in his pockets of a black North Face, head held high, tawny hair whipping in the breeze. Even from here, that haughty smirk that never leaves his face is clearly visible on his pale, winter-chapped lips. The sight of him starts to wake my body enough to have my stomach churn in disgust, the reaction so visceral I can barely contain it.
Pulling my second-hand purple peacoat tighter around my body, digging my chin further into the itchy, black and white plaid scarf, I bide my time. There’s no use bringing attention to myself. Not that he’d even remember my face if it was right in front of him.
I watch him walk up the stoop, rap his knuckles on the crisp white door, and blow into his hands, rubbing them together to warm them up. The audacity of this man still lights my blood on fire, reigniting the embers that have been tempered by the weather. Not once does he check his surroundings, not once does his focus waver from what he’s after.
He should remember the promise I made to him. I haven’t forgotten.
A woman with honey-colored hair styled in softly bouncing waves and a soft expression opens the door. She doesn’t look like what I’d imagine a person that’s interested in this man to look like. She seems nice, gentle even. A complete disconnect from who I know him to be. Smiles are exchanged between the two as she steps back and lets him into the warmth of her home and the brightness emanating from just beyond the doorway.
I’m not close enough to hear it, but I can imagine the click of the heavy door as it shuts, with the wind threatening to push it open once more with its icy breath. Since the night I crossed paths with him, the days have grown considerably colder. And not just because my ability to feel has slowly gone away. That night, we didn’t mind the cold, leaving the alcohol to do its job and raise the blood to the surface of our skin, giving the feeling of artificial warmth. Such a fitting word for that night.
Artificial. In every sense imaginable.
It’s hard for me to think about what happened, but as I sit here on this nearly frozen bench in the dying light of the day, I let it in. I let the rage, the hurt, the helplessness in. I need it. For what I promised, it’s the necessary component for me to see things through.
* * *
I never knew what loneliness was until I had to watch my roommate Fiona with her boyfriend. I’ve always been one to enjoy my own company, feeling alone, but never lonely. That all changed two months into our senior year. Even with heavy course loads, it was an everyday occurrence for him to interrupt the sanctuary of our room.
He was the sort of person that was quiet and unassuming, that didn’t take up space, but his presence was like a gentle balm for anxiety. He smelled like the old books he was constantly poring over, seemingly as out of place in this modern world as the civilizations he studied with an eagerness only matched by the affection I could see in his eyes every time they landed on Fiona.
I don’t think I understood jealousy until that time as well.
It’s those little emotions that creep up on you when you’re finally comfortable with yourself and who you’ve become. The wrenches in life that you never see coming, but are there to point out that there’s always more around the corner, if only you let down your walls to experience it. Observing them always had me asking myself, “Can another person really make me that happy?”
But I had the knowledge that, yes, it’s possible. Just not in that specific way.
Fiona was my first friend at university. She travelled in a different circle, her easy smile and charming personality making her fit in with anyone she came across. The symmetry of her near-perfect fair features made it almost impossible not to notice her. There’s no doubt in my mind that if we didn’t get paired together in a workshop freshman year, I’d still be in a single dorm, my only friends the characters in the books that would’ve been overflowing from my shelves.
I blame my feelings of loneliness for the decision I made that night. I’d had the perfect track record, at least in my own mind, that never having been to a campus fraternity party could only be seen as a positive. Apparently not to Fiona. Even if her boyfriend agreed with me.
So when she asked me, on a random Tuesday night after midterms if I wanted to join, I felt myself wavering. Could I go? Should I go?
“It’s just one drink, Lily. That’s all I’m asking.”
Her tone was pleading, one I hadn’t heard from her before, or at least not directed at me. And it stirred some emotion within me. Was it curiosity? Was it wanting? It didn’t matter. The excuses that I’d always used had run dry. I didn’t need to study; exams had just wrapped. I didn’t need to pack because I’d be staying on campus for the break. I didn’t need to go out because she’d cooked us both dinner.
“Okay,” I found myself breathing out. “Just one drink.”
* * *
How naive I was to think that I could go to a party and get away with having just one drink. But hindsight is always 20/20, or so I’ve always heard. We were still a block away from the party when we started to feel the vibrations in the ground below our boot-clad feet. I wanted to turn back around at that moment, just imagining how loud the music would be once we were in the thick of it.
“Don’t worry,” Fiona said, patting my arm as she wrapped hers around mine. “We’ll stick together and it’ll be fine.”
I trusted her at that moment. She always kept her word. Her promises held a weight that I didn’t know how much I needed to believe in until we were walking up the icy steps to the house. The migraine was already coming on strong and the door had just been opened. Not even a foot had crossed the threshold before I tried again to turn back around.
“Come on, let’s grab a beer.”
We weaved in and out of bodies, some slick with sweat from what was probably hours of dancing and drinking, giving into the moment of limited freedom from the stress of schoolwork and papers and exams. I wanted to be one of those people, I remember thinking. Just once, just letting go of my tightly wound control. But this wasn’t my scene. Clearly. My comfort zone was back in my dorm, underneath my hand-quilted blanket curled up with a good fantasy book and herbal tea.
But when in Rome.
We entered the kitchen, momentarily blinded by the fluorescent lighting after being in the barely lit open space of the house, where it was possible walls were knocked down to accommodate the needs of what I realized belatedly was a fraternity. Because of course that’s where parties are held. It should have been obvious, an easy connection.
“I can get my own,” I said, leaning into Fiona’s side, speaking directly into her ear so she could hear me over the music and conversation and bass that was strong enough to rattle bone. I didn’t want to have much, and I feared that she’d give me more than I wanted. Drinking had never been a vice of mine, but whenever I would drink, it would almost always be a singular glass of white wine. I wasn’t picky. But beer? I didn’t know what I’d make of it and didn’t want to waste it.
Drinks in hand, arm in arm, we waded back into the sea of partygoers, trying to find a corner or empty bit of wall to claim for our own.
“What do you think?” Fiona looked out over the room, taking a sip from her cup.
“Loud comes to mind.”
“That’s an understatement,” she huffed. She caught the rhythm of the music like one catches a cold, slowly, and then all at once. Her head slightly bobbed. She shifted her feet, moving her hips in a gentle sway. I knew it was only a matter of time before she’d want to move her body fully.
I wasn’t ready to commit to that.
“You should go dance,” I finally said. She looked back at me, in a way that was more than just a glance. It was like she was trying to figure out my motivation, and I’m not sure what she settled on, but a decision she did come to.
Not bothering to ask me if I was sure, she chugged what was left in her cup, handed it to me, and said, “Just one song. I’ll be right back.”
* * *
It’s never just one song, and I was okay to wait for her. But when the music shifted for the fourth time, as the songs seemed to all blur in a mixture of beats and sounds without words or melodies, I was left with the conclusion that I was on my own. I looked down into my cup, judging how long it would take to finish as the bitter, bland taste was hard to swallow. The swarming sea of bodies had swallowed Fiona up and I didn’t want to brave parting the waters. A flash of her blond hair caught my attention, and then my focus shifted to the person who she was wrapped around. I didn’t think her boyfriend was coming. I thought it was a girl’s night. Or, I hoped it would be.
Let her be with him.
At least she’s with someone who can enjoy it with her and won’t hold her back.
I took a swig to bolster my resolve and decided I didn’t want to be inside anymore. I needed to cool off, to get some fresh air. I can only breathe in the scent of staleness for so long. Unfamiliar with the house, I made seemingly random left and right turns, avoiding the two different staircases I passed before I found myself outside on the back patio. If one could call a space that small a patio. To my left was an adirondack chair covered with snow as if it hadn’t been used for the season, so I opted to lean against the railing. It looked sturdy enough, but I’d hold some of my weight back just in case. It wouldn't be the first time I’d seen a frozen wooden rail give way under pressure.
“Would you like another beer?”
I dropped my cup in surprise, watched as it hit the ground below, the liquid that slowly seeped out of the red plastic cup turned the snow the palest of yellow-browns.
I cursed the absurd volume of the music once again. I didn’t even hear the door open. I looked over my shoulder to the voice behind me. The man that stood there was exactly the type of person I’d expect at a frat party. That is to say, the typical obnoxious polo shirt with the popped collar covered with a North Face fleece unzipped slightly at the top to give breath for the ridiculous collar. Whoever thought this was the height of frat fashion must have been drinking the dregs of the jungle juice I’ve only heard about that are a staple at these parties. He was a clean-cut guy, with a charming smile but dead behind the eyes.
I wasn’t sure if that was from the cold, the music, or the alcohol. It could have been a combination. It could have been something else. Regardless of what it was, it had me on edge. I could hear Fiona in my head in that moment, “Lily, chill. You have to talk to people at these things.”
I wanted to drink my one beer, spend time with Fiona, maybe dance a little, and call it a night.
Social interaction with someone I didn’t know, even if in this instance it was the acceptable and expected norm, was just not what I wanted to do. This entire night had already proven why I was proud of never attending a party. They just weren’t for me.
“The name’s Adam,” he said, and I realized that I never responded to his initial, physically jarring question. “And you are?”
“Lily,” I managed to get out, turning back around to gaze out over the yard, hidden underneath a blanket of white. I hoped he’d get the hint.
“What are you doing out here? Aren’t you cold?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“But the party’s inside. Don’t you want to warm up, have a drink? Maybe a dance?”
I looked at him as he came up to rest his forearms against the railing next to me.
“Parties aren’t my scene. I prefer it here.”
He paused then, like he was thinking about what to say to get me to engage. His gaze sharpened as he took me in, and when his eyes found mine again, they were softer, but no less intense. I turned back to the yard, breaking the connection, and thought about going back inside, finding Fiona and her boyfriend, and heading home. Should I get her? Did I need to? Should I leave on my own? I didn’t know the protocol, so I stayed where I was.
“Li-uh, Lily, right?”
I met his eyes again, not saying a word.
“Are you sure I can’t get you that drink?”
He takes a step back, putting some distance between us, like he was going to head back inside to do just that. He didn’t see the thick coating of ice before his back foot came down on it, making him lose his balance completely.
Adam fell to the floor, landed harshly with a groan and a thud that I could feel.
Part of me wanted to laugh. Another wanted to use this as an escape. But instead I reached out a hand and helped him back to his feet. He didn’t let go.
“I thought we could chill? You know, since we’re already here?”
I looked at his hand still holding mine and up at his face. He finally dropped my hand, a smirk or a smile or a grimace on his face. It was hard to tell in the minimal light of the patio with no exterior lights, just a faint glow from the moon and stars above.
“I just want to go back to my dorm.”
“Five minutes? Please? And if you still want to leave after that, I’ll walk you back to your dorm myself.”
That wasn’t the grand plan he seemed to think it was. It just put me more off the entire interaction. But there was a part of me that thought it would be worse if I didn’t give in to him. I didn’t know what the right move was, I didn’t know if I should trust my gut or stay. I looked back at his face, searching his eyes like I could find the answer in their depths. I couldn’t tell if he was just drunk and pushy or if there was more to it.
I went with the path of least resistance.
“Just five minutes.”
* * *
I watched as Adam made his way back inside the party, music escaping the back door. I turned away from the noise and the bass to once again lean against the railing. Just one more drink. Just five more minutes. I could do this.
In just another moment, Adam was back, two red cups in his hands and that smirk, which I could finally see clearly with the light from inside, slowly fading away as the door shut to suppress the drone of the music.
“Here’s your drink,” he said as he bumped my arm and settled in next to me, closer than he was before he left.
I took the cup, a quick nod in his direction as a thanks.
Part of me wondered if I really should be having more alcohol. I knew I was already at my comfort limit.
“Don’t want your drink getting warm. Trust me,” Adam said, “warm beer does not go down that easy.”
I must have been lost in my thoughts, weighing my options. I take a sip, and it’s not so bad, so now I only need to run down the clock and I can go back in, hopefully find Fiona on my way out, and head back to my dorm.
“So, what are you studying?”
“Fiction.”
“Oh, nice. So, you’re like, trying to be a writer or something?”
“Or something.”
Adam groaned, leaned his head on his crossed arms, and looked at me.
“You can give me a little more than that, can’t you? I’m trying here.”
“Sorry,” I replied, taking another small sip. “I’m not much one for talking right now.”
“That’s okay. I can talk enough for the both of us.”
And at that I drank more, the need to fortify myself outweighed the unpleasant taste that flooded my mouth.
“Now, me? I’m here for a business degree. Gonna take after the old man.”
Sentence after sentence, I felt myself become more and more unsettled. I didn’t think I drank that much, but my head started to get cloudy and my feet unsteady.
“I think the five minutes are up,” I said as I repeatedly blinked, trying to clear my eyes that had become hazy. “I want to go home now.”
All I could think about was curling up under my homemade quilt and sleeping off this heavy feeling. I didn’t want to stand out here, bundled up in the cold, while I had to talk to someone I wouldn’t normally bother with.
“Let me walk you to your dorm. It’s not safe on your own.” Adam gripped my arm and dragged me away from the door I was walking toward.
“No, I need to get my friend. She’s inside.”
“I’m sure she’s fine. Just worry about you,” he tried to reason.
But as we stood there, I felt myself get weaker and weaker. Something was wrong, and I needed to leave. And it looked like the only opportunity to get there before I passed out was to accept his help. I couldn't keep my eyes open and I knew I was minutes before my legs gave out if I didn't start moving.
“Why don’t we just head back to my place. It’s just a block down the street.” Adam pulled me along off the patio, through the side yard, and back onto the sidewalk by the house. “You can sleep it off on my couch.”
I didn’t have the energy or wherewithal to even think it through. I could only follow along.
* * *
I couldn't tell what time it was when I started to wake up. All I knew was that there was a light shining directly on my face. I blinked my eyes, a futile attempt to clear the sleep from my eyes. The room slowly came into focus around me, and that’s when the ice cold chill of fear started to seep into my being.
This was not my dorm.
I looked down at my body.
These were not my clothes.
I sat up, a sharp pain making itself known in my abdomen.
I started to shake, tremors of fear made it hard to draw breath.
I couldn’t comprehend the situation I found myself in. The saving grace was that I was alone. Anything could have happened. Maybe I was at Fiona’s boyfriend’s dorm? Maybe they found me and brought me back there? Maybe Adam found them?
But I never mentioned her name.
How could he have known?
I can’t remember what happened last night, the last thing I knew was Adam and I were talking on that patio. Then he slipped. Got us more drinks.
And then nothing.
I drew my knees up to my chest, buried my head in my knees, and tried to breathe. In, hold. Out, hold. Repeat. I did this on a loop until I heard the door open.
I spun around, the dizziness from last night not as gone as I thought. The sudden motion brought back the feeling, and made my stomach churn and clench in dread.
Adam stood in the doorway, leaned against the frame with his arms crossed and an indulgent smirk on his face. This wasn’t the same person from last night.
Or maybe it was, and I just didn’t know the difference.
His gaze was heavy, hungry in a way that made my stomach drop straight to my feet. I move closer to the side of the bed farthest away from him, but in the small dorm rooms, that doesn’t do much to create the distance I was so desperate for.
“What happened last night?” my voice came out barely louder than a whisper.
Adam smirked, arrogant in the worst way.
“You don’t remember? Damn, that’s such a shame.”
“Tell me what happened,” the panic was clear in my voice. I don’t know if I could have masked it even if I tried.
“We had ourselves a good time. But don’t worry,” he looked me up and down as he made his way further into the room. “You were great.”
Words failed me.
My throat constricted. I felt sick to my stomach. My mind whirred a mile a minute trying to put the pieces together, but without everything, I couldn't get a clear picture.
But the image that was starting to form in my head was so far removed from a good thing that I could do nothing but stare at Adam. It couldn’t be real. I must have still been sleeping.
Adam tried to move closer to the bed, and I snapped. The fear bled straight into survival, and with that, into anger.
“No!” I yelled with my hands out in front of me.
“Okay, okay. Sheesh!” Adam backpedaled until he was in the doorway again. “I can see round two isn’t in the cards for me.”
“Just leave! Get out. Get out. Get OUT!”
“Alright, god,” Adam said, hands out in front of him in an attempt to placate me. “But before I go, don’t you want your phone? It’s been blowing up all morning.”
His smirk never died as he tossed my phone on the bed.
* * *
People always say that time heals all wounds, or that you’ll get over what happened eventually, or other platitudes that do little to actually help the situation. They can’t imagine what it’s like to actually experience the trauma, the pain, the humiliation, and all the other emotions that crop up along the way. All they can think about is that they don’t want to hear about it anymore.
They just want you to get over it so they can move on right along with you.
But sometimes you can’t move on, no matter what you do. No matter who you talk to. No matter how many similar stories you hear.
Sometimes, the thing that will make you feel better isn’t to live and let live, to let things go, to do the right thing and be the bigger person.
Sometimes you get so hurt, so deeply destroyed that the only way you can even hope to move on is retribution.
And for me? I never thought I would be the type to take matters into my own hands, but as I sit on this worn, wooden bench, nearly chilled to the bone in this bleak weather, it makes perfect sense.
So I wait for him to leave the woman’s house. The warmth of her smile, the comfort of her arms.
The sky above bleeds red with the sunset, oranges and pinks blending together to create the perfect backdrop to what’s about to happen.
I watch him open the door, take a step outside, looking back as she follows.
That’s my cue.
I start making my way through the park, snow crunching under my feet as I watch him give her a kiss and a wave.
We reach the sidewalk at the same time from different directions.
He’s looking down at his feet, not paying attention to his surroundings.
And that’s his second mistake.
The first was taking something from me that was never his to take. For probably taking from others just like me and never thinking about the consequences, the damage he inflicted. Nothing aside from having himself a good time at someone else’s expense.
It all ends tonight. Right here on this frozen pavement. So close to the probably only real thing in his life.
I know he doesn’t recognize me as he sees my feet enter his line of sight. I know as his eyes slowly travel up my body he’s not expecting anything other than to move out of the way and continue on.
But when his eyes meet mine, there’s a second there where annoyance flickers in their depths. From that annoyance comes caution, and when I take my hand out of my jacket pocket, it morphs to confusion.
Only for a second.
Then it’s fear.
The same fear I felt that morning.
The same fear I’m burying right now as I bury the knife in my hand up to the hilt in his stomach. I’m giving that fear back. I don’t want it anymore. I never deserved it in the first place.
Megan Stewart is a writer and budding visual artist whose work is raw, visceral, and uninterested in looking away. Storytelling, in any form, has always been the thing she can't walk away from. Megan is also the co-founder of Helia Lit, because apparently one creative obsession was never going to be enough. When she isn't writing, she's probably watching Formula 1 and making it everyone's problem.
